Inconsolable (37 page)

They made a good team, a remarkable one, until the day Drum needed Alan to be more father than chairman and Alan didn't have a model for what to do when his son was an experiment gone wrong.

But instead of staying, getting a new set of rules, he'd run and he was running still and the rhythm was shame, guilt, disgrace, resentment.

He exercised, swam, read whatever he could get his hands on cheaply. He couldn't collect his thoughts or still his mind enough to meditate. In the second month at Mollymook Beach, he got work at the surf club, cleaning up after their Friday and Saturday night socials. It wasn't enough, but it was a start.

Then he met Jayden making off with his sleeping bag, and Melissa, making Jayden apologise.

She was a washed-out bottle blonde, with a rocking body and cunning eyes, mother of three to three different men, none of whom stuck around. He'd had a word to Jayden about respecting people's property and next thing he was getting invitations to dinner. He took the occasional one, mostly to keep the fear factor up in Jayden, but also because he was hungry and for the first time since he'd left his life behind, left Foley, he was pathetically lonely.

Melissa was full of conversation but he answered her with odd jobs her landlord was too stingy to do: patched a leak in the roof, propped the front fence up, changed washers in taps and unblocked the sink. And he ate her food. He did nothing to encourage her affection, but when she started touching him, a hand to his shoulder or his thigh, he knew he had trouble. There was a bed he could move in to, a willing body. More than that, there was a family. He backed off. Melissa managed before he came along, she'd manage again with better plumbing.

She was waiting for him at the tent, on a day the flathead were running and he'd made a solid catch. He knew he'd be smart to pack up and move on the moment he saw her sitting in the wobbly garden chair he'd pilfered from the caravan park.

“Don't you love us anymore?”

Her shorts were cut-offs, hacked crotch grazing short. It wasn't that warm yet, so they'd been worn for him, with the skimpy pale pink singlet that didn't cover much. No bra and at a guess there was nothing under the shorts. She had a jewel in her belly, but nothing about Melissa reminded him of Foley.
Don't think about Foley
.
Colleen Adderton, Harold Ameden, Swen Aslog.

“I'll scale a couple of these for you.”

“I don't want the silly fish.”

He put the bucket and rod down. “What are you doing here?”

“You haven't been coming around.” She stood and ambled across to him. He had nowhere to go to get away from her without going back to the beach. He was on the run, even in this encounter. “I thought you might want your privacy.”

She had that right, but this smelled worse than the fish.

“Let me treat you good, Drum, honey.”

Shit
. “Go home. Don't come here again.”

“Oh, don't be like that. We could have some fun, good sexy adult fun. Do you have condoms?” She patted her back pocket. “I brought some in case.”

He picked up the bucket and held it between them. “Have I given you any reason to think I want to fuck you?” He'd rather fuck the flathead, if that was possible.

She blinked at him in shock. “You don't want me?”

“Yeah, surprising as that might be, I don't want you.”

She gasped. “Are you gay?”

A straight yes would get him out of this.

She squinted at him. “You're not gay. I've seen you look at me, I know that look. I know you want me. I don't care if you're bi. I'm up for anything.”

He looked at her because he was angry and lonely and it would be so easy to use her to block all that out for a while.

“Go home, Melissa. I'm never going to fuck you.”

“Jesus, what's wrong with you.”

He laughed. This was funny. She didn't get rejected. He knew of two other men she'd been sleeping with, and he was living in a tent on the fringe of town and she didn't think to question there might be something not quite right with him, something she should shelter her kids from. He disliked her immensely at this moment and he despised himself. He knew better than to get involved. He knew more about Melissa and her boys than he'd ever known about Scully, Blue, Noddy or Clint.

“You're laughing at me, you bastard.”

“Go home, Melissa. I'm not a guy you want to get involved with. And while I'm on the subject, those other two losers you're boning, they're no good for you either.”

“If you want to be exclusive you only needed to ask. I'll drop Craig and Bret for you.”

“Oh shit. Listen to me. Craig is married and Bret is a douchebag. Don't go passing out favours to guys like that.”

Her hands went to her cocked hips like she was arming herself. Ready. Aim. “I like to fuck, is that a problem for you?”

He frowned. Was that how he was coming across, like some judgemental, sanctimonious prick? Fuck this. He dropped the bucket. He put his hand to Melissa's head and kissed her. She went instant cling wrap and stuck herself to him. He let the kiss go deeper and willed it to grant him any kind of forgetfulness he could live with. She moaned and he cut the contact. He felt nothing for her except sympathy.

“You're so hot. Fuck me hard, Drum.” She said that like she'd rehearsed it. There wasn't a real emotion in it, other than desperation.

He put both hands on her shoulders and held her away. “You've never even asked my proper name.”

“You're a private guy. I get that.”

“I don't want to sleep with you. I don't want to be part of your family.”

She folded her lips into her mouth. She was trying to choose a reaction. She could be insulted and call him every foul name there was, she could throw herself at him, or she could make him wish he was back in the cave. Given he'd never stopped wanting that, it wasn't much of a contest.

She put her hands over her face and cried.

Oh shit
. Crying, he'd made her cry. And now he thought about Foley and wondered how much, how long he'd made her cry leaving her like that, so fucking cold and brutal
. Colleen Adderton, Harold Ameden, Swen Aslog.

He got Melissa to sit. He got her to talk.

“I don't know what to do. This is too hard. I knew you didn't want me. You'd have been in my bed that first night I cooked for you. That's what they're all like. I thought you were different. You were worth it. My boys need a father figure or they're going to end up dead or in jail. I need work and there isn't any. All I have is my body. I'm just trying to get by and it's not good enough.”

He'd learned everything he could about the three hundred and eighty-seven, but he'd done nothing to help their families; the law, the board prevented him from creating that kind of liability.

He'd hung around with other homeless and kept himself ignorant of their circumstances. He didn't know why Clint slept rough and couldn't get enough to eat. He hadn't wanted to get involved, to care. He'd been so focused on not doing anything to cause anyone any harm, shutting himself away, making himself Foley's hermit squatter, he'd ignored his personal capacity to do good.

He could change Melissa's life for the better in an instant. All he needed to do was hang around, support her, nudge the boys in a better direction. He could hardly do a worse job than Alan. He could be like Benny. That was a worthy thing to do, and it was better than running.

He sat on the grass at Melissa's feet and when she touched his shoulder he let her. “We could barbeque the fish,” she said. “I'll make potato salad. The boys will love it.”

He was agreeing to more than dinner.

They barbequed at the beach and she talked about saving to move to a bigger town where there was a better chance to get work and more for the boys to do. When it came time to go home, she looked at him with such hope and expectation it was difficult to say no to her hot coffee and her warm bed, but he needed to sit with this decision, to work out what his new rules would be. He went back to the tent.

Sometime in the night while he slept, she came to him, softly creeping, invading his space. She didn't speak, but she touched him, and before he could protest she was kissing him and fuck, fuck, he was kissing her back and he wanted her, missed her like she was thought and reason. And she wanted him too, like he'd never rejected her. He wouldn't run anymore. He would do something good. He would stay, stay and make her believe he loved her.

She touched him all over, hands in his hair, on his face, firmly stroking his dick, and he let her have her way, let her tongue lick and teeth nip. She was hot and naked and so was he and she felt so wet he knew this would be quick. He could smell her soap and shampoo and there was wine on her lips. Without opening his eyes he could see her, the swell of her hips as she straddled him, the tip of a breast, a glint in moonlight. He put his tongue to it, tugged it with his teeth and felt the hard metal in the soft, tight point.

He woke with a start, alone, disoriented from the dream. He thought he'd heard someone sobbing. The after-effect of his vision was sticky on his belly. And if there was crying it was his own.

Colleen Adderton, Harold Ameden, Swen Aslog.

He left the tent. It was too clunky to carry, too hard to disassemble in the dark. He left Melissa an envelope of money. It wouldn't solve her problems but it would help her relocate, rent her a nice house for a few years, give her a new start.

He got on a train, he'd go further up the line. Like Melissa, he needed a bigger town that was easier to get lost in.

The carriage was empty until a seniors group got on. Mostly women, a school of grey hair, sensible shoes and glasses. He was surrounded. They had hot drinks in thermoses and sandwiches and fruitcake in plastic containers. One of them offered him an Anzac biscuit and it was still warm from the oven. His quiet was gone but it was amusing to listen in. They were full of chatter. Mostly it was grandkids, bad hips and dodgy knees. Occasionally some scandal or worries about the super running out. He could hear the two directly in front of him best.

“Bill had another affair you know, at his age, and Ellen took him back.”

“Why did she do that? Was it the money thing, too hard to separate?”

“She says she loves him.”

There was a pause, appropriately weighty for the proclamation then, “It's humiliating. I can't imagine.”

“You don't, you know, with Carl?”

“Oh, he's all right, but he's not out there pretending he's thirty either.”

Drum held his book up higher so if they should turn and see him smiling he'd have a cover.

“Ellen doesn't care. And now Bill has dementia and she's so worried about him. Says she's part nurse, part wild animal keeper.”

“Terrible thing. I can't imagine.”

“She wasn't sleeping at all, always had a cold, but I put her onto that pill, you know Circulon.”

He almost dropped the book.

“That's a frypan.”

“Is it? Well, it's called something like that.”

He gripped the bottom of the seat. He wanted to leave but the man sitting next to him was big and awkward with a walking prong held between his knees and he was pinned in against the window.

“Anyway it's marvellous. I've used it, Derrick has. They prescribed it for Lisbeth when she was so stressed about her exams. You're sure it's not called Circulon?”

Circa.
God
. There was nothing else it could be. He wanted to leap the seat and tell them to stop, it was dangerous; they shouldn't use it, ever.

“Sounds like one of those Transformer toys that goes from a frypan to a flying saucer. Eric would like one of those to go with his Optimus Prime.”

Drum's knees wouldn't work. He opened his mouth to shout at them.

“Are you okay, son?” The man beside him looked at him with concern.

From in front. “Circa, that's what it's called. Circa. Ellen says it saved her life.”

He was breathing too hard, too much lavender fabric softener and baked goods, he was choking.

“Son, are you all right there? Anyone got any water?”

A new voice said, “It is called Circa. It is excellent. Nothing worse than not being able to sleep. Fixes you right up, it does.”

The man put a disposable plastic cup in his hand. “Drink that, make you feel better.”

He lifted the cup to his mouth and another voice from across the aisle said, “Yes. I've used it too. After my hip replacement when I was all over the place, not sleeping then frightened of falling again. It really helped. My daughter uses it when she's travelling to get over the jet lag quicker.”

He gulped the water.

“You look like you've seen a ghost, son. You should take it easy.”

He'd seen three hundred and eighty-seven ghosts and they'd given him tunnel vision, but what he was hearing was that half the carriage had used Circa and benefited from it. He was trapped in a live focus group and there was no way to unhear what was being said, to unsee the evidence of Circa's proficiency.

He'd heard it all before, of course. He'd ordered study after study looking for answers. Why did it help some people and lead others to their death? How was that acceptable?

“Son, son. Do you need help? I'm a doctor, retired, but tell me what's wrong. I can help you.”

He looked at the man. “That pill they're talking about, it kills people.”

The two women in front swivelled their heads around to look at him. “Is he talking about the sleeping pill, George?” one said.

“Are you talking about Circa, son? He's right, some people have had bad experiences,” said George.

Drum crushed the plastic cup in his hand. “They didn't have bad experiences, they died.”

“George?”

“Yes, that's true, but before you go crazy, Helen, those people might've taken a wrong dose or combined it with other meds. The drug is safe. I was prescribing it before I sold the practice and I know the new doc prescribes it too. Never saw any problems.”