“You again?” he said with a smile.
“Tilley’s playing with Chris so I thought I’d pop around,” she tried to keep her voice flat, like he didn’t have any impact on her at all.
“Still don’t trust us then?” he raised an eyebrow at her, but the comment was made in jest.
“Just being friendly.”
“Is that what you folk call it?”
She didn’t respond.
“Leave my guest alone, G. What are you doin’ here? You looking for Pete?” Rosie interjected.
“Sure am.”
“He’s not here. Gone to help a mate move,” Rosie responded.
“Hmmm ... Who?”
“Tom – that old bloke that lives on Raglan Street. You know the one. Die-hard bunnies fan – wears the scarf in forty-degree heat in summer.”
“Yeah, didn’t he get kicked out?”
“Not sure.”
“Ok Rosie — I’ll head off then. Don’t offer me a coffee or nothin'," he winked at Evie, as though she were complicit in the joke.
“You want a coffee then G?” Rosie frowned at him.
“Nah, just sayin'.”
“Yeah right, I see.” She stared at him with curious eyes, like she was trying to discern his motives. He smiled.
“Best be going then. See you Rosie and Evie ... like the song,” he added.
She smiled, and waved a hand, not sure if she could find her voice. There was something about him, that churned her up on the inside. Like he had reached in and grabbed something deep within her.
The door closed behind him.
“You want another coffee, darlin’?” Rosie asked. Evie looked up to find her watching her with the same curious expression, like she was trying to figure something out about her too.
“No, still going with this one,” she managed.
“Hmmm ... funny, I’d almost say that G has a crush on you,” Rosie said with a mischievous expression on her face.
“No ... why would you say that?” Evie said, instantly jumping to the defensive. She felt her cheeks blush.
“He’s not nice to anyone . and he’s nice to you.” Still watching, examining her reaction.
“I wouldn’t say he’s nice ...” Evie said trailing off.
“Nice alright. Flirtatious almost. Very unlike G.”
“Well ... I’m not interested in anything at the moment, I’ve got a lot on my plate. Besides, I really don’t think he likes me.” Too much information. Why had she divulged so much?
Rosie looked at her with a raised eyebrow. The second she’d seen this afternoon.
“I get you,” she said finally, like she truly got the intent of the words. Like she knew Evie’s heart beat that little bit faster when he was in the room.
Evie buried her face back in her coffee. Whatever it was, some visceral reaction to his presence. She had to get it under control. Love wasn’t her thing. It never had been and it never would be.
She didn’t know how to love.
Because of him.
16
Lipstick and violence
(1997, Redfern)
Her mum was doing Evie’s makeup that afternoon. Lilly was good at makeup. She was unsteady with everything else in life but she had the firmest of hands when it came to winged eyeliner, lipliner and lashes. She was in good spirits that day too. Singing little ditties and cracking jokes like there was nothing wrong with her at all. The only sign that she might be the depressed mum who usually presented these days was her robe. Despite her elevated humour she hadn’t deigned the day worthy of an outfit. There was a strange white mark on her mum’s blue fluffy robe that day, near the neck. Evie wasn’t sure if she had spilled milk on it earlier on – but she didn’t want to ask. Mum wouldn’t remember anyway.
Evie was wearing her graduation dress, a black velvet number with a split down the side. It was perfect – it hugged in all the right places, and allowed for just the right amount of leg to make it look sexy but not slutty. She knew all the boys would be looking at her. Adam included. She was the prettiest girl in school. Glammed up she was more than pretty, she was beautiful. A show-stopper.
Lilly had woven her hair into an elegant chignon earlier on, and now as she worked away on her face, Evie touched the nape of her neck. She rarely wore her hair up, it felt strange having that part of her skin exposed. Vulnerable almost.
Lilly stood back for a moment, examining her handiwork. She had set up a makeup station in the living room. She’d dragged a chair from the kitchen, and a stool, and set up a collection of her makeup. Bags full of it. Evie wasn’t even sure where it all came from. Her mother never went out anymore — why did she keep all this stuff? She assumed it was from a time long gone – when Lilly was normal. When she still functioned as a human being, when she still went out of the house, and changed out of her blue robe. The make-up looked pretty old, the make-up bags were full retro-eighties, and stained. But they were crammed tight with lipsticks, foundations, mascaras and eyeshadows. More make-up than she had ever seen together at the one time.
It must have pre-dated dad, because he was a cheap bastard and would never let her buy this sort of stuff.
“Where did you get all of this makeup?” Evie found herself saying. It was strange being candid with her mum, because she was usually so spaced out it was virtually impossible to have a normal conversation with her.
Lilly stared at the make-up bags, mascara brush paused midair, “When I was younger I did my make-up all the time, and my friends’. I was good at it. Before I met your dad I guess, and at the start ...before ...” She trailed off and stared at a spot on the ground.
Before he started hitting her, Evie thought. It was remarkable to her that there was a ‘before’. Violence ran in his blood, Evie couldn’t imagine him calm, steady, kind. Had another version of Greg existed once? If it had, she was sure she wouldn’t recognise him.
Her mother started applying blush to her cheeks with short, swift movements. It must have steadied her mood – she recovered quickly from the momentary malaise.
“Who are you going to the dance with?” her mother said, her voice light and focused.
Evie swallowed. “Craig.” She didn’t like the sound of his name as it dropped out of her mouth. She didn’t like Craig at all -Benny had been right about him. But a girl like her didn’t have many options. No matter how pretty they were.
She swallowed again. Benny was in his room. Likely high. It was his school formal too. But he hadn’t been to school for weeks, maybe longer. She could feel Benny slipping, ever so slightly away from her. Away from them all — maybe even away from himself. Sliding into a dark place. Somewhere she couldn’t reach him.
“I’ve never heard you mention him before,” Lilly said, like they were the best of friends, snapping her from her reverie. Like Evie came home and described the ins and outs of her day in great detail. Like Lilly was someone she could rely on. Someone that could advise her on life.
Lilly wasn’t any of those things.
Lilly didn’t know what day of the week it was most days.
“He’s just a friend,” Evie said, playing along with the pantomime.
“Is he handsome?” Lilly continued.
Evie pictured his rat like face and sneaky expression. No, he wasn’t handsome. He’s features were fine enough, and he was tall and well built, but there was something devious about how it all came together. Furtive almost. Like he was hiding secrets from the world that should never be told, even privately, within his own mind.
“Yes.” She responded.
“Of course he is. You’re so pretty Evie – you know if you had been a tiny bit taller I’m sure you could have modelled.”
If only. Just a tiny bit taller and she could have been something. It was always a matter of centimetres. The tiniest of measures kept her halted in this place. In Redfern. In this housing commission. At that school. Around those people.
She heard the front door open and close, and heard her father
s’ heavy footsteps in the corridor. He had his work boots on, they echoed ominously beating a steady rhythm of fear into her heart. She could sense Lilly become tense too. Her stance changed slightly, and she gripped the brush she was holding until her knuckles became white.
Evie focused on those white knuckles. Sometimes it was easy to focus on a detail like that, it gave you something to hang on to.
He was in the kitchen now. He dropped his work bag down near the couch, and turned the television on. It was summer, early December, so the cricket played steadily in the background. He went to the fridge and pulled out a can of beer, cracking the lid instantaneously.
He didn’t say a word and neither did they. He was in a mood. If they stayed still enough, quiet as mice, immobile as figurines perhaps he wouldn’t notice their presence. Perhaps they wouldn’t draw attention to themselves.
He sat down on the couch, slurped his beer and continued watching the cricket.
Lilly, wordlessly, started packing things up. Her movements had become clumsy – his presence tended to have that effect on her. She became awkward, inept, ungainly, almost in the blink of an eye.
She knocked a make-up bag off the table. It clattered to the floor loudly. A mixture of jovial tubes and palettes spilled out. Some of them split open. It made Evie think of the Indian colour festival she had seen in a magazine before. Red, green and yellow powder stained the timber floor boards.
Both of them knew the sound would set him off. They busied themselves collecting cloths and rags from the kitchen to clean it up. If they were fast enough he might not say a word ...
“What the fuck happened?” his voice, cutting through the terror of that moment of expectation.
He was on his feet now, stalking over to the scene, frown knitted together like a thundercloud.
Evie avoided his probing gaze – there was darkness there.
“N-n-nothing,” her mother managed. “I’ve just dropped a make-up bag.”
She was on the ground now, stuffing the tubes and lipsticks into the ugly makeup bag, her hands moving unsteadily.
Evie stood back – she still had a chance ofremaining unnoticed. It was survival of the fittest in a world like this.
“Where did all this shit come from?” he continued.
“It’s old stuff Greg ... I’ve had it for years and years. Half of it is from before we met.”
“And the other half?”
She didn’t respond.
“Always spending my fucking money, that I work hard for.”
There was a pregnant pause, like the situation could go in two ways. He could either simmer down, and leave, or it could escalate. It hung in the air. Fecund.
Evie counted in her mind, hoping it would end, one, two, three ...
“You’re here in your bloody robe buying fucking makeup,” he kicked the mess on the ground sending a spray of colour and packaging across the kitchen.
It clicked and clacked about, and festooned the place in a glittery, colourful mess.
“Why do you need this stuff anyway? You whoring around?” he grabbed Lilly by the arm and dragged her to her feet. They were face-to-face now and she cowered away.
“Answer me!” he yelled, pulling at her arm. She jostled about like a bird in a strong wind.
“I was just doing Evie’s make-up ...” she said.
Fuck. He turned towards her. Those black eyes fixed on her now. That’s what violence made you do. You ended up turning on the people you loved. In fact, you couldn’t love them. It was either you or them.
“And why are you done up like a slut?” he demanded, advancing on her. She scampered out of the way, managing to get the couch between their bodies, before he could seize on a limb.
“What’s all that shit on your face?” He leaned heavily on the couch, so much so that it groaned forward in a spasmodic movement.
She was frozen. She couldn’t find the words.
“She’s going to her formal,” Lilly managed from behind him. Evie wasn’t sure if she was helping her or throwing her under the bus. Either option was possible.
“To the formal, hey? The fancy girl going to the formal . You’re not going anywhere,” he leapt over the couch, ready to pin her down and do a number on her face, but she was too quick. She had anticipated the move. That wasn’t his first beer. He was drunk and leery and his movements heavy and uncoordinated. He managed to grab at her hair and pulled a vulgar chunk out.
"Benny!" she yelled, "Benny!" as she scooted into the kitchen.
In the background she heard the door to his room fly open. Benny would help her. He always did. He was her last ally. Even when he was cooked.
“That’s right bitch – call your junkie brother.” He had her pinned near the sink now, and she could smell his rank breath.
There was something about these scenes, these moments, that made time slow down. They became almost comedic in nature. Like you could run a sound track behind them and then observed from the outside they would be like some sort of rigorous dance. There was an out of body sense to it – like this couldn’t really be happening to you.
It had to be happening to someone else.
“Get away from her,” Benny said, pushing his father aside. He was a tiny thing, skin, bones and angles, but when he was high he was a force to be reckoned with. She caught sight of his face, and she knew he was.
Greg stumbled back, thrown off- centre.
“You little junkie punk arse ... don’t you touch me again.”
Greg hated them all. He had violence in his heart for all of them. But Ben worst of all. He detested Ben.
His face blackened with rage, his lips puckered out, like every part of his body was swollen with anger.
“Come at me again,” he said. The words were cold, calculated, rigid.
Evie tried to grab Ben, and hold him back, but he slipped from her grasp. He ran at Greg shoving him hard against the fridge. The fridge skitted back against the sudden hit.
The pair of them struggled against each other, until there was enough distance between them that Greg managed to connect a punch. Square in the chin. It tossed Ben back and he stumbled a few steps, his head reeling backwards.
Enough distance for Greg to connect a kick. He had steel caps on, and he connected against Ben’s knee cap, there was a strange cracking sound, as Ben tumbled to the ground.
He remained propped up for a moment. Like a rag doll on his knees. Like he was praying. Waiting for the next strike. Maybe he was waiting for the next hit. Sometimes she thought Ben liked the pain. He would charge in hard and fast, and then let himself be kicked around.
The second kick connected with his stomach. He cradled it and leant forward.
Greg would go for his face – he always did.
The lucidity of the thought, threw Evie into motion. He was going to kill him. She grabbed Greg’s shoulder and struggled to hold him back, but he shoved her aside easily, flinging her against the kitchen counter. Hard against her lower back. It knocked the air out of her. By the time she had recovered and turned her attention back to the tableau there was blood on the floor, and Ben was in the foetal position fending back kicks.
“Get away from him. You’re going to kill him,” she flew at him, scratching and kicking like an animal. Blind fury.
“I’ll call the cops,” she yelled.
The words seemed to have some sort of impact because he slowed down. He was on probation, he was walking the line. A man like Greg wouldn’t fare well in the slammer.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“All for your brother then ... you little bitch.”
He shook his head like it repulsed him.
They were in the eye of the storm now.
There they were. A family. Two parents. Two kids. Nuclear.
One of them was on the floor with a broken cheek bone, the other was standing over him with a clenched fist, she had her fists up ready to strike and her mother cowered in the corner. She’d sli
d down the wall into a seated position.
Perfectly nuclear.
Again there was a fork, it could go two ways. He could walk away, or he could kill Benny – and maybe Evie for good measure.
Just like that the tornado passed. He walked away.
“Fuck you all,” he called over his shoulder.
The room shuddered slightly as he disappeared, like it was being released from his hold.
A moment passed, they didn’t leave their positions.
There was blood on her dress again.
17
The hospital
(1997, Redfern)
Benny and Evie sat in emergency at St Vincents. She was still wearing her formal dress, he was holding an icepack to his face. She didn’t dare look at him. His face was swollen out of proportion, he looked like some sort of caricature of himself. Like elephant man.
She’d fought with both of them to get him to emergency. Her mum and Benny.
“He’ll be fine,” Lilly had said.
Benny had shook his head and not said a word. She thought he might cry. Benny didn’t cry — never.
“There’s something broken in his face, and maybe his leg and maybe a rib too. He needs to go,” she insisted. What was wrong with them?
“They’ll ask questions,” Lilly said.
“We’ll lie,” Evie responded.
“They’re clever,” Lilly continued, like this was some sort of awful secret that they all had to keep . and it was, wasn’t it? They were all complicit in this scene – even though they hadn’t been the perpetrators.
She was part of this clandestine violence. How had that happened? Maybe she had simply been born into things. Yes, that was certainly the case but it was more than that. Her tacit participation meant everything. The fact that she never talked up, to anyone, meant that she somehow endorsed the behaviour.
She was a cog in the wheel of that violence.
It made her sick to think that she was.
“I’m clever too,” she responded.
Finally, she’d convinced them.
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