The Evil Inside (4 page)

‘Oh,' he sounded unconvinced. ‘I still miss her.'

‘We all do. Now cuddle Buzz and go to sleep.'

I really didn't want to be reminded of Bubby. Bubby's sad, short life had had a terrible impact on all of us, but particularly Mia.

As I switched off his Noddy lamp, Mia was standing in the doorway. I smiled but she didn't smile back. She stared at me through the half-light like one of the Dakota gargoyles. It was as though she could read my mind. Mia didn't want to forget Bubby any more than Callum did. She couldn't forget. How could she? I was the monster trying to erase her pitiful little memory from the family archives. Mia brushed past me, kissed Callum on the forehead and climbed silently into the other bed, fully clothed.

I went to bed myself soon after. Even though I hadn't done any actual work yet, the first day on the job had been as enervating as it was exciting. Mia was already exhaling deeply beside me as I dozed off into a recent happy memory.

The three of us – four including the baby – were lying on our bed back home in Melbourne as Sunday afternoon rain serenaded us through the window. Callum had drawn a big smiley face on Mia's bare bulging belly with a black Texta colour. As we succumbed to the natural lullaby outside, I had the feeling that we were on a lovely soft raft. Drifting together on a huge, gentle and kindly ocean.

*

Part of Brave Face's new business-building strategy was to offer advertising as well as their usual PR staple to the ever-expanding roster of FMCGs, utilities, government departments and dotcoms they wanted to snare. And that's what I did: advertising; peddling powders to the great unwashed; feeding the piranhas.

After studying Anthony's ‘Clients We'd Love to Work With' list, I surmised there were about eight companies that could benefit immediately from running targeted B2B or consumer campaigns – mostly dotcoms based in the giddy gold rush of Silicon Valley, as well as a couple in New York's own ‘Silicon Alley'. One of the reasons Anthony had hired me over a local recruit was because he suspected a direct, no-bullshit Aussie approach might be enthusiastically received, especially by the fast-moving new Internet companies he now wanted to target. (The other reason, of course, was that he was a good guy who wanted to help give a buddy a fresh start.)

I ran the names by him. Based on his broad knowledge of the dotcom sphere, he scratched out a couple of my suggestions and added three new ones that hadn't made his master list yet.

‘There you go, Girly,' he said one evening in my office as the sun kissed the Chrysler Building goodnight. ‘Nine companies, nine new business pitches. That should keep you out of trouble for, what, how long?'

Anthony often called me Girly – as in ‘Guy/Girl'.

‘Just strategic and creative first thoughts? Or fleshed-out spec campaigns?'

‘Say spec campaigns for the most promising half and strategic outlines for the rest – I'll tell you which ones.'

‘Give me a week to organize an art director. After that, maybe a presentation every fortnight?'

‘Good – you're busy for the rest of the year, then,' he grinned. ‘So I reckon you'll be looking forward to a summer break with us out at North Fuck in July?'

‘North what?'

‘Sorry,' Anthony laughed. ‘That's what Susanna and I call our holiday shack out on North Fork, Long Island. Getting away from the Big Bad Apple can do wonders for your sex life.'

‘Really? What about
Sex in the City
?'

‘Nah, that's just a TV show for women who orgasm over their shoes.'

North Fuck in July
: it sounded good somehow.

‘You're on. I'll bring the massage oil and the Barry White CDs.'

I soon developed a productive and enjoyable routine: in the mornings, I researched the clients we were planning to pitch to; in the afternoons, I interviewed art directors. At lunchtimes, I tried to get out of the office and explore the neighbourhood. After all, with Times Square just a block behind us, I was virtually at the centre of the universe as we know it. Sometimes I'd check out the CDs at the Virgin Megastore. Or wander down and see what films were playing at Loews.

Mia, meanwhile, busied herself with apartment hunting. Anthony had agreed that Brave Face would cover our hotel bill for the first six weeks – after that we were on our own. Fortunately Susanna Johnson had kindly offered to help Mia get her real estate bearings. Susanna's first-hand knowledge of the local market – she and Anthony had survived three Manhattan address changes in eight years – as well as her landlord-lacerating tongue, were sure to save us a lot of time and money.

As well as organising a splendid welcome dinner for us at the Four Seasons, Susanna also introduced us to a nanny for Callum called Esmeralda. A doe-eyed Mexican woman in her early thirties, Esmeralda had previously been nanny to Anthony and Susanna's seven-year-old daughter, Courtney, for a short time before Courtney had gone to school.

Until we could get Callum booked into a suitable day-care centre, Esmeralda would be an excellent, if expensive, solution.

Things were starting to look up – we were slowly becoming happy again.

‘Are you interested in taking the kids out to Coney Island tomorrow?' Mia asked, with one of her ‘this is more of an instruction than a request' looks. After only three weeks at Brave Face, I was already falling behind in my familial duties.

‘You haven't seen much of Callum lately – and I know it's because you've been so busy at work – but I told him there was a beach there that had lots of merry-go-rounds and ice creams and stuff, so he's obviously pretty keen.'

I sipped my Folgers. ‘Kid-
s
?' I emphasized the plural.

‘Susanna had organized a play-date for Courtney and Callum tomorrow anyway, so I thought maybe she'd like to go, too.'

‘While you and her mother go and play in Park Avenue?'

‘That's the evil plan, Bucko.'

I nodded and took her hand. I was glad that Mia had a new girlfriend to hang out with. It would do her good to get out and have a coffee or a drink and a few laughs. With someone who wasn't me.

*

The clickety-clack soundtrack out to the Atlantic dropped me into a meditative mood: the decrepit warehouses and graffitied bridges flickering by like a visual Valium.

Courtney had Callum in stitches with her repertoire of face-pulling, off-colour jokes and Little Miss Madonna dance routines. She was a born performer, that girl: a formidable combination of Susanna's street smarts and Anthony's endless reserves of energy. I had no doubt she'd be lacerating landlords of her own one day.

‘My dad's a rider at your dad's work – so he can ride on the go-merry-round, too!' Callum cried as he jumped across the aisle into my arms.

‘What's a “go-merry-round”?' Courtney asked, pulling a ‘that does not compute' face.

‘A carousel,' I explained. ‘You know, with horses and music and stuff.'

‘Oh. Anyway, your dad's a
writer
not a rider, Dumbo – isn't that right, Guy?'

‘Yes that's true, Courtney. But please don't call Callum “Dumbo” – he's only three, remember. And yes, I would like a ride on the “go-merry-round” with you two.'

The crisp bite of the ocean air and cement sky meant the fun parks were virtually empty. That didn't seem to bother the kids though – it meant they had the run of all the rides and didn't have to line up.

Hiding behind pink bouquets of cotton candy, they looked up at a scary-looking ghost train ride called Dante's Inferno. Purple cerberuses snarled down at us from opposing towers as a werewolf mugged out of one window and skeleton warriors rattled chains in another. The centrepiece was a large, grotesque devil holding down a terrified human victim whose head merged with the huge lolling tongue of a bug-eyed, upside-down African witch doctor.

Dante's ride was no merry-go-round. But I let Courtney go on the skyscraping Wonder Wheel and the slightly less scary-looking Spook-a-rama while I hugged Callum close to me on the Roger Rocket and the Mini Train.

For lunch, we hit the Boardwalk. The kids devoured hot dogs and slurped ice creams –
was the island named after ice cream cones
? Courtney wondered – while I went local with a plate of Atlantic clams washed down with Brooklyn Lager.

We picked up the leftover shells and took turns frisbeeing them out to the gulls. Further out, a long, skeletal black bird perched on a blue buoy, watching our game like a crabby old school ma'am.

‘Dad, can we rewind the world?' Callum asked on the train ride home.

He'd come up with his ‘rewind the world' concept one day back in Melbourne after rewinding his
Toy Story
video back to his favourite scene. He'd wanted to know: if you can rewind a video, why not life itself?

‘Why do you want to?' I asked.

‘Cos this is one of the best days ever, isn't it?' he beamed through his ice cream beard.

‘Why is that, Son?'

‘Cos it's just you and me!' He turned to Courtney as an afterthought. ‘And her, too!'

‘Gee thanks, Callum,' Courtney deadpanned. ‘You're like my best friend, as well – not!'

He pushed the concept further. ‘And if we could rewind the world then Bubby could come back and then Mummy would be happy again, wouldn't she?'

‘Who's Bubby?' Courtney smirked. ‘Your imaginary friend?'

‘That's enough, Courtney.' My voice suddenly had an edge to it so Courtney looked out the window and started whistling. Callum had started mentioning Bubby a bit more frequently over the last couple of weeks and I was starting to find this somewhat disquieting.

I put my arm round him. ‘Unfortunately we can't rewind the world, Son. But don't worry: I'm sure Mummy will start feeling happy again soon. Especially now we've come to such an exciting new place to live.'

But it was indeed good to be spending some quality father/son time together. ‘Maybe we could just “pause” the world instead,' I suggested. ‘And stay on this day for ever.'

*

It was the Monday morning of my fourth week in the saddle.

I'd already seen two or three art directors, but I was enjoying this interview much more than the previous ones. Maybe it was the cheeky twinkle in this guy's eye as much as the work itself.

‘So, where have you been working lately?'

He scratched his dark, shiny head. ‘Ahhhh lemme see … BBDO – where I did some nice stuff on Snickers and M&Ms … Y&R, Kirshenbaum & Bond … And a few of my own small but handy clients, heh heh heh.'

His credentials were impressive. His folio was kick-arse. His name was Bill West.

I closed the last page: a Clio Award-winning magazine ad for Folgers Coffee. ‘Look, here's the deal,' I said, outlining the arrangement that Anthony and I had cooked up. ‘650 bucks a day. And then if we win some business – and you and I get on OK – you can join us full time as the business grows. Interested?'

‘Sure,' Bill zipped up his big black bag and handed me his business card. It featured a small cartoon of himself wearing a ten-gallon hat, holding a marker like a six-shooter with the words W
ILD
B
ILL
W
EST
. S
MOKIN
'
ART DIRECTION
underneath.

‘When can you start?'

‘How about right now?'

We would spend the rest of the week road-testing each other's brains. My already smallish office became even smaller after Bill moved in and started spreading all his photography books, layout pads, marker sets, and what I would come to call his general ‘Billshit', over every possible surface.

One of the most likely prospects on Anthony's list was a hot new webcam company called coolcams.com. And so he had assigned a gung-ho young account supervisor (although her business card said ‘Vice President Client Services') to work on the project with Bill and me.

At her last agency, Lucy Tate had worked on the highcams.com account – a leader in the fast-emerging webcam category. A blonde, hazel-eyed, early-thirties go-getter from Preston Hollow, Texas, Lucy answered all of our stupid and ignorant questions with alacrity, insight and imagination. In fact, she quickly demonstrated considerably more intellectual depth than many of the ‘suits' I'd worked with in the past, having graduated summa cum laude in International Affairs at Georgetown University. Her mentor there had obviously inspired her: after a solid grounding in PR and marketing, Lucy told me she was planning on entering the diplomatic corps.

And though she wasn't attractive in that prissy, thoroughbred Upper East Side way like some of the other women in the office, her impressive intellect and southern sassiness gave her a unique appeal; while the freckles on her nose and plump, dimpled cheeks added the earthy allure of a naughty farmer's daughter.

She ran on Diet Coke and adrenalin. And the rumour round the office, though surely it couldn't have been true, was that she'd been dating JFK Junior just before his plane went down the year before.

It was the end of the week, and Lucy – and Anthony – loved the work.

In just a few short days, Bill and I had developed a complete, integrated campaign for coolcams: print ads, posters, direct marketing, internet and guerrilla (or ‘under the radar') ideas. We even threw in a TV concept which we knew the client's limited budget probably wouldn't stretch to but, hey, we were out to impress.

‘I think those drugs you boys have been taking have really kicked in.' Lucy laid her soft hand gently on my back and thrummed her fingers.

Her lingering digits made my balls tingle. Then she rubbed Bill's smooth pate, making him moan with exaggerated orgasmic pleasure.

‘Just keep those time sheets up to date, Billy Boy, and I'll rub your head whenever you want.'

*

To celebrate the positive in-house reaction to our coolcams work, I junked my usual lap of Times Square and invited Mia to have Friday lunch with me instead.

Esmeralda had asked for the morning off, so Mia had booked Callum into a local playgroup on Broadway for a couple of hours; proper childcare would have to wait till we knew where we were going to be living after the Olcott.

It was a sunny day, so we arranged to meet at Bryant Park. A Harlem gospel choir was up on a makeshift stage, keen to remind us that
Jesus was a working man, too.

Mia handed me my brown bag and we sat and ate and listened to the angelic voices.

‘How was Callum when you dropped him off?' I finally asked, tossing the crust of my sandwich to a pigeon that cooed politely for it.

Mia wiped her mouth with a napkin. ‘A bit clingy initially. But when he saw the big slide and all the other kids up to their elbows in Play-Doh, he was fine. The woman running the place just scooped him up and sat him down at a table with some Puerto Rican boys. He was as happy as Larry.'

A young mother with a ponytail, track pants and a Kathmandu coat was wheeling a pram towards us. She was looking down into it, making the usual silly Mummy faces and gurgling noises.

Mia frowned at her a little.

The woman parked at our bench and lifted out her heavily swaddled, pink-cheeked baby. ‘Do you mind if I feed her?' she smiled.

‘Not at all,' I replied.

Mia said nothing.

The mother unzipped her jacket, unbuttoned her shirt and the cup of her bra and pushed the hungry baby's mouth to her fat red nipple. Then she turned to watch the stage.

The Lord saves us all
, the choir promised.

The pigeon fluttered up onto the table and pecked at my bag.

Mia looked at me.

Her eyes were wet, and it wasn't just because the sun was shining into them.

Towards the end of the day, I learned that Anthony had set up a presentation for us for the following week in San Francisco, where coolcams were based.

‘I reckon we're on our way,' he said, handing me a dirty cup to rinse as the fresh coffee started to
blop blop blop
through the machine. ‘You've done well in your first month, Girly. And Bill's a fucking crack-up, isn't he?'

‘Yeah. He's been great.' I turned on the tap and started to rinse a cup out for me, too. ‘We work well together.'

The tap gurgled like an ogre clearing his throat. Brave Face's decor may have been cutting-edge, but its plumbing was positively prehistoric.

‘I reckon we all do, mate. Cos at Brave Face, we're all self-starters – Lucy's a gun, too. You know the old saying
If it's to be, it's up to me
. I live by that and I reckon you do, too.'

I nodded in recognition – I certainly did know the saying but I hadn't thought of it for a very long time.

I leaned forward on the edge of the sink on my palms. I suddenly felt a little unsteady. It almost felt like the water was filling up my head, flooding my brain with something harsh and poisonous.

How I hate that voice.

That cunty, carping, wheedling, needling, emasculating, enervating, never-ending voice.

The voice that drove my father away.

The voice that exists only to hear itself.

I arrive home from school, hot and bothered.

I'm in the second-last month of my final year.

I know exactly where she'll be: sitting in the front room listening to Roy Orbison or Shirley Bassey with an ashtray almost full and a bottle of Cinzano Bianco almost empty on the crooked little table beside her.

Or in the bath, trying to wash away her myriad sins.

I hear taps rumbling and a splash from the bathroom.

And then the voice starts up like it always does.

‘Is that you home, boy?

'Bout bloody time.

You been spending all my money on them bloody useless books of yours again?

If it wasn't for you, I'd be much better off.

You're half the man your father was and he was a bloody nobody.'

She's a demented Judy puppet from a relentless, never-ending pantomime.

I unsling my schoolbag and drop it on our grubby kitchen table. My thrift-shop copy of
Hamlet
is sticking out of the top of my bag: I have a test on the death of Polonius tomorrow.

The other boys my age in the neighbourhood are all doing trade apprenticeships by now.

Or their first stint in jail – like my old mate, Timmy.

So I study like a demon.

Over and over, I repeat a phrase I once heard a football coach say on TV:

If it's to be, it's up to me.

You there, boy? she calls in that unbearable voice.

My mother and I have lived in this shitbox just the two of us for the last six years.

We circle each other like tigers.

But not for much longer if I can help it.