Demons (9 page)

He walked off down the hallway, the bathroom light went on. Adam could hear him pissing,
then the toilet flush. He went to the window and parted the curtains. Yes, Tilly
was asleep. The bathroom light went out. Adam damped down the fire and turned off
the other lights. In the bedroom he quietly closed the door.

Turn the light on, said Lauren. He couldn’t find the switch; she turned on her bedside
lamp. Is she still awake? She’s sleeping now, he said. It’s not right, said Lauren,
lying down again. What? said Adam. Everything, she said. She’s upset, she’s not sleeping
out there because she feels like a little camping holiday. Stay out of it, said Adam,
taking off his clothes, you can’t interfere with stuff like that. Her uncle’s just
topped himself. Marshall shouldn’t have brought her, sure, but we don’t know the
circumstances. And you know what Jackie’s like, she’s not exactly Zen Mother.

That girl’s upset, said Lauren, that’s all I’m saying. She’ll be all right tomorrow,
said Adam, she’ll be hungry, she’ll be tired. They both lay looking at the ceiling.

What were you talking about? asked Lauren. Just crap, he said. She turned off the
lamp.

There’s something a bit sad about us, isn’t there? said Adam. Us? said Lauren. I
mean how we’ve only ever danced across the surface, had everything our own way, free
education, free dole; no wars, no revolutions. We’ve not lived to the limit of human
experience, we’ve moved in a little circle. We’ve looked out for ourselves, not others,
and if we do make some big magnanimous gesture there’s always something a bit calculated
about it. Even when we’re listening to another person’s cares and woes, aren’t we
actually thinking about ourselves?

Stop talking, she said, and she rolled over and pulled the covers up to her chin.
We’re pragmatists, said Adam, idealism’s not our thing. No, said Lauren.

Adam lay listening to the sea.

SATURDAY

When Adam woke, fuzzy from the wine, Lauren was already up. So was everyone, by the
sounds of it. He went into the kitchen. Megan was at the sink, still in her pyjamas,
a pair of ridiculously fluffy slippers on her feet.

She’s gone with Hannah and Leon for a walk down the shops. How did you sleep? Good,
said Adam, good—is Tilly still in the car? Megan nodded. And Evan? What a night,
he said. Megan continued rinsing the dishes. And you? I slept okay, she said. I kept
getting all these images, said Adam, not really dreams but the stuff that comes to
you when you’re sort of skating across the surface. Hannah’s story, especially, I
couldn’t get it out of my head. Do you think it was true?

It sounded true, said Megan.

True’s a funny word, isn’t it? Have you got a story?

I think so, yeah, and you?

Yeah, I think I’ve got something.

They heard a toilet flush.

Fuck me, said Evan, walking in—Megan, honey, what were you thinking, telling me to
drink all that wine? Where did you get that idea from? He was hugging her from behind;
she kept looking out at the rain falling on the stand of acacia trees on the hill
behind the house.

You’re a fuckin’ alcoholic, Evan, honestly, she said. He turned to Adam and widened
his eyes. But she still loves me, doesn’t she? He buried his face in her neck. Fuck
off, she said. Adam opened the fridge and took out a carton of juice. Me too, said
Evan. He poured them both a glass. They leaned on the bench and drank. A flock of
rosellas screeched and landed in a flurry of wings.

That story did my head in, said Evan. Sweet innocent hippie, then out of nowhere
she’s telling us about some gruesome murder. I mean, what the fuck was that? Do
you think that one had a moral to it? said Adam. About that girl being allergic,
to her house, her parents, her life. Could those allergies, multiple chemical sensitivity
and all that, chronic fatigue—could they,
quod vide
Sontag, be metaphors? They’re
clinical conditions, Adam, said Megan, I think that’s been pretty well established;
sadly what that girl in Hannah’s story didn’t have was proper professional and parental
support.

Evan gave Adam his cartoon look again. And you can fuck off, said Megan, without
looking at him. Everything with you guys is always so cynical, isn’t it? She turned
back to the sink, closed the dishwasher and turned it on. Evan did his look again—a
watered-down, furtive version—and took his glass of orange juice out into the living
room.

Morning all! said Marshall. He was dressed, his hair wet and combed; he must have
used the shower downstairs. He poured himself a juice. Tilly’s got herself a cup
of tea, he said. I took it down earlier, said Megan. That seemed to deflate Marshall;
he didn’t know what to do with his hands. So what’s to eat? he said.

The walking party came back upstairs.

Breakfast’s here! said Hannah. Free-range eggs, organic bacon, sourdough bread, freshly
squeezed orange juice and special sweetie treats for later! They were all wearing
hats and coats and scarves. Leon was last up, carrying the papers. Did you find some
umbrellas? said Megan. It was nice in the rain, said Lauren, the air’s beautiful
out there. Leon’s got a story, said Hannah. Lee?

They started taking off their things and hanging them over the chairs near the fire.
Everything smelled faintly of the sea. Lauren took a pebble from her pocket and put
it in Adam’s hand. She smiled, a big smile, maybe a false smile, but a loving smile
too. He kissed her cheek—it was getting warmer—and put the pebble in his pocket.
Lauren turned to Marshall. Tilly’s got herself a cup of tea, she said. Marshall?
Tilly’s got herself a cup of tea.

There was a piercing noise. What the fuck is that? said Evan, holding his hands out
away from his ears, ready to clamp them down. It’s the fire alarm, said Marshall,
the fire alarm’s gone off. Is there smoke? Did someone burn something? Marshall had
only just finished yelling when the fire alarm in the living room stopped as quickly
as it had started. There was silence again, aside from the rain on the roof and the
water gurgling in the pipes. Well thank Christ for that, said Evan. Is there smoke?
said Marshall, looking around. Can anyone smell smoke?

They set the dining-room table, got the breakfast ready. They made a good team. There
were lots of jokes and banter, light-hearted arguments about the best way to do this
and that, whether there should be milk in the scrambled eggs, whether the toast should
be light or dark, whether there should be oil in the pan before you fry the bacon.
Adam laid the cutlery; Lauren brought the warm plates out. In a low voice she told
him how when they’d come up the driveway and passed Tilly in the car with her cup
of tea they’d heard her phone go
ping
.

I heard it too, said Leon, from behind. He was carrying a big plate of bacon. Hannah
was behind him with the scrambled eggs. Me too, she said. What are you talking about?
said Marshall, with a jug of juice. Tilly’s phone, said Adam. We made a pact, said
Megan, putting the plunger of coffee down. Come on people, really, she said, it’s
only a couple of days. I should check in with Jackie though, said Marshall. No-one
knew what to say to that. They all sat down to breakfast.

If it’s something important she’ll ring on Tilly’s phone, won’t she? said Megan.
Everyone started serving themselves from the spread. The downstairs shower went on.
Marshall speared a piece of bacon and pretended not to hear.

Did you see this? said Leon, flicking the paper flat, someone’s just paid thirty
thousand for what they say are Ned Kelly’s long johns. There’s even a certificate
of authenticity. How do you certify someone’s undies? said Evan. I didn’t think we
were allowed papers, said Adam. A private collector bought them. Good for them, said
Lauren.
I am a widows son outlawed
, said Leon,
and my orders must be obeyed
. Can
I have real estate? said Evan. There was a sudden scream in the pipes. And sport.
That’s ridiculous, said Lauren, how can the value of something like that get measured
in dollars? What else are we going to measure things in? said Marshall. Love units?
The downstairs shower stopped. I might take down a plate, said Megan. A while ago,
said Adam, following his own thread, they found a piece of surveying equipment from
the Burke and Wills expedition and that fetched a lot of money too. I guess we’re
a bit desperate to fill the artefacts cupboard, aren’t we? With the stories of losers,
said Megan.

She took the plate downstairs.

That’s great bread, said Evan, holding up a slice. Is that sourdough?

Sometimes, said Hannah, in a good bakery, they might use the same starter for decades.
What? said Evan. The yeast, said Hannah, in sourdough. As long as it’s kept warm
and moist it continues to be active, so the baker takes a bit of the dough they’ve
used to make that morning’s batch, adds a bit of flour and puts it aside in a warm
place and when they fold it into the next day’s dough it acts as a starter to make
the dough rise, then from that you take another bit and that’s the starter for the
next day and so on. Jesus, said Marshall. Just like, said Adam. And generally, said
Hannah, the older the starter the better the bread. Evan flicked the paper. Bread’s
ridiculous, he said. What? said Lauren. The price, said Evan, it’s flour and water
for chrissakes.

Megan came back up the stairs, sat at the table and resumed eating.

Listen to this, said Evan. Four bedroom, architect-designed with sea views, large
living area, rain tanks, grey-water recycling, sloping bush block, five mins beach
and shops. How much? One point five, said Marshall. A million, said Lauren. Two million,
said Leon. Megan? Nine hundred thousand. The same, said Hannah. Adam? Two oxen and
a sheaf of barley. Two point five, said Evan. No way, said Marshall. Yes way, said
Evan. That’s crazy, said Megan. Two and a half million, said Hannah, for a holiday
house? But you could live down here, said Evan, it’s a family home. But where would
you work, what work would you do? There’s work in Geelong. But two point five million?
You sell that inner-suburban home, said Evan, and you’ve got money to spare.

How long’s it been on the market? said Marshall. Doesn’t say, said Evan.

A friend of ours, said Hannah—well, not really a friend, someone we know—bought a
house in Daylesford last year for just under two million. Nice garden and all that
but nothing special. What worries me, said Lauren, in that situation, is that you
sell in the city and buy in the country but if you don’t like it and you want to
go back to the city later, well, you can’t, can you? You can’t afford to. It’s a
one-way street. I’d be offering one point seven tops.

Here’s another one, said Evan: one point six. Three bedroom, period, edge of town,
established garden, circular drive, double garage, five mins walk to beach. Doesn’t
sound like anything special though, does it? said Lauren. You’d need to have a look,
said Marshall. It’s nearly a million dollars cheaper, said Hannah. I’d have it, said
Adam. In your dreams, said Lauren. Best place to be, said Adam. I just think that’s
fucking outrageous, said Megan, that people are prepared to pay that much for a house
down the beach. It’d be nice though, Meg, wouldn’t it? said Lauren. Sure, said Megan,
but still. Lee, said Evan, how much did you pay for Halls Gap? Two hundred for the
land, said Leon, and sixty to build. It’s beautiful up there, said Hannah. The coast’s
a better investment though, said Evan, it’s always going to hold its price better
than the bush.

The conversation fizzled out. The table was cleared, the dishwasher stacked. Lauren
cut up some vegetables and got them on the stove so they could have soup later. Leon
and Marshall made themselves a second coffee; Megan and Evan sat in the living room
browsing the papers. It was nice inside, with the fire going and the rain pattering
on the roof and the sound of waves flopping down there on the shore. Adam went to
the toilet, Lauren to the shower. Hannah shook the tablecloth off the edge of the
balcony and when she came back in she had raindrops, like pearls, in her hair.

Brr, she said.

Lauren returned with her hair in a towel. Adam was carrying a book. Everybody, look,
Future Shock
! he said. There was a rumble of thunder. The air turned cold and metallic.
Hannah knelt up on a chair to see.

Is everyone comfortable? said Megan. She handed Leon the stick. You’ll need to speak
up, said Evan. Is she okay out there? asked Hannah. Marshall nodded.

So, said Leon—everybody?—my story is a true story that might end up sounding like
it isn’t. But it all happened. The basis of it, he continued, has a bit to do with
what’s going on here, I mean how much truth we tell each other, even friends, and
how many lies. It’s about the death of idealism, too—Jesus, said Evan—and the growth
of expediency. It’s about someone trying to dig down to the core of things, to get
at some truth, but who feels like he’s digging through a pile of feathers to nothing.

Do you remember that guy from uni who was in that student production? Adam?
Three
Sisters
. Remember? You were Solyony. Marshall, you were Tuzenbakh. I was Kulygin.
He was Vershinin. Lauren, you were Masha.
In two or three hundred years life on earth
will be inexpressibly beautiful and amazing
. His name was Aiden. He was involved
in student politics too—Marshall, remember?—and he used to hand out flyers and all
that. I lost touch with him after we graduated but then one day, around 2005—maybe
2006—I bumped into him in the city.

He hadn’t aged well: bald on top, long white hair, a beard, scruffy clothes and some
kind of skin disease, like a bad case of acne. It felt awkward, I won’t lie. He asked
did I want a drink. Come on, he said, for old times. We went into the front bar of
Young and Jacksons. It wasn’t like drinking in the daytime was an unusual thing for
me back then. It was three in the afternoon and still pretty quiet. I offered to
shout. No, he said, and he pulled out a wallet with a wad of bills.

Leon: The Broken String…

We went and sat at one of those high tables on a couple of stools near the window.
He asked what I’d been up to and I told him how I’d knocked around for a while after
getting my BA, went into journalism, travelled, wrote, married, divorced, married
and divorced again. He looked interested, for a moment, then he stared into his glass.
I was already wishing I’d said no. He said he’d moved to Canberra and enrolled in
post-grad politics at ANU; he just couldn’t connect with the old crowd. He became
a student again, did student things. He met a diplomat’s daughter and they got married
and had a kid. Then he dropped out and took a bureaucratic job, advising government,
boring as all hell, in a place called the Office of National Assessments.

But, said Aiden, what could I do? I had a wife, a kid, a mortgage. Canberra had just
sort of sucked me down. We had another kid. Then, about eight years ago, late nineties,
for various reasons that I won’t go into here but let me say involved a story about
so-called illegals drowning or
not
drowning at sea, I took stress leave. At first
I just pottered around the garden, played in the shed, dabbled in carpentry, looked
up at Mount Ainslie, thinking nothing. I usually had my first beer around three.
I also started revisiting the campus, on the side, wandering around, eating my lunch.
I was thirty-two, going on thirty-three. My wife, Lil, was worried, I know, but she
couldn’t fix things for me. So one day I left, just like that; yes, I packed a bag
and took the bus back to Melbourne. I don’t know what came over me, really, but I
know I was telling myself that I was not running away from things but
into
them.
Do you know what I mean?

I got a room off the board at Readings, a shitty room in a sharehouse up the shitty
end of Coburg. My housemates were all younger, early to mid-twenties, as was just
about everyone I hung around with in those years. I worked odd jobs: telemarketing,
delivery driving, dishpigging, and sent what money I could back to Lil. It was never
much. What was I doing? I didn’t know. But I was sure I had to keep doing it, like
when you’re running downhill and if you don’t keep going you fall.