The Occult Persuasion and the Anarchist's Solution

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “Do you like Sydney at least?” Helen asked.

  “I suppose I do but I can’t very well go sightseeing. I can hardly concentrate.”

  There was silence for a while.

  “Yes,” Adam agreed. “It’s not easy to know what to do. He makes me so angry. Once again, here we are, talking about Dad and how to make our lives work around him. I am so tired of his passive-aggressive drama.”

  “He lost his job after thirty-three years,” Helen argued. “It meant everything to him. It was his whole identity.”

  “He was going to write a memoir. He knew he would have to retire soon,” Adam argued back. “What did he think? That he could stay there forever, captain of his empire, until the end of time? The writing had been on the wall for years, he was lucky to have stayed for as long as he did, and he knew it. I kept telling him, Dad, you need a Plan B but no, he just thought he would carry on forever, the life and soul of the dinner party, the guy everybody wanted to be.”

  “Kids,” I said, “please, let’s not argue now.” And I must have sounded tired and sad because they didn’t admonish me for calling them “kids” like they usually do.

  “Sorry, Mom,” they both chorused.

  Then Helen said, “I just worry.”

  And, at the same time, Adam said, “he makes me so mad.”

  And then we sat for a while with none of us saying anything.

  “I wish you weren’t so far away.” Helen was close to tears.

  “Don’t worry honey,” I told her. “I’m okay. You guys go and get on with your night. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

  “But what are you going to do?” Helen asked.

  “I’m going to keep my phone on me and wait to hear from him.” I was suddenly confident. “Your father will contact me soon. I’m going to go on that walk again, along the coast. It was lovely. And I’m sure he will be in touch. Okay? Let’s not worry.”

  They agreed to let me go, but I could sense they didn’t share my assurances that Lyndon would be in touch soon, or that the famous world trip would get back on the rails and continue on its way.

  We said our goodbyes and as soon as I closed the laptop, all my doubts returned. My brief rush of cheer had been based solely on the fact that husbands don’t just abandon their wives in the middle of a trip, in the middle of nowhere, although Sydney wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere. But it was the middle of nowhere for me, and Lyndon knew that.

  I didn’t go for a walk. I didn’t go anywhere. I sat in the room in my pyjamas and waited for my phone to buzz or chirp or ring but it did none of those things. Soon it was nightfall and I was still alone, watching the Sydney Harbour blaze into beauty, while normal people went about their normal lives.

  6. LYNDON

  QUEENIE NEEDED SOME FOOD. I had been driving for four hours, depleting the dollar store stash of junk food. It was mid-afternoon when I decided to pull into Batemans Bay and get a motel for the night. But the cheapest motel was well over a hundred and fifty Canadian dollars, so I told Queenie we couldn’t do it. I felt bad for her. She must have needed to pee by now so I drove until I found a small park. I put the tiny dog’s leash on her, which fit perfectly, and turned my head away to give her some privacy.

  It was peaceful, and I would have liked to stay longer, but I needed to buy Queenie her dinner. We got back into the car and I drove until I found another ubiquitous big-box strip mall with a Petbarn where I bought her a variety of Purina Fancy Feast cans with handy pull-tabs. I got a Double Big Mac and fries, and together, Queenie and I munched on our respective feasts. She even helped me finish off the burger. She loved melted cheese and lettuce on a bun. I was sleepy and wished I could take a nap. I had spent the previous night on a park bench and I’d hardly managed any shut-eye at all. My back certainly hadn’t appreciated roughing it.

  I returned to McDonald’s for an extra-large black coffee. I hoped the caffeine would kick in and help me continue with my journey because I was compelled to keep driving. I would have welcomed a night in a motel but, since I had to watch the cash, I had no choice but to carry on and reach my destination. Which was where? Melbourne? It was a vague idea at best, and I had no plan as to what I would do when I got there. I was sure that my time was running out with the car. Sooner, rather than later, we’d be spotted.

  “The only way out is through,” I remarked over my shoulder to Queenie who was back in her box. “I can’t remember where I heard that but it’s true.”

  She didn’t answer me.

  I drove for another four hours until we got to Bairnsdale. By that time, I was blinded with exhaustion. The radio was on, with Justin Bieber and Drake, Canada’s homeboys, screaming at me. The seat warmer was off and the air con was blasting full force, helping me stay awake. I stopped to fill up on gas and visit the washroom but other than that, we powered through.

  Sleeping in the car overnight was not an option. We’d arrived in Australia less than a week prior, but it was long enough for me to realize that these descendants of prison wardens—and prisoners—took the rules seriously, and one did not want to get caught breaking them. This was a bit rich coming from a car thief and catnapper, but, dollars to doughnuts, they’d catch me for unlawfully spending a night in a car before my more serious trangressions.

  It was only eight p.m., but it felt like midnight to me. I’d changed my tune and was willing to pay anything for a room. I needed to crash.

  I drove around Bairnsdale for a bit and found a motel on the edge of town. It was eighty dollars and I didn’t tell the guy I had a cat. I paid cash and prayed he wouldn’t ask me for my license or registration number and he didn’t. He didn’t seem to focus on much of anything and he handed me a proper, old-fashioned, real key, and I hustled out of the office as quickly as I could.

  I parked the car in the shadows of a laneway that ran alongside the motel, and I scurried Queenie into the room. The neighbourhood looked pretty dubious, and I hoped the Jeep would make it through the night. The Jeep was the only thing I had, apart from Queenie and while I knew that neither of them were mine, they had quickly become my world.

  I locked the motel door and sat down on the bed which sagged like a half-filled air mattress. The bed tried to swallow me, like a tongue taking a pill. There was a foul smell to the place, as if the unwashed bed linen and sweat-soaked towels and pillows had absorbed too much lost, greasy hair. I reflected upon the place’s shortcomings, and then I acknowledged, with some horror, that the fog of body odour was coming from me. I sniffed my armpits. Yep. It was bad. This was the second night that I would have to sleep in these clothes. I knew I would have to do something about this predicament, but not right now.

  I fed Queenie and gave her some water and then I found it hard to make myself do anything. I lay on the bed and turned on the TV. To my surprise, there was nothing on the news about Queenie or me or the stolen Jeep.

  “I guess I am overestimating both of our importance,” I said to Queenie. She had jumped up onto the bed with me and was trilling like a little budgie. I stroked her head. “What will become of us?” I asked her and she butted my hand with her tiny pug nose and my heart broke.

  I fell into a doze, woken by the nightmare that someone was shining a flashlight directly into my eyes. I struggled to sit up on that marshmallow swamp of a bed. I couldn’t get upright, so I rolled and landed on the floor with a thud. The carpet was crunchy under my cheek and when I sat up, my face was crusty. The light wasn’t a dream. It was shining through the window, swinging back and forth.

  “Oy!” I shouted. “What are you doing?” The light swung in the direction of my voice and then disappeared.

  I jumped up, making sure that Queenie was nowhere near the door, and I went outside. I held the door closed behind me, so it didn’t lock, and I stared this way and that, but the flashlight and whoever was holding it was nowhere to be seen. Great. I went back and got
the car keys and I moved the Jeep so I could see it from my window.

  Goodnight to any further semblance of sleep. I pulled up a chair and kept a vigilant eye on the car that I had stolen, fully aware of the irony. I told myself to get as much rest as I could in the chair since there was no point in leaving while it was still dark. It was hard enough to find my way around during the day.

  In the morning, I finally took a shower, telling the devil I’d sell my soul for a pair of flip-flops to protect my feet from the poor-man’s-motel foot fungus. I could practically see it growing like grey moss on the tiles. The devil ignored me, and I scrubbed my body with a small cake of soap that smelled faintly like dish detergent and which refused to lather. Then I sandpapered my body with a towel that had never brushed shoulders with fabric softener in its life. But I was cleaner than before, and that was a step in the right direction. I fed Queenie and waited while she ate. I had laid down some newspaper in the night, which she had obligingly used for her toilet.

  “Such a good girl,” I crooned, scratching her behind her ears. “You’re Daddy’s good, good girl. Who’s Daddy’s favourite little princess?”

  Where had the real me gone? Where was Lyndon Blaine? Good girl, good cat, bad me. When had I, Lyndon, ever talked like that? Lyndon. And who called their kid Lyndon? What was wrong with a simple name like Henry or David? But no, I was Lyndon and here I was with Queenie, both of us running away from home. Not that Queenie had any choice in the matter.

  I loaded her into the Jeep and we continued our journey southwest to Melbourne. I gradually weaned Queenie off the air conditioner, decreasing it in slow doses, and soon, all the windows were open and there was nary a howl from her. I told myself that this was a sign that she was happy to be with me.

  We hit Melbourne after lunch, but I wasn’t ready to stop. I felt compelled to carry on driving. My gut would tell me when to stop. “Who knows?” I said to Queenie. “Maybe we’ll drive all the way to Perth or around the perimeter of Australia!” I wondered how long that would take. But I didn’t have enough money, so I pushed that thought out of my mind along with my thoughts of Margaux or Helen or Adam.

  We turned into the town of Apollo Bay, population 1,598. I pulled up at a small park on the edge of Cape Otway. I gleaned this information from a plaque that said that the Henty brothers had founded the whaling station in the area around1840, and that the bay had gotten its moniker from a Captain Loutit, who grounded his boat there, the Apollo, during a terrible storm in 1845. Much like me. Seeking shelter from the storm of my life. I attached the lead to Queenie and let her do her business. Then I picked her up and sat at a table, looking out at the sunset. The clouds were on fire.

  “Tasmania’s over there,” a voice said. Startled, I jumped and clutched Queenie to me.

  I hadn’t noticed the man sitting under the tree, next to the picnic table.

  “You can’t see it,” the man said, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back in his chair. It was a vintage lawn chair, with blue-and-white criss-crossed interlocking plastic strips on the seat and back. The rickety aluminum frame creaked, and I wondered how the thing didn’t collapse under his weight. He was a big fellow, I could tell that, even with him sitting down.

  I nodded but didn’t say anything. I didn’t want my Canadian accent to sound any alarm bells. The man was British, with a thick cockney accent. He was about my age but in much better shape than me. He had the quiet energy of a bare-knuckle cage fighter and he was adorned with tattoos.

  I drew Queenie closer to me for comfort. Even the man’s scalp was a cap of tattoos. I sat up straighter, trying to ignore the flabby belly spilling over my belt. I was easy prey for this guy. I knew the best course of action was to leave, so I was about to stand up when his words sat me right back down.

  “That’s the stolen cat from Sydney,” he said casually. I made a strange noise, an admission of guilt, and immediately wished I could suck the sound back into my throat.

  “And,” the man said, turning around in his chair, “that’s the stolen Jeep. Nice model. Fancy. It’s got all the shiny bits and pieces.”

  He nodded, turned back to the sunset, and rocked in his chair. I was frozen in place, clutching Queenie and I didn’t know what to do.

  “What are you going to do?” the man asked, and I felt like I was talking to Michael Caine in Get Carter. A film that did not end well for anyone.

  “I don’t know,” I managed to sputter. “What are you going to do?”

  The man laughed. “You mean, am I going to report you?”

  “Yes. Exactly. Report me.”

  “Not me, sunshine. But if you like, I can help you.”

  “Help me how?”

  “Help you off-load that expensive and very flashy motor vehicle you’ve got there.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  The man looked surprised. “Because you, sonny, are very clearly in need of help. Your clothes are a bit ripe, to put it mildly. You’re hugging a stolen cat, and you’re in the unenviable position of being far too close to a hot car. The egg timer’s about to blow.”

  “But why help me?”

  “Why not?” the man replied, and he got up and folded his chair neatly. “Don’t be so suspicious. Come on, sunshine, let’s get you sorted. We’ve still got time.”

  “Do we?” I had no idea what he meant.

  “Yeah. Footy’s on in an hour. In an hour, you’ve lost me. But until then, I can help you. Throw us the keys.”

  “What?”

  “Throw us the car keys,” the man repeated slowly as if he was talking to an idiot which, from his perspective, he probably was.

  I looked at him, my expression guarded.

  “Okay,” he said. “Fine. Get into the car. You drive, and I’ll show you where to go.”

  I loaded Queenie gently into her box, taking care not to turn my back on the man, but he wasn’t even looking at me. He was gazing out into the setting sun.

  “Never gets old,” he said, and he gave a sigh of pleasure. “Thirty years of living here and I never get tired of the sunsets.”

  Surely the lover of sunsets can’t be too evil? I reassured myself with the thought.

  My hands were shaking as I drove, and I followed his instructions to a garage on the outskirts of town.

  “Pull around the back,” he said, and I drove the car down a narrow lane to the rear of the garage. A bunch of men were standing around a Harley Davidson, talking and smoking, and my armpits flooded with hot shameful sweat. The Hells Angels. I had unwittingly delivered myself and an innocent cat to the Hells Angels.

  “Relax, sunshine,” the man said. “Everything’s copacetic. I’m Jason, by the way.”

  “Lyndon,” I managed to say, and I parked where he told me to.

  “Wait in the car for me,” he said, and I got in the rear with Queenie, leaving the back door open as if flabby old me could outrun these fit gangsters with an unwieldy cat box in my arms. I realized that I had never previously even vaguely understood the concept of terror. I hoped my heart wouldn’t give out. It could. It was doing a weird thing, as if a rat was having a panic attack in my chest.

  Jason returned with one of the men, and I hung onto Queenie’s box like a life raft. I wondered if my scrotum would ever recover from this ordeal. I faced the facts. This was the end of my life. I had nothing with which to defend myself, nothing. My wit and repartee were of no use to me now. Nothing and no one could save me.

  “Five k.,” the man said to me. I stared at him, speechless.

  “Colin is kindly offering you five thousand dollars cash for your stolen car,” Jason helpfully translated, and I nodded as quickly as I could.

  “O-o-okay.” I stuttered. “I mean, great. Yes, thank you.”

  The man shrugged, and he and Jason strolled off.

  “I don’t know about you,” I whispered to Que
enie, “but that just about killed me.”

  Jason and the man returned and, this time, the man handed me a bulging manila envelope. “It’s there,” he said, and I knew better than to insult him by counting.

  “Thanks,” I said, hauling Queenie’s box out of the vehicle.

  “I’ll take the cat too,” Colin said, eyeing her. “My kid wants a pet.”

  I clutched the box to my chest and hoped he couldn’t see how badly my legs were shaking.

  “No, she’s mine,” I said, and a tremor ran through my voice. When Colin smiled, I thought, hockey-player teeth. He took a step closer to me and I wondered if my bladder would hold.

  “We’ve no problem with that, do we, Colin?” Jason said, and he put his hand on my shoulder. “The cat’s yours, sunshine. Colin, can you give us a ride back into town?”

  “Yeah,” Colin replied, grumpy at not having scored Queenie. He gestured to a rusty old panel van, and I climbed wordlessly into the windowless back with Queenie. We sat on the floor among the tires and greasy mechanical junk and listened to them shoot the breeze.

  I didn’t breathe until Colin dropped us off at the park and drove away.

  I sank down onto the bench and gasped. “I can honestly say I’ve never done anything like that in my life. I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

  “Yeah, man, you do look unsteady. Listen, come on in and have a cuppa with me.”

  I nodded and followed Jason to a row of stores across from the park. He led us into The Anarchist’s Tattoo Parlour and Barber Shop and my balls, which had started to unclench a fraction, shot back up into themselves. At least I still had my cat.

  7. MARGAUX

  I COULDN’T SLEEP. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t do anything. I scoured my computer for updates of stolen cars and cats, but there was nothing. There was no word from Lyndon. I walked around the Rocks, watching people come and go from the large cruise ship docked in the harbour. I sat on the grass outside the Museum of Contemporary Art while acid sloshed around my belly. I couldn’t sit still for long. The didgeridoo player’s music felt like an assault on my splintered nerves and I had to leave. I paced the streets, wandering into stores, picking things up and putting them down. I could see shop assistants talking to me, but I couldn’t hear a word they were saying.