Inconsolable (19 page)

“Okay.” He didn't know what he was supposed to do with that.

“You could loosen up. You're cold. I'm warm. If you put your arm around me, we'd both be more comfortable.”

“That's not—”

“Not what friends do? Seriously, Drum. Grow a brain.”

She turned back to the screen, crossing her legs and hunching forward.
Shit
. On screen Max Rockatansky was about to enter the Thunderdome. Tina Turner's Aunty Entity was laying down the law.

He leaned a little towards her and kept his voice low, though they were well back from the crowd and it wasn't a silent one. “Are we having a fight?”

She shifted a little further away. “We'd have to mean something to each other for it to be a fight.”

That was that then. He looked out across the sea of bodies sprawled in the sand, on towels, on picnic rugs, on each other. He moved so he was behind her, put his legs either side of her hips and leaned forward so his chest grazed against her back. She was warm. She was also still pissed off. He put a hand to her shoulders to ease her against him and got a gruff, “That's better.”

It took most of the
Thunderdome
battle for her to soften and relax into him. It took all of his willpower not to force more of his touch on her. His thighs, his hips, his chest, all had contact with her. He braced his hands behind him so he could take her lush weight, so he could contain the want to wrap himself around her, bury his face in her neck and fill his nose with the scent of her.

She fell asleep during
Fury Road
. She curled sideways, bringing her knees around, tucking her face into his chest. He froze, her breath on his neck, the blood long gone from his hands, the pins and needles were a memory and they were lumps of flesh and gristle. He had to move so he brought his arms around her, rested them across her waist and hip. That adjustment must've woken her, but she was content to snuggle and he was at a loss what else to do other than wake her and go home, and to his own unease he didn't want that. He wanted this, Foley in his arms, in his life.

This was the tenth day in a row he'd spent time with her. This was the first time he'd willingly, deliberately, touched her with intent, since their handshakes, since helping her over rocks, or to her feet from the sand, since he'd let her pound his chest with her stinging fists for scaring her.

It was dark, no one could see them. Anyone who could didn't care. He wrapped his arms around her and held her fast.

This was the tenth day he'd stood on the cliff edge and hadn't needed its power to remind him not to jump.

17: Juggling Chainsaw

He'd insisted on paying his own bus fare and now Drum was emptying his pockets into the upturned cap of the man begging outside Town Hall train station.

Foley had lost him in the Saturday night crowd, only realising she'd crossed the road alone when she pointed out a busker on a unicycle juggling machetes and the person beside her who said, “Rad,” wasn't Drum.

She went back the way she'd come, crossed the road again. Drum was on his haunches talking to the older man. As she approached, they both stood and shook hands and Drum tipped his chin at her in a way that indicated he knew she was waiting.

She flushed with embarrassment. She'd seen the man, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, a nuisance, a hazard. She'd ploughed straight past him without a thought as to why he was there, other than a vague concern about stepping on his hat.

She went for her wallet, tipped change and two five dollar notes into her hand and bent to put them in the man's hat. Was it enough, too much? It was guilt rather than any specific currency. It was a busy corner and people had to dodge around her, a woman saying loudly, “Watch out,” another person's shopping bag slapping against her legs.

When she straightened up, it was to be swamped by a crowd of people streaming up from the train station. She pulled her arms in tight and tucked her head down as the mass of people split, going either side of her.

A strong arm circled her waist from behind and eased her out of the way. Drum pulled her against the glass window of a shopfront, keeping his body between her and the crowd. She was inexplicably annoyed with him and ducked under the arm he had resting on the window to stand beside him.

“I was fine.”

He turned to face the street like she was doing and put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. They were loose all over on him and not long enough to fall over the front of his beaten-up runners, showing his bare ankles. A worse fit would be hard to imagine. But he wouldn't let her buy him a cheap pair the right size and he was still weird with her, still needed an excuse to touch her and then when he did, he was so intense with it, he made her feel all kinds of inappropriate things that were better than chilli chocolate.

“What made you give him money?”

Drum frowned. “What made you?”

“You.” Foley grunted her annoyance. She was angry with Drum because he'd given all his coin away, which meant he'd insist on walking back to the beach instead of taking the bus, and if she wanted to eat, she'd be doing it alone, because now even McDonald's was out of his budget.

“There are things you need, like a warm coat, a wool jumper, pants that fit properly, and you won't let me help and you gave away your bus fare.”

“He'll eat tonight.”

“And you won't because you won't let me shout you a lousy burger.”

“Are you angry with me or yourself?”

With herself because Drum had shown compassion when she'd been blind, and consideration when she'd felt nothing, and she knew so much better than that, but that was hard to admit and what boiled in her belly was shame.

“With you. Because you'll help a random homeless man before you'll help yourself. It makes no sense.”

“Ah, Foley.” Drum dropped his head. “I am a random homeless man.” He looked up and into her face. “You need to stop expecting me to be something else.”

She opened her mouth to protest and the crowd around the busker erupted into whistles and applause. She glanced across. He'd switched from machetes to chainsaws, the noise of the engines revving distinct amongst the sounds of traffic and people. She knew the chainsaws would have a cut-off switch, that there was no way the busker would lose a hand or a leg to their teeth because she'd signed permits for performers like this, but most of the audience wouldn't stop to rationalise it and the threat was a wild thrill.

The performer was smarter than she was and Drum was right. She did expect him to be different because he was different to the other homeless man who, even from a distance, smelled of alcohol and days without washing.

“Why is it wrong for me to want better for you?”

She'd read up on the mental illnesses homeless people tended to have; post-traumatic stress syndrome, obsessive compulsive disorder, alcoholism, addiction. She'd known Drum long enough to know he wasn't a substance abuser, but he was obsessed about the cave and the rules for living hard that he'd created for himself.

She'd talked to a therapist at one of the local outreach centres. Drum might have an adjustment or depressive disorder, except that he didn't show the most obvious symptoms of depression. He was obstinate but not withdrawn, he had no trouble making decisions and he looked after his health.

He rejected small changes; warmer clothing and simple expenditures she was happy to share with him, she'd stopped mentioning the bigger ticket items. He was her friend and he lived in a cave because that's what he wanted to do, because some mental imbalance, or personality disorder compelled him to, but it didn't stop her wanting him to be different, to be a guy whose clothing fitted, who didn't alternatively flinch or hold on too tight if they touched, who was relaxed enough to let her buy him a simple meal.

In her heart she ached for him to be just that much more ordinary; to be a guy who talked on the phone, and sent text messages, posted his sunsets to social media and fell asleep on her sofa watching TV. Maybe he was addicted to games, maybe he never helped with the washing up, or changed the toilet roll, maybe he snored, but in all these things he'd be familiar, relatable.

He reached for her hand and she gave it. His eyes swept her face with a look that made it hard to swallow. It wasn't how friends looked at each other. There was nothing casual about it. It was the I juggle chainsaws for a living version of a look—dangerous, mesmerising, remarkable. Rad. And every time it happened it was more confusing. And it was happening more and more. His eye contact, initially fully fuelled by avoidance, grazed right on through glancing attention and shy awareness and was now gorging on acutely significant.

He looked at her with such feeling, such desire, that she stopped caring about his clothes, his address, his reticence to be seen with her in public, and had to be reminded he was a most unusual friend.

He squeezed her hand. “I guess my flaky male pride can handle you shouting me a Big Mac.”

It might've been raining chainsaws that was so surprising.

He laughed. “Don't make a thing of it.”

“Me?” She squeaked that, which was making a thing of it, but it was a first among other firsts and as delightful as his laughter.

This whole expedition was another first. Until tonight he'd steadfastly avoided going anywhere off the beaches where they could be seen together. He'd told her straight up, it was no good for her, and they'd argued. Foley had accused him of putting conditions on their friendship and instead of angering him, spurring him to denial, he'd laughed, then promptly agreed to come with her into the city to watch how the city council staged a street dance festival as part of Youth Week.

And now he was agreeing to let her feed him. It was irresistible. “You want fries with that?”

He yanked her hand as he stepped away from the shop window, hauling her in his wake, but she knew he was laughing. And in McDonald's he accepted one of their dinner meals, which included up-sized everything, without making a thing of it. It went some way towards soothing the self-loathing about her reaction to the homeless man, and her discomfort with Drum's choices—but not all the way.

She stole one of his fries. “You're not the same as that man and you know it.”

He chewed, swallowed and shook his head. “In the detail, no. He's older, he's an alcoholic, but in all the ways that matter, we're the same.”

They ate in silence. The restaurant was full: families with kids, a bunch of teens with ‘80s hair wearing fluoro colours, there were two bike cops in their tight jodhpurs and leather jackets at the counter, a guy in a hard hat, and a couple in formal wear in the queue. In his op shop clothes Drum was unremarkable, but she couldn't accept his argument.

“I looked at that man and saw misery. I walked past him because I didn't want to have to deal with that. It's too hard. I'm too weak.” She shrugged. It was complicated; shame, guilt, resentment all bound in together. “My money won't help him enough to make a difference and yet he makes me feel responsible. He has no future without help. I look at you and see this incredible, intelligent man, who needs a haircut and some decent clothes, who needs help to—”

“Be normal.” He said it like it was a prison sentence. You are sentenced to normal for the term of your natural life, no chance of release. She knew that because that's how she'd thought of it; normal, ordinary, deadly.

“What's wrong with normal?” She couldn't believe she was saying that. Felt the hypocrisy of it curling her toes.

“I'll never be normal, Foley. Aside from the fact it's a concept without real meaning, what is normal anyway?” He angled his head at the punk kids. “Isn't it just the current fashion? You want me to be like everyone else: a suit, a job, a mortgage, prospects.”

“Would that be so terrible; warmth, comfort, enough food, walls?” A life more ordinary, one where they might fit together as more than conditional friends.

“I had those things once but,” he shook his head, “I'm on the other side now.”

She didn't understand his rigid definitions of what he could and couldn't have, the line he appeared to have crossed and the penalty he'd designed for himself to pay.

She ached to ask about his life before the cave but she knew he'd shut down. Instead she said, “How about a phone so I can contact you?”

He flipped the hand he had lying on the table over and she put hers into it. Friends touched this way, it was just hand-holding and it was fresh and new tonight and she liked it.

“Are you going to live in a cave for the rest of your life?”

He frowned. “Let's go see this event, Foley.”

“Quack.”

He opened his fingers and released her hand. “I'm not ducking.”

“Quack, quack.”

He folded his arms. “We're going to do this now? Argue about my future in Maccas on a Saturday night while the Village People and
The Breakfast Club
look on.”

She mirrored his posture. “Just for that quip, yes we are.”

“Why do I need a phone?”

“Because that's what friends do, they phone each other, they text. They don't meet at the third beach pavilion on the right.”

He almost smiled, but he must've figured she wasn't joking. “Casual. That's what you said. If I see you, I see you.”

“That's what I said. And you said nothing at all, but you've spent time with me all the same. And that was six weeks ago.”

“Are you saying casual has a time limit?”

She grimaced because hell yes, they'd moved on, they were in the city, they were holding hands, he'd let her buy him a meal, empty calories though they might be. She'd spent almost all of her leisure time with him and when she wasn't with him, she was wondering about him.

This was more than casual and the way he looked at her, the way his body reacted when she was near, none of that was casual. It was duelling chainsaws, it was leaf blowers breaking the peace of Sunday morning, and whatever Drum thought of his future, Foley would fight for it never to be begging outside a train station.