by A Kelly
Soon Bobby gaped. He stopped every sound he’d been making and sucked in his stomach. Before he could breathe out, she choked him. He came right before he passed out.
Was it good to be a winner?
She was her own woman, Tim had said in his letter. And Bobby was his own man. Was Bobby the life partner she needed after all?
Part of her wanted to leave Bobby. The game was getting old. She questioned her state of mind – maybe she wasn’t insane after all. She didn’t want to admit it, but now that she had slept with Bobby numerous times, she yearned to love and be loved by a normal man, a traditional man.
How did people define ‘normal’, ‘traditional’? How did the encyclopedias define it? How did she define it? Like her father loved her mother? Not quite. Like Tim loved Sylvia? Yes, like that.
Bobby would never kill her, not purposely anyway, she concluded. He loved her too much. Perhaps she had to make him lose her; maybe then he would act – he wouldn’t let anyone else have her. But Bobby would probably end up killing any man she ran to, and that would leave her to deal with the mess. She couldn’t let that happen. Whoever that poor man might be, it wasn’t his fight.
So she let her husband lie in her arms, clinging to her, mumbling ‘I love you, Summer’ again and again. The tattooed text on his right arm was peppered with bruises from his latest fights with her: Let the mother’s last embrace welcome me home. Next to the inscription was a woman weeping. He’d got the tattoo when he was in prison, he’d told her – one of those days when he’d wished he were dead. She’d asked then where his mother was. He said she’d abandoned him when he was five. Then one day his dad dropped him at his grandparents’ house and never came back. Mother’s last embrace, he’d said, meant a grave.
Bobby opened his eyes and weakly touched her face. She’d never minded those calluses. She’d got used to his touch. She had to stay, and keep dancing the dance of fate.
12
Blood in his hands
Summer awoke with a belt tied around her neck. Bobby’s favourite belt – black leather, square metal buckle, always perfectly polished. From his grandfather, he’d said. Earlier, when she had come back from work, Bobby had complained about Rory, the neighbour’s dog, barking while they were having dinner. She’d stopped him from going after the dog and offered to play the game, even though her mid-cycle cramps were at their worst.
‘Forget about the dog, Bobby. Here, right here, your wife wants to fuck you.’
He’d won the fight tonight. He hit her multiple times on her lower back and thighs. Usually she got up and hit him back, but this time she’d stayed down, fighting the pain delivered by her own body. He’d rolled on top of her. What happened after that was a blur.
She loosened the belt and stared at Bobby, asleep next to her. She studied his youthful face. She kissed him and he flinched. She felt oddly safe with Bobby. If the psychopath hadn’t killed her in six months, and she hadn’t taken her own life, perhaps the both of them had done something right for each other.
If he was insane, she was insane. But she never stopped questioning this insanity, her own insanity mostly. Her ‘normal’ self always wondered why she couldn’t have a husband who simply took care of her; made her soup and brought her paracetamol for her cramps? But she was too damaged to have that sort of life. And perhaps if she had had that life, she wouldn’t have been content anyway. She would always look for pain.
Suddenly Bobby tossed and turned. He spoke incoherently, then cried. He extended his arms as if for a hug. She could see red dots on his right forearm – some new, some healing, some old and dry – how many times had he injected today?
He kept crying.
‘Summer…’
‘I’m here, Bobby.’
He still looked asleep when he pulled down his briefs. With his eyes closed he jerked his already-hard cock and his other hand fumbled for her. He pulled down her panties and, as she lay flat on her back, he rubbed his cock against her left thigh. This middle-of-the-night arousal had become Bobby’s habit since he got into drugs again (and his highs had been higher since he’d hooked up with Cesario). But she never refused. If his wife couldn’t accommodate him, who would?
When she was about to get up to clean herself, he clung to her. ‘Don’t go… please, don’t go…’ His grip was relentless. Then he cried like a little boy, crawled closer in to her side and lay his head on her shoulder.
When Summer woke the next time, Bobby was gone. It was still dark, and outside Rory had started barking again. She scanned the apartment.
‘Bobby?’
No answer.
Suddenly a whine, then complete silence.
‘Shit… Bobby?’ Summer went to the bathroom and peeked out the window, which gave her a clear view of the dog house. Rory the old kelpie was now a dead kelpie, and staring at him was blood-covered Bobby Swinburne holding a steel pipe.
Bobby looked up and instantly Summer closed the window, rushed to the front door, locked it, and slid a chair under the handle. She wanted to call 000 but she froze. Much as she hated him right now, she couldn’t bear the thought of putting him back in jail.
Bobby banged at the door. Then began pushing and charging at it.
‘Summer, let me in!’ Bobby said. ‘I was just restoring peace.’ He chuckled.
‘You’re sick, Bobby!’
‘Let me in, Summer! You want to fight over a fucking dog?’
Summer looked around. Her bare hands wouldn’t win a fight, not tonight.
A cable? She might not have a chance to slip it over his head to strangle him.
A knife? She couldn’t see more blood.
And she couldn’t kill her Bobby. Maybe it wasn’t worth fighting over a dog, at least right now. She’d find her revenge later. No dog ever deserved such cruelty!
‘You shouldn’t be surprised,’ he shouted. ‘I fucking hate animals! Those glorified rats of yours… what did you call them? Milo, Millie… fuck them! I fucking poisoned them.’
She wanted to scream – and kill him – but she covered her mouth and sucked up her grief and anger.
‘They smelled, Summer!’
Now the fight was over more than just a dog. She looked around again… he’d get the door open soon.
Perhaps his best friend could be her ally tonight.
She rushed to the bathroom, locked the door and rummaged in the vanity drawer. Bobby never hid his stash. She mixed the heroin with tap water. Rushing against time, she took a syringe and filled it up with the crude solution (the water was only lukewarm). How much she’d put in, how effective it would be, she just had to wait and see.
Bobby was throwing himself at the door now. Calamity advanced on her as she heard the chair behind the front door crack, the lock break, and Bobby walking in through the open door, kicking everything in his path. His footsteps grew louder and then the banging was right next to her, at the bathroom door.
‘We can do it the easy way, or the hard way. Come on, Summer. It’s me. Your Bobby. You wanna fight over a fucking dog? And a couple of rats?’
Bobby kicked the bathroom door open without difficulty and she was confronted by a man wearing a lot of blood.
‘Come here…’ Bobby said.
Summer stood next to the toilet bowl. She’d cleaned all traces of her messing with his drug. She’d prepared herself for how and where to fall when Bobby inevitably struck her. She waited for the blow.
Bobby went to hug her, but her fist swiftly shot up from her waist, landing on his chin. His teeth cracked together. And, as she’d anticipated, he pushed her to the floor. She fell with her right arm outstretched. As Bobby charged down to trap her, she reached for the syringe hidden behind the bleach, next to the toilet boil. She stabbed his neck with it and injected all of the content into him.
Bobby shook, he tried to strangle her but collapsed on her instead. Laboriously, she rolled him over and off.
‘Summer…’ His words dribbled out of his mouth, along with his saliva
. ‘I love you. I will find you.’
Bobby Swinburne lay unconscious on the floor. She packed her suitcase and drove and drove. If he lived, he would find her. But she would make it a hell of a journey for him. She could’ve flown back to DC but she actually wanted to see Bobby again. Perhaps then she would make him pay for what he’d done to Molly, Milo and Rory; perhaps also they’d fight until one of them was dead.
13
Life in the barracks
Bobby had sniffed Summer out of every town she’d run to and she’d always escaped without any real encounter. She had physically transformed herself – changing hairstyles and colours, going from glasses to no glasses, and her five-day-a-week gym and karate training had seen her pack a lot of muscle weight. The closest Bobby got to her was in Palm Cove, Queensland. She’d just finished instructing a diving lesson with two Swiss tourists when she caught Bobby talking with the locals. Summer was still in her diving suit while her training partner was berthing his boat. She had thought about luring Bobby to the final fight then. But the game of hide and seek had almost become exciting, so she free-dived to gain enough distance to surface safely away from Bobby, and swam to the next beach. She snuck through the alleys to get back to her place, packed, and fled.
To Darwin.
‘At least your sweat is clean here,’ Tim told Summer when she complained about Darwin’s humidity. Summer chuckled at her old karate instructor as they sat on his patio at the Robertson Barracks Officers Mess. Sylvia, his wife, was also there. ‘In Iraq you sweat oil and sneeze gunpowder.’
Summer had gone to the Northern Territory’s capital anticipating that Tim had taken up the offer to join the US Marines there. She’d wanted to see him again, and hear his voice – as a human being, as a confidant, as a trusted friend. She would tell him how he’d kept her alive and thank him properly. After Darwin, she’d travel far and have the final fight with Bobby. That was the fate she would create for herself.
It didn’t take long for her to bump into Tim after a week of hanging out in Holtze, the suburb closest to the barracks. He looked a lot older than she’d remembered, and so did Sylvia.
‘Thanks, honey,’ Tim said, as Sylvia handed him a glass of the cordial Summer had made.
Sylvia sipped from her own glass. ‘My God, this is kickin’! I should get the recipe off you,’ she said to Summer.
‘What is it?’ Tim asked as he slowly had a sip too.
‘Lemongrass and ginger,’ Summer said.
‘Shoot! It does give you a kick.’
‘Here’s Michael.’ Tim showed Summer the photo of his grandson. ‘Michael Timothy O’Brien.’
Summer smiled. ‘So sweet…’
‘Here he is with Randall and April.’
‘That’s not Randall!’ Summer said. ‘No!’
‘Yep, he looks like Ned Flanders now.’ Tim chuckled.
‘Our poor son! He does get teased a lot with that moustache and glasses.’ Sylvia laughed, too. ‘We were like family when we were in DC, isn’t that right? I always thought of you.’
Tim put his arm around Sylvia and kissed her lips.
Right there – Summer told herself – was love. That was why Tim was married to Sylvia. That was why he was loyal. The O’Brien family was close to the Rideaus when they were in DC – but this was the first time she’d seen the ‘wife’ side of Sylvia. Back then she’d always been ‘Randall’s mum’ – and the woman who had Tim.
‘So… you’ve been travelling around Australia, Summer?’
‘Yes.’
‘You look like a warrior,’ Tim said.
Summer nodded. ‘I’ve been training hard, Tim, very hard.’
Tim studied Summer’s face. She looked away. ‘I’ll go clean up,’ she said, and picked the three glasses. Tim followed her to the kitchen.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’
‘No,’ she said, and put the glasses in the sink.
‘Are you travelling? Or running?’
‘Both.’
Tim took her hands, checking the inside of her forearms.
‘I stopped when you said stop,’ Summer said. He might not believe it, but she’d stopped to honour his unrelenting care. A silent thank you; even though she’d resented him for sending her to the psychologist, which had caused her to faint, vomit and have nightmares that’d seemed to come out of nowhere.
‘You’re still trying to run away from your dad?’
‘Maybe. We never patched things up,’ Summer said.
‘You have to make peace with him at some stage.’
She shrugged.
‘You’ve been more than training yourself. You’ve been preparing for battle. What are you trying to prove?’
‘Since when did you become so dramatic?’ Summer frowned. ‘I may have exerted myself, but I’m not trying to prove anything.’
‘Why Darwin?’ asked Tim.
‘I haven’t spoken to anyone in a long time. Can you believe it that I only have you to talk to?’ Summer said.
‘You haven’t found anyone?’
‘No.’
‘You can’t live alone for the rest of your life.’
‘Why not? Alone doesn’t mean lonely.’
‘You’re not invincible.’
‘I live by the sword; I die by the sword.’
‘Now who’s being dramatic?’
‘I live alone, and I’m prepared to die alone. I’m too complicated. No man wants complicated,’ she said. ‘Even you thought I was weird. Preparing for battle? Do I look that crazy?’
‘Having a partner is like sailing ashore after you’ve fought a storm. Dropping anchor and just staying still. No matter where or when, your partner is there to shelter you. That is the best feeling in the world.’
Summer shook her head. ‘What has Australia done to you? Listen to yourself!’
She excused herself – telling Tim and Sylvia she had to see a neighbour. In the rush, Sylvia asked for her number. ‘We can’t lose touch again,’ Sylvia said.
Summer didn’t want to give it to them, but she couldn’t say no. As she headed to her car, she could sense Sylvia asking Tim why she’d left in such a hurry.
She hadn’t said her proper thank you, but she had to leave Darwin tonight before she changed her mind and confessed about Bobby to Tim.
Summer arrived at the bend leading to her rental house about half an hour from the Robertson Barracks. In front of her, a black Holden Commodore took its time, almost at a rolling pace.
‘Bless him!’ Summer smiled. It was her 80-year-old neighbour and landlord (a loose term). The man described his property as a shack-like cottage that could also be a cottage-like shack. There wasn’t much space apart from her bedroom, with a tiny ensuite, a garage that was still filled with her landlord’s junk, and a botch-renovated kitchen. For that, he didn’t want to accept any money, so instead Summer helped him with day-to-day housework.
As Summer turned into her driveway and he into his, the man who simply wanted to be called Pop greeted her: ‘Hello, love!’
Summer handed over a bag of groceries to him. ‘Spinach, cured leg ham, carrots, linseed bread, Mr Muscle and Ensure. I bought two as they were on special.’
‘What would I do without you?’ he asked, getting out of the car and shutting the door, the keys still visible in the ignition.
‘Pop… are you forgetting something?’
‘No one’s gonna steal this car,’ he said lightly.
‘Please!’ she said.
‘I’m going out again soon.’
‘All right!’ she said. ‘When you’re home for the day you’ll lock it, yeah?’
‘If you say so!’ he said, and disappeared into his house.
A soft breeze woke Summer up. The humidity of the north hit her once more. As she lay naked on her bed, drenched in sweat, Tim’s voice echoed in her head:
Your partner is like a shore…
To hell with Tim and his poetic wisdom! Why did it have to interfere with her slee
p? She remembered she’d fallen asleep after she’d thought – no, fantasised – about something. Someone. A normal man, and it had turned her on. Then she’d choked herself.
The warm breeze swept across the room once more.
Suddenly she became alert. There wasn’t supposed to be any breeze in here. She never left the window open. And the room smelled like her Melbourne apartment. She turned on the light, put on her nightrobe and looked around the house. Between the floor creaks she heard noises coming from the garage. She checked inside and held her breath – all four of her car tyres had been slashed. When she turned around, Bobby stood in the doorway between the garage and the house.
‘Hello, Summer…’
She released a straight kick into his gut. He was pushed back, but he was still standing. She kicked him one more time and this time he blocked her. He laughed and leaned on the door jamb with his arm up. She wasn’t the only one who had been training. His singlet clung tightly to his torso and his arm muscles were that of a fighter. The abs she’d kicked just now were as solid as a pro boxing bag.
Above all, she saw a different stare.
As if he felt he’d had given Summer enough time to admire him, he grabbed her by the hair and threw her head-first against the floor. She saw her own blood dripping on the concrete. As soon as she pushed herself up, he hit the back of her neck.
Her head travelled along the concrete as Bobby dragged her mercilessly by the ankles. By now she’d lost her night robe. After a few bumps she felt the carpet scrape against her cheek. When he stopped, the wooden base of the bed came into focus.
Bobby grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. Then he smiled and picked her body up with her head dangling over his arm. It was throbbing at the spot where Bobby had hit her. She was too weak to moan; she might even have passed out. When she roused, she found herself on the bed; hands tied together, her mouth gagged. The weight of Bobby pressed against her. He was already inside her pumping frantically. Despite his physical changes, inside he was clearly still the same Bobby Swinburne she’d married.