Eyrie (9 page)

I mean, if it was about me I wouldn’t mind so much, she went on. But I’ve had to learn the hard way, if you know what I mean – about blokes. And I haven’t got time for it anymore, tell you the truth. Sorry – I’m just sayin.

Despite his indignation, Keely was trying to imagine the life she’d led since their days as children. He wondered about her scarred hands, the broken tooth, the daughter in prison.

Gemma, there’s no agenda. I’m not that sort of person.

Oh, I know that. I’m just sayin. This is the sort of thing I’ve gotta ask meself.

Okay. I get that. But, really, you don’t have to worry.

Gemma nodded slowly. She looked past him. To what – the ocean lights, the wharf? She chewed her lip a moment.

Pity, really, she said, turning to the fridge.

Keely watched in a snarl of conflicted impulses and competing thoughts as she poured herself a refill. She belted the tumbler of wine down in two gulps and set the glass on the bench with a smack. He couldn’t read her smile. And he wondered about the kid. It was late. He got to his feet, hoping she’d sense the signal. But she seemed oblivious. He squeezed past her, set his plate on the sink.

You should get rid of that bloody beard, she said. Look like a science teacher, for Chrissake.

Well, I was for a while. More or less.

What’d you teach?

Geography. And biol.

Shoulda known. All them books there. Always liked ya books, eh.

Yes.

And ya little orange bible.

That too, he said, closing off despite himself.

Now you’re cranky.

No, he lied.

Don’t be cranky, mate – I just need a break. You know what I mean?

I think so.

Do it all on me own.

Yes, I can see that.

It’s lonely.

Yeah.

I should get used to it. Like you. You don’t even like people, it sticks out like dog’s balls.

He shrugged.

But me, I’m stupid, I still like people.

Nothing stupid about that, he said, trying to sound sincere.

Mind if I close the door?

It’s hot, Gem.

Open door makes me nervous.

He said nothing. She bumped the door closed with her hip and as she turned back her shoulder brushed the kid’s drawing, left it askew on the fridge.

I was thinkin, she said.

About what?

Nothin real complicated.

Okay, he said, feeling corralled there in the narrow galley.

But it’s a secret. You can keep a secret, can’t you?

I guess, he said, alert to her approach. She was fully lit up now. Her limbs seemed slightly unwound. It was hard to discount the shape of her in that little dress.

Why don’t I walk you back? he said, moving slightly towards the door.

But I’ll tell you the secret first, she said, taking his arm as he tried to pass. Here, I’ll whisper it.

She tugged his collar, drawing him in so close her winy breath filled his ear and he was unravelling before she even whispered it. The simple, blunt declaration was like something spearing deep. It found the softest, neediest part of his being and yet he still tried to separate himself as delicately as he could.

Gemma, mate, I don’t think that’s a good idea, he said.

Jesus, Tommy, don’t make a girl beg.

I mean, I’m flattered, more than flattered —

But you want it. I can see that.

Yeah, but why me? Why now?

Because you’re safe, and I’m goin fuckin spare up here. We could both do with cheerin up. Carn, cobber. Old times’ sake.

She slipped a hand into his shirt. He felt her belly against his crotch and her tongue was still cool from the wine. He let his hand fall against the curve of her hip, then her arse. And he didn’t care anymore about how crazy this was. She tasted of garlic and smoke. She kissed with a kind of smile. A friendly fuck, that’s all she said, something safe, and it began that way, awkward and companionable in the slot between the fridge and the kitchen bench, but by the time they’d reached his unmade bed with its grey sheets and its bovine whiff of old spunk and perspiration the upwelling of all that desperation and longing overtook them and they were both fierce, half mad with painful urgency and nothing they wanted or did felt safe.

A
fterwards he lay in a sheen of sweat and mortification. It seemed weird, even wrong to be thinking of Harriet. Of that night in the reeking village on Sarawak when a week of hurt silence had broken like a bruised monsoonal sky. The sex had been furious, frightening, and in the aftermath, for the remainder of their coastward trek, he was haunted by the growing sense that their belated passion signified an end and not a renewal, as if the force of that night were from a seal finally, fatally blown. But he’d buried the thought; he was like that, he knew it now, he could carry disaster with him, pressing on as if it might wither in the dark if ignored.

That was nice, said Gemma, head lolling against his chest. Better than a visit to the funny farm.

He tried to smile. At himself, at her directness. Here he was with all his tics and anxieties. He should take this for what it was, a bit of comradely relief. That’s all she meant by it. That’s all it could be.

What’s the matter? she asked.

Nothing. I guess I just didn’t see it coming.

You didn’t want to?

It’s not that.

Cause it didn’t feel that way to me.

He pulled her to him, felt her hair spill across him.

Good old Tom. You need to see everythin comin, don’t you? You’re that sort.

And after it’s arrived I’m the kind of sad bugger who has to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Which isn’t a real flatterin way to talk about a girl.

Sorry.

Her laugh was low and inflammatory. He wished they could just stop talking and go back to fucking. She felt it. She reached down between his legs.

Aw, Tommy. Tom Keely.

Stupid, he said.

Who?

Me, he said.

I just suddenly wanted to.

Suddenly?

Well, gradually. And then suddenly. Like a
bastard
.

Wow.

Nothing wrong with that, is there?

He shrugged.

What?

Nothing.

Jesus, she said. You really, actually wanna know why, like a list of reasons?

Oh, maybe not, he said.

Right, then, she said briskly, as if drawing the discussion to a close.

It was confounding, delightful, having Gemma Buck here, stroking him idly like this as the building rumbled and clanked. It was unimaginable.

I don’t even like birds, she muttered.

What?

Birds.

Oh. Okay.

Like, I had a good day, don’t get me wrong.

But you don’t fancy birds, he said, finding it hard to concentrate with her thigh slippery against his fingertips.

Fuckin hate em.

Pretty common phobia.

It’s not that, she said impatiently.

Well, he said, stuck, aching, distracted.

Shit, you don’t know what it was like for me.

What what was like? he said, hearing the weary tone of his voice.

Blackboy Crescent.

Well, I was there, wasn’t I?

No, she said, letting him go. I don’t think so. Not the same way I was.

What’re you talking about?

Different for you.

Because I moved away? Because I went to university? Geez, Gemma, he said, sitting up abruptly. What is it with you?

You want me to go?

No, Keely lied, pulling away, embarrassed now by his uncharacteristically durable hard-on. This whole scene was just too bloody peculiar; an awful mistake.

I think I’ll go, she said, turning away.

Kai’s alone, he said, as if it mattered more now than it had fifteen minutes ago.

Yeah, she said. Thanks for the reminder.

She reached for her clothes.

Wait, he said. I’m sorry.

No worries. No hard feelins, eh.

What were you saying? What is it I don’t know?

Doesn’t matter.

Please.

It doesn’t. Not anymore. Well, it shouldn’t.

He stretched across to where she sat, fingered her hair in a way that seemed to irritate her. He watched the curve of her back, the heavy tilt of her breasts. She smelt of smoke and sweat and come and now she did not want to be touched.

You shoulda used a condom, she said. Jesus, I need a shower.

Shower here.

I should go.

Stay a minute.

You just want to fuck me again.

I thought we could talk, he said, which was half the truth at least.

No, I’ll go.

Just tell me, he said. This thing. About birds.

She sighed. She was quiet for a long moment.

They make me feel bad. Sad and guilty, sorta thing.

But they’re just birds.

See, when I was a kid, men wanted me.

Yes. It’s . . . it’s —

Shit, that’s what it is. And it wasn’t my fault. I thought it was just Baby. She was older. She didn’t mind so much. But I didn’t want it. Christ, I didn’t even know what it was, what it meant. They were always touchin me. Even the way they looked was like they were touchin me.

Oh, mate.

In the end you kinda give in. But before that I still had some fight, you know? But it meant I did somethin rotten, shockin.

Who could blame you? I mean, hell.

When I was eight I set fire to somethin. It wasn’t an accident – I planned it. Thought about it for days. Figured out how to do it. In cold blood, you know?

Like a car or something?

It was an aviary.

Keely jerked upright, nearly tipping her off the bed.

Bunker’s birdcage, he said. That was you?

I hated him, that grimy old bastard.

He had a bad leg. No, a club foot.

Caught me in his yard once. Lookin at the budgies and the finches and the cockies. Said he wouldn’t tell no one. He got me by the hair, the plaits, pushed me up against the wire and all the birds are goin crazy, all claws and beaks and flappin. And he says things to me a little girl shouldn’t have to hear. All the time, those birds rushin at me, my face hard in the wire, and he’s got his hand right up me, like a bloke pullin the gizzards out of a Christmas turkey.

Keely’s gorge rose. He sat beside her, close but not touching.

I shoulda told your mum, she said, her voice flat, almost deadened. Nev woulda fuckin killed him. And I wanted him to. But I was embarrassed, afraid – ashamed, I guess. And I wanted to fight, you know? Fix it meself.

But. Eight years old.

I got petrol from the can near the mower. Nev’s mower. Tipped it into a shampoo bottle. Waited till Bunker was out – the races or somethin, down at the pub, I dunno. Went around the back, squirted everythin. Whole cage. Them poor birds goin spare. Just lit the match. And whoof! Lucky I didn’t set meself alight. They were like crackers goin off, all those poor birds. Just flames flyin and screamin. Like Catherine wheels, they were. It was fuckin horrible. I wish I’d done his house instead. Wish I never done it.

That was really you?

I used to wonder if they suspected and didn’t let on. Nev and Doris, I mean. Protectin me. Sometimes I wish they hadn’t. Because afterwards I had no fight left. I just put up with it. Not from Bunker. He didn’t dare. But there were other blokes.

Gemma, I had no idea.

Well, I never told, did I?

We should have known. They should have stopped it.

Back then, nobody was lookin the way they look now. Ya mum’n dad, they didn’t see it. And I couldn’t tell em.

Keely thought of the plume of smoke, the fire engine arriving, the almost festive air in the street, and Faith’s pronouncement at dinner that whoever incinerated those poor birds didn’t deserve to live. Were the Buck girls there at the table?

He died, y’know. Years later. Old Bunker. And I reckon he always knew. I went to his funeral for a laugh. I was as pissed as a rat, but it felt great.

She reached for her dress on the floor, fished around for her ruined knickers but cast them aside and stepped into the dress.

Look at you, she said. Buyer’s remorse.

No.

Doesn’t matter. I got what I came for.

Chicken and sage in white wine.

Yeah, she said with a hoarse laugh. Here, zip me up.

You’re only a couple of doors down; it’s dark out there.

Girl’s still got standards.

This evening notwithstanding.

As she presented her back he felt a pang of lust but resisted the urge to pull her to him. He saw that old man with her hair in his fist, pressing up behind her. Keely touched only the zip and stepped back as she turned to survey him in the crooked light.

It’s alright, he said. I’m still safe.

Safe enough. Anyway, it was a oncer. There’s the boy to think of.

Sure.

But it was fun, eh. I always wondered.

Well, I guess now you know.

She smiled and he followed her through to the door, and heard the bars of the walkway still jangling after she was gone.

I
t was there again. The stain. Or a dirty great blotch just like it. Right in front of the slider. Only a step or so from the balcony, on perfectly dry carpet. A ghostly macula at a distance, but close up there was no missing it. The size of a sleeping dog, curled in front of the smudged glass. Smelt of nothing but nasty nylon carpet, though underfoot it was crisp, almost crusty. Shit a brick, he didn’t need this at the beginning of a new week, staggering bright-eyed and bushy-tailed into the frigging Shroud of Turin. And having woken this early and so clearheaded he wasn’t about to squat here all day scratching his head and reading entrails. Rare as rocking-horse turds, these days, feeling halfway to decent, with barely a sick twinge, and he was damned if he’d waste it.

Even though the sheets smelt sweeter this morning, he stripped the bed and bagged them with a couple of other loads he left churning in the laundromat on the ground floor. Walking past the soup kitchens and dosshouses, he considered starting the day at Bub’s where he was safest, where there was less to provoke a flare-up, but he felt sturdy enough to sit out on the Strip and watch the weekday circus stir itself into inaction. He didn’t know if this was confidence or masochism, but he strode along the avenue of coloured brollies and set himself down on the prime corner where the view was good and the coffee decent. He marked his territory with his sunglasses and a Rupert-rag he filched from an abandoned table. He went indoors, as was the local custom, and queued up to order. You had to love it, the way a cafeteria could still pass itself off as an actual café. Well, so be it, he thought. When not in Rome. Et cetera.

Due to the early hour there were only five or six in line ahead of him at the counter and it wasn’t such a long wait by Freo standards. Even at the top of his game, when his social capital was enviable and the glaze of his armour seamless, this procedural ordeal was like being paraded in front of the class, like a perp walk, with the haughty baristas before him and the watchful lurkers at every table behind. Keely focused best he could on the comestibles in their brightly lit cabinets, the delicious oily reek of milled beans. He crabbed his way to the cash register, stood in the receiving line like all the other supplicants, and emerged unmolested with a pretty decent double espresso and a blueberry muffin like a bloated toadstool. His ten-dollar sunglasses were still on the table but the shopsoiled newspaper had been botted by someone else. No matter, it’d served its purpose, which was worth a nod in the great man’s direction. Wherever that was. Now that he was ubiquitous, multinational, omniscient, perhaps even eternal.

The sun was out, the shadows black and deep beneath the awnings. The first suited skateboarders were hurtling by with backpacks and briefcases. Women in pencil skirts and four-inch heels minced their way towards the train station. Keely settled in, nursing his mood as much as the coffee, in order to watch and marvel.

He felt a rare and comradely magnanimity as locals arrived to stretch their yogic limbs and kick off their Berserkenstocks.

Here and there, once his eyes adjusted, he recognized the odd face: a chanteuse fiddling with her manky dreads, a couple of Labor Party grifters, the retired QC and his jaunty little mutt. Across the street at safe distance, a Greens claque conferred behind a stockade of bicycles and to his relief followed their daffy MP into the juice joint in the alley beyond. All around him dogged Aquarians discussed positive energy, bodywork, and the Real Causes of Cancer, and it was nothing to him, water off a duck’s proverbial. Close by, right at his elbow, a spidery Amazon with a shock of henna began to shout into her phone about social evolution and personal transformation. She’d moved on from revolution, she said, but she still believed passionately in radical change. She was rather fetching in her saffron tanktop. Perhaps she mistook his indulgent grin for something untoward, for she snatched up her towering soy latte and stalked off to another table, sallying on without a comma.

By nine almost anyone who did anything productive in this burg had cast off their lines and steamed out to sea or hustled to the station for the express to Dullsville. Which left quite a crew of idlers like himself who seemed to have nowhere to be and nothing to produce. He wondered how many trust funds kept the bustling Strip in business, how much could be attributed to middle-class welfare. The moment he thought it he began to feel his serenity give way to pangs of unfocused guilt and anxiety. The entire scene was a festival of procrastination. And it was amazing how snugly he fitted.

He couldn’t help but think of all the charity kitchens only a few blocks away, the underclass gathered alfresco for a sandwich and an industrial brew. Invalid pensioners, denizens of the dosshouses, park sleepers, wharf rats, outpatients of the failing mental health service. At this rate he’d be joining their number soon enough. He guessed rough-sleepers and drunks had their own resolutions and rituals of deferral. Street shouters were armed with excuses; he’d heard their litanies of grievance and misunderstanding. He’d slot in handsomely. If only he wasn’t so soft. The moment would surely come. And then he’d hit the final barrier, the stubborn middle-class conviction that his was a special case. When really he was just a creepy fuckwit poncing through town full of peace and love because he’d got his rocks off. A tipsy grandma desperate for a root had hauled him into bed and given him a blowsy seeing-to. His triumphal glow was pathetic. And that was nothing when you thought of the aftermath. Her confession. To which he’d listened distractedly, still pawing her, like a grimy priest who couldn’t distinguish her needs from his own. He disgusted himself. In an instant he felt oblivion stalking, crackling, flashing behind his eyes, and he welcomed it, deserved it.

His glass shattered on the pavement. The saucer wheeled inwoozy arcs at the feet of startled loungers. One arm flapped independent of him and as he stood and fled he clawed it into submission with the other, breaking into a shambling run through a wilderness of spots and sparks.