by Carl Purcell
“What was she sorry for?” Mal set his glass and a cigarette butt up on the bench. “Keep talking, I'm listening.” He began searching through cupboards.
“I asked her the same thing.” Roland went on. “She said she was just sorry for me. Sorry in general. I was sorry too. So I found some more vodka and drank until I couldn't even remember what sorry meant. I went to work the next day still drunk but that was okay because the site I was working was closed. It was Sunday. I figured it must have been the weekend and didn't go back for the next two days. That was how I lost that job and, soon after, I'd lost the last of all my old friends, too.”
“That's a busy week.”
“I was glad when they stopped showing up. Once I knew Lachlan was never coming back, I was able to forget about my wife and Sydney once and for all.”
“You managed to forget a whole major city? That's impressive.”
“Well, here I am talking about this shit, again.” Roland puffed the last few embers out of his cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could before coughing it out. Malcolm sat down again with a box of chocolate chip biscuits.
“Hungry?”
Roland shook his head. “I guess I didn't do so well at forgetting it, after all. Some things just can't be done.”
“But you got your way, in the end. Isn't that what matters?” Mal asked.
“Don't do that.” Roland said.
“What?”
“Don't fucking patronise me. I just told you about how I managed to ruin every friendship I had, destroy my marriage and drive my wife into depression. I've got no home or job or family. I know that I've fucked it all up and I have nothing. So don't sit there being sarcastic and try to tell me what's wrong with my life! I know what's wrong with my life. It's my life! Just because I try and ignore what a waste it is, doesn't mean I don't know.”
Shouting made Roland feel sick again. Hearing it out loud always made him angrier. He thought he should be sad but he was just pissed off. If he was this angry with anybody else he would have beaten the shit out of them. But he couldn't do that to himself.
Or could he? That's exactly what he'd been doing these last few years. He couldn't physically beat himself so he drank himself into sick stupors and poisoned his body as often as he could. That was his punishment. It's what he deserved.
Roland reached for his glass, hoping for scotch, remembering it was water and finding it empty. He'd already finished it. Shit.
“You want some more water?” Mal asked.
“No.”
“Well, I do.”
“I guess I'll have some water, too.” Roland shrugged and tried to roll his glass across the floor. It veered off into a corner, where Mal picked it up. “I mean you're up there already.”
“Sure.” Mal filled both glasses and sat down beside Roland. “Do you know what I find most interesting?”
“What?”
“You still call her your wife. She's not your ex-wife; she's not a bad memory or a woman you used to know. You still think of her as your wife.”
“Well, legally she is.”
“Legally, sure. But most people, when they leave their spouse without a word for years at a time, change the language. But you still think of her like you're living as a married couple.”
“So?”
“So … you tell me.” Mal shrugged and took a drink.
“I never really wanted to go. I didn't want to leave Violet. But she didn't seem much like Violet at the time. I guess I'm not much like I was, either. It was like living with a stranger – A really sad, quiet stranger. I hoped Violet would come back but she never did. I moved on.”
“Do you think about her?”
“I try not to.”
“But do you?”
“Sometimes.” Roland shrugged. “Less as time goes on. You make one mistake and then you make a whole lot more mistakes and soon you've got so many mistakes to kick yourself over, that you can pick and choose what you feel bad about at any given time.”
“What would you say to her if you did see her?” Mal took his cigarettes out again, put one in his mouth and offered the pack to Roland.
Roland nodded. “Why? Do you know her? Are you going to take me back to Sydney to see her?”
“I don't know her.” Mal tossed the pack to Roland. “And I'm not taking you anywhere you don't ask me to take you. I'm just wondering.”
“I don't know. I guess I should say sorry. God knows I've got a shit-load to be sorry for. I don't think I could say anything else. There aren't enough sorries for what I've done so there's no way I could talk about anything else.”
“What about your friends?”
“Nothing. They're all just memories, now. Except maybe Lachlan. I think I'd say thank you to Lachlan. He really tried to help me when nobody else really cared.” Roland stared at the pack of cigarettes for a while. The little white paper sticks stared back at him from the brown paper box. Were they punishment to? He'd been smoking for years but since he left Violet, he'd embraced the habit like there was no tomorrow. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it was killing him. He knew he'd regret it. Maybe that was the point. Or maybe it just felt good. Roland couldn't be sure.
“You don't think the others that came to see you cared?” Mal asked.
“I don't know. It doesn't matter, anyway. I'm never going to see them again.”
“I guess not. Don't you get lonely?”
“Never. I'm not a hermit. I spent plenty of time with people in Armidale. There were all the pub regulars, the guys I worked construction with and the Indian guy who worked the desk at the motel. I spend plenty of time with people.”
“How many of them were your friends?”
“None. Have you met me?” Roland force-smiled and tried to laugh. He couldn't even manage a fake one. His life wasn't funny, just pathetic. “Nobody wants to be friends with me. That suited me fine, too. More scotch for me.”
“That suited you fine? What about now?”
The question forced Roland to think of Griffith again. Had that stupid kid been his friend? There didn't seem to be any doubt to Griffith, but Roland wasn't sure. He liked the kid enough, most of the time, but he hardly knew him. The more he did get to know Griffith, the less he liked him. He was a preachy bastard but as small and scared as he always was, he sure did stand up to the biggest, meanest S.O.Bs he met.
“You ask a lot of questions,” Roland said.
“You've got interesting answers.”
“Not for this one.”
“Do you know where you want to go, yet?”
“Bed, I think.”
“How about a shower, first? A real one. I'll even get you a towel.”
Roland sniffed the air. “I guess that smell is me, huh?”
“Yeah, that's you.”
The shower washed away the last of the vomit and alcohol smell. Roland stepped out of the cubicle feeling not just clean but renewed. He also felt tired and after dressing himself in his spare clothes he looked for Mal to thank him for the hospitality and excuse himself for the night. Mal gave him a nod and a smile and wished him pleasant dreams.
Roland spent the next hour awake in his bed trying to decide where to go. He could go back to Armidale, just as he'd planned. But why? There was nothing for him there. He realised that he could go anywhere from that house. Mal could drive him as far as the nearest airport or train station and he could find a new life and a new home far away in a place full of new pubs and new hard liquor to pass the time. But he didn't want to go anywhere. None of those places offered him anything that he couldn't get in Armidale or Glenn Innes or any of the middle-of-nowhere towns he'd seen. The same cheap motel beds, bad whiskey and worse memories waited for him in every town and city on the planet.
Maybe he could just go wherever Mal was going? No. That was the stupidest idea, yet. Roland went through a list of every town and city and country he knew of and not one of them sounded worth going to. Eventually he fell asleep, u
ndecided. His sleep was light and sporadic. He woke up every hour, almost like clockwork; even the luxury comfort of the guest bed couldn't calm him completely.
When morning came and he woke up for the last time that night, he stayed in bed until he heard movement in the house. Sounds from the kitchen spurred him out of bed and into the waking world where Mal was already dressed and drinking coffee at the bar.
“Have you remembered where home is yet?” Mal asked.
“I tried but I couldn't think of anywhere worth going.” Roland said.
“You don't want to go back to Armidale?”
“No point.” Roland shook his head. “I don't even know why I stopped there in the first place. I think it just sounded like a nice place to live for a while and I never left. Now it's just another place with bad memories.”
“Sydney?”
“No. That's not even funny.”
“Well, you suggest something.”
“Aren't you listening? I just said I don't know where I want to go.”
“Okay. Have some breakfast and then we'll think of something.”
“Whatever.” Roland searched the kitchen pantry and cupboards, helping himself to whatever food looked good. By the end of it his breakfast plate was carrying toast, two different cereals in one bowl, a chocolate bar and left-over sausages. He sat opposite Mal and started eating.
“Hungry?” Mal raised his eye-brows at the assortment of food.
“Very. You told me to help myself.”
“And you took it to lengths I never imagined. Well done.”
Mal started eating again in silence. The silence didn't last long before Mal asked:
“Where were you going?”
“When?”
“When you took your nap on the side of the road.”
“Oh. A town called Salem.” Roland said.
“Why not go there?”
“There's nothing in Salem, either.” Roland tried to dismiss it but the idea stuck. He had nowhere else to go, so why not? Then he remembered Mal's question: What would you say to them? He wondered what he'd say to Griffith. He owed Griffith an apology, too. He was a stupid kid but he'd only ever tried to be his friend. It was hard to fault somebody for having principles and sticking to them.
“Then why were you going?”
“I was helping somebody. I had nothing else to do and it was a good excuse to get away from everything for a while. It's not often I get to be useful.”
“So how did you end up alone on the side of the road?”
“We had a disagreement and parted ways.”
“Ah. I think I understand, now.” Mal sipped his coffee, never taking his eyes off Roland.
“Good for you.”
“I think I've been asking you the wrong question.” Mal drank the last of his coffee and pushed the mug aside. “I've tried to get to know you since I picked you up and it seems to me that you're the kind of guy who knows what's right and what's wrong.”
“I don't think you've been listening.”
“Hold on, let me finish.” Mal said. “You know the difference but you're just afraid to follow through. You've got all those painful memories weighing you down. It's not about right or wrong; it's just about what's easy.”
“Is there a point to this or do you just like listing my personal faults?”
“I'm getting there. I've been asking you where you want to go. Now I think that's what they call a question wrongly asked. So instead, where do you think you should go?”
Roland had no interest in thinking about anything before he finished his breakfast. Mal was giving him too much credit, anyway. He had abandoned his wife, his friends, his job – everything. His whole life had become one drunken brawl after another; he couldn't count the number of people he'd hurt for no other reason than it made him feel good. He felt alive every time his fist struck another man. But what good was that against magic? Griffith asked him to help make sensible decisions but Roland hadn't made a sensible decision in years. He had nothing to offer – not to Griffith's pilgrimage and not to the world. He might as well just go and... go and...
Go where? There was nowhere to go. He was back at the same problem. He looked over his half-eaten breakfast. He tried to focus on the food and not his life for just a while. He forced a whole slice of bread into his mouth and chewed.
But maybe Mal's answer was the simplest solution. Salem wasn't far away and, if he was going to start apologising to people, Griffith was a good place to start. He could practice on Griffith and then move on to other people. Griffith was stupid enough to forgive somebody like him – so he really was the perfect place to start.
But, then again, why bother? There are people who do right by others and then there was him. He made no pretence – he was a terrible human being. He was a terrible person who did terrible things and then he went and drank and smoked and got in fights because that's what you get in life if you're a terrible person. But did he have to be a terrible person? Was pain all there was? Maybe he could be a good person from time to time, too. It seemed like life had left him with no other choices. No choice but to be...
Roland gagged on the bread and coughed it back onto his plate. Spit and soggy bread crumbs followed in a coughing fit. Roland hammered on his chest with a fist, trying to clear his air ways. Between painful wheezes, he saw that the food he'd hacked up was stained blood red.
“You alright?” Mal stood up and stepped behind Roland.
Roland shook his head, still coughing.
“Just keep breathing.” Mal told him. Roland felt Mal's fingers press into his back. Mal walked his fingers across his shoulders, and down his spine occasionally pressing a finger hard against Roland's flesh. The other hand gripped Roland's shoulder, pulling him into the pressure. Roland's coughing slowed and then stopped altogether. Mal gave him a friendly pat on the back and sat down.
“Thanks.” Roland said through deep breaths.
“Just a trick I picked up a few years ago.” Mal took his seat again.
“That's the second time that's happened.”
“You should see a doctor.”
“Nah. It'll probably go away on its own.”
“And if it doesn't?”
Roland shrugged and returned to his cereal.
“Well, I'll be waiting for you outside when you've made up your mind.” Mal stood up and left Roland alone to think.
Roland cast a glance at the soggy, bloody bread by his plate. Was he finally dying? Were the cigarettes doing what they'd always promised? The thought made Roland's blood chill. Death had carried a certain charm for a long time but since he'd faced his own mortality only two nights ago, it scared the shit out of him. He decided he should see a doctor. He'd need to find a doctor first. And suddenly his thoughts returned to where he wanted to go. Or, as Mal put it, where he should go.
He didn't know where to find a doctor. But he did know something better. Griffith's magic could probably help him. Or his legendary master in Salem might. That meant asking for help. That meant saying sorry. That meant no more running. It sounded frightening. It sounded hard. But what choice did he have? He could swallow his pride or he could go find a bottle to crawl into and die.
The more Roland tried to ignore or fight it, the more the choice felt obvious. It wasn't really even a choice. It really did feel good to be useful, and fighting had never been as exhilarating as when he was fighting for his and Griffith's life. Maybe there was more than punishment. Maybe there was redemption. Maybe he could enjoy life again. Maybe he could have some kind of purpose. He owed Griffith a thank-you and a sorry if nothing else. If he couldn't come to terms with that, he was a dead man.
Then, following Griffith all the way to Salem didn't just feel like what he should do, it was what Roland wanted to do. But doing that meant more than just admitting he was wrong, it meant owning his mistakes, making amends and facing the consequences. It made him nervous but it couldn't be any worse than lying on the floor in a strange house, soaked in your o
wn vomit. Asking for forgiveness – asking for a second chance – was better than dying.
Roland picked up his bowl of cereal and drank it down as fast as he could. Then he leapt out of his chair and made his way outside.
Mal was sitting in a lawn-chair reading by his car. Jazz music played on the car's radio and Mal tapped his foot to the music, completely out of time. He looked up when the door was opened and met Roland's eyes.
“Have you decided?”
“Salem.”
“Then get your stuff and let's go.”
Roland ran back into the house and grabbed his backpack. On his way out he spotted the magic-detecting ring on the floor. He picked it up and slid it back onto his finger. The jewel was warm to the touch.
Mal had already packed away his chair and started the engine. Within a few moments they were on the highway again, the morning sun lighting the way forward.
Three hours later, after passing through Warialda, Moree and a handful of other small towns and villages, Mal and Roland turned off the highway and followed the little travelled road to Salem. Once they were off the highway, they didn't see any other cars or people until they'd reached their destination. Mal pulled off the road outside a grocery store and held out his hand to Roland.
“I'm glad we got you where you're going.”
“Thank you, Mal. I know it was only a few hours driving but a few hours quickly become a week when you're walking.”
“A short detour but I'm going north, anyway.”
“One more thing,” Roland said. “You told me that people have died because of your mistakes. Were you bullshitting me?”
“I wish I was. Everyone carries guilt with them, Roland, right to their grave. It's unavoidable. Some people just have it worse.”
“Just what exactly do you do, Mal?”
“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.” Mal smiled.
“Okay, have it your way. But you'd be surprised what I'm willing to believe, these days.” He shook Mal's hand. Before they parted, Mal glanced down and, for a moment, stared intensely at Roland's blue-jewelled ring.