Dick is in prison and Jane is trying to rebuild a life
ruined by Dick's extreme paranoia and violence. Now living in the Caboolture
area, Jane, with the assistance of Nanna Karla, struggles to deal with the
parenting of their traumatised daughter Nell, in the aftermath of their violent
relationship meltdown and Dick's subsequent imprisonment in the Brisbane
Women's Correctional Facility. Jane knows Dick’s history and wishes he still
had it in him to try, but Dick is a damaged woman. A brutalised little girl in
an adult’s body, hell bent on payback for what she sees as the kidnapping of
her only child by Jane, her unfortunately named ex-partner. Assisted by a poem
to which she attributes divine influence, Dick follows the path to vengeance
through her stars, which burn hot enough to kill.
***
STAR SIGNS
It was
halogen hospital stars that shone, sans twinkle
In the Gyprock
sky above me,
On the
Sunday I was born.
Spat out into a centrifugal cusp
Amidst the galaxies
of modern industrial living,
My name tagged across constellations
Named
for war, sex, endless pursuits
And a raw
stripping down to,
Perhaps for,
Untethered
brutality,
Illuminated, naked and gasping
By starlight that has guided me to this day.
A million million suns,
While they shine
for me by night.
Make day the darkest time of my life.
Without them, I
have no bearings,
Receive no
signal,
Lack
essential vitamins,
That only
they can give.
When everybody else is sleeping, hiding from the
night,
I bathe in an
electric zodiac.
I navigate by street lamp portents and hot
incandescent omens,
A modern
transcendental shamaness,
By their
celestial suburban radiance, scrying,
Through fluorescent
stellar gaga and googoo
A
terrestrial mother divining,
Every bulb, every tube, a crystal ball.
In this vacuum of enclosed space,
Through
which I travel solely,
In the
direction I was jettisoned,
Those
stars make shining an incantation,
Power
rich talismans adorning every surface,
Humming with magical charge.
Tonight, they’re aligned and begging for destiny’s
alms,
A schizophrenic
supernova choir singing high-powered hymns,
In a
cosmic stadium raging, with deafening, singular purpose.
As contained as a comet behind bars.
Tomorrow my stars will blind the gods,
Then scorch a
path straight to you.
Anonymous
(Brisbane Women’s Correctional Centre,
2015)
Dick…
I fucking love that poem. Me and Clarissa,
Bad Moon Rising, the girl who showed it to me, have been fighting about who the
“you” is at the end. She reckons it’s whoever it was that fucked her up enough
to write a poem like that, and that that motherfucker is gonna get it bad on
that tomorrow. I see that, but I reckon it’s the kid of whoever wrote it, on
the outside. A baby born under a different Gyprock sky, but the same stars. It
was getting pretty heated one time, mostly because we got nothing else to do, when
Anna Body – we all get names like that in here – who’s the wisest woman, which
by default makes her the wisest person, I have ever met in my life, told us it
was both, and more. That it’s not up to us who it is for the other person or
for anyone else. That it means what it means to whoever it means it to. And
that therefore we should shut the fuck up, let it mean what it does to each of
us in peace and start worrying about stuff that matters. So we did. For a while
at least.
You were always the one who did
the reading. You always had a book on the go. But now I’ve been converted, I’m
transformed, a born-again reader, and that poem is why. It’s my bible. I got it
taped up on the wall at the end of my bed. It’s there for me before lights out.
It’s there when I wake up. Not that I need it there anymore when it’s always
stuck in my head anyway. It’s more like beautiful scenery or a painting now. I
just look and occasionally I see something new in it. Never thought I could
remember a whole poem, let alone one with so many big fancy words. I was flat
out remembering how to sing Happy Birthday before, but I feel like my memory
has improved in here. I guess I should thank you for that.
Sisters Inside set me up with a counsellor, and when I told
her about the poem, she told me I should try writing my feelings down. It’s supposed
to help you release tension and remember how you feel so that later you can “reflect
and effect” real changes in your life. Your brain is a muscle and carrying
stuff around all the time just makes you tired. It’s better to put it down. It
stops it all turning to mud in your brain. So here I am. Reflecting. She said
it doesn’t have to be a poem, it could be a diary or a dialogue with my “sub-personalities”
as she calls them. I got mad as, because I thought she was saying I was schizo.
When she told me everyone has them, I calmed down a bit. That I could believe.
The whole world is fucking schizo. She said writing letters to people from your
life can be a good way of dealing with unresolved conflicts, even if you don’t
send them because it’s just to express your feelings in a safe and private way.
But because I liked poetry, she recommended I try it. It could be stream of
consciousness, bush poetry, rap or a whole rhyming memoir from birth until now,
anything at all so long as you’re honest to yourself. I could be a poet and I
don’t even know it. Of course I had to ask her what the fuck half of it was,
but she was cool and just explained it all to me. She told me all this stuff
about her life, and said she got raped by her favourite uncle when she was a
little girl and it fucked her up for years. She was actually in here for a
while, years ago, for getting busted with an ounce of heroin on the train of
all places, plus had a couple of other stints at government holiday units up
north, so she just wants to help women inside now. I guess her heart’s in the
right place, but the last place I’ll be coming back to is this fucking hole
once I’m out.
Anyway, instead of writing poetry, especially when I know
I’ll never write anything that compares to Star Signs, I thought I’d write to
you. Who better? I had to look up how to spell half these words, and I even
used a Theosaurus Rex. Least I figured since I was writing to you I better put
it in words you understand and spell it all correct so you don’t think I can’t
get my shit together. So Jane…Dear Jane, this is to you.
Ms. Counsellor – her name’s Sharon, but I call her Ms.
Counsellor – also suggested I try this thing where I imagine my mind is a house,
my own house, and to visualise it with such detail that I could walk through my
mental home and just put everything in the place where it needs to go. Clothes
on the rack. Socks in the drawer. Spoons with spoons. Rubbish in the bin. That
kinda thing. But with all of my feelings and memories. I never liked the idea
at first. To be honest, it sounded like utter bullshit. Like I’m gonna wander
around an imaginary house, muttering to myself while I do the dishes, and put
the washing on. I said if I was going to imagine a dirty house I might as well
imagine some naked hot black dude to do it all for me. She had a laugh and said
she was sure I had a big enough imagination to fit in all of his features too,
but unfortunately she said, and I quote, ‘this exercise works best when it’s
you doing the work. Save your dream man for the real world, darlin.’ She said it
really helped her get through all her shit too. So, I tried it and, I hate to
admit it, she was right.
I feel so much better getting it all sorted out in there too.
I feel cleaner inside. I feel calmer. I could have those judges from The Block
come and do a house inspection and I wouldn’t stress a bit. It’d be perfect
tens all the way to the bank. These days, I got a mind like a shiny posh-looking
kitchen. Polished white tiles. No grime in the cracks. Windows all spray and wipe.
You’d put your hand straight through them if you didn’t know any better. The
cupboards are all arranged. The chairs are all pushed in. The knives are all
stainless and sharp enough you could give a fly a Brazilian. Yep, nowadays my
inner sanctum is as immaculate as Mother Mary’s pussy. I guess God did fuck me
in his own way too. Now I’m all sorted though. Everything is packed away in all
the right places. There’s just so much space everywhere, and every surface has
got a mirror finish. And tell you what Jane, man do those reflections keep on
coming.
I guess memory works best when it’s remembering something
worthwhile. Remembering how I got here. Remembering what I got to do to get where
I need to go. Not much worth remembering in the present, except how to keep your
head down and act like a cow in a stockyard. I’ll be glad to forget it. That
poem but. In my sparkling imaginary kitchen, it’s stuck on the fridge with a
photo of Nell in one of those pictures frames with a magnet on the back, right
next to my list of things I’ve got to do. Every time I open that fridge full of
thoughts, Nell and those words are there to remind me there is a reason and a
way to “effect real change” in this bullshit world. Those stars are my stars. And
those portents have shown me everything. I didn’t even know what a fucking portent
was until I read it. Now they’re all I see. And nobody, not even you, especially
not you, can hide from my million million suns.
I keep a room just for you, Jane. It’s almost like a shrine
really, where I keep all the things from our time together. Little moments and
memories, stuff you’ve said. Things left unsaid. When I go to that room, sometimes
it’s like you’re right there with me. Together again. Finally. If I close my
eyes and reach out and squeeze my fists tight enough, I swear I can even feel
that poor, sore little neck of yours in the palms of my hands. You always were
a little tense. You just need a break. Something to help you relax completely. Then,
it cracks and all the tension just drains from you. Ahhh. That feels so much
better. Sometimes my knuckles even crack and it’s just so uncanny. I guess we
all need a release.
You’re not really there though. I know that. But it’s weird.
Even outside my inner sanctum, in my real home, in my cell, I feel your
presence every day and every night. When I sit down to eat. When I shower. Would
you believe, I have an especially explicit awareness of your presence when I
take a dump in the metal bowl in the corner. Just joking. I would never
associate you with such a pleasant sensation as taking a shit. No, I’m just
kidding Jane. Prison does funny things to people. But, it has given me the
opportunity to learn all sorts of big words now. I can talk real fancy. But,
and this is no joke, every time I look in that tarnished and warped metal
mirror on the wall, it’s your warped reflection I see. But you’re not in there
either, are you Jane? When it really comes down to it, you’re nowhere to be
found.
I realised though, and I’m sure you will agree with me, that
you were right all along. We did need some time apart, but…I really can’t wait
to see you in the flesh again. Do you miss me too, Jane? Aww, I bet you do. I
bet you miss me every time you’re poking that tiny little cock of yours in and
out of that slut you’re fucking. Oops. Somebody call the police! That didn’t
come out very nice. Hope I didn’t hurt your feelings. Oh well. Better out than
in. That’s what this whole writing thing is about. This is about getting the
truth out. About healing old wounds. And pain is a part of the healing process.
I can play nice. I can act nice. I’m a girl, all sugar and spice. But this is
about the truth. It’s got nothing to do
with nice.
The truth is, “in and out” was about all you could ever manage.
It wasn’t very often you got back to the “in” part again. I barely got to work
up a sweat. You and your two-stroke motor wasted one minute of my life so many
times I lost count. But it all adds up. And you had the audacity to call me
selfish. Maybe it was just the wrong hole for a fella like you. I bet your new
squeeze doesn’t mind. She probably lets you do whatever you want. Does she
understand your needs better than I did? Has she got you running on four-stroke
now? Well good for her. But, she doesn’t know you like I know you. I know
exactly what you need. You just need a good squeeze. I’ve got plenty of squeeze
for you Jane. Squeeze for you and her both if the mood is right.
And you always thought that I didn’t care. Well I beg to
differ. I cared when you stole my daughter. I cared when they threw me in prison.
I cared when the Criminal Justice System decided I could never see my baby
again. I cared a whole fucking lot, actually. But the name says it all. The “justice”
system is criminal. It might have worked in your favour this time, and if it
came to it, it would work for you again I have no doubt. But there are other
forces at work in this world. All those stars of mine have a gravity of their
own. You don’t really notice gravity most of the time, but it’s there. It’s
always there. With all that gravity just floating around going to waste, I
figure who better to share it with than you. Share and share alike, that’s what
they say isn’t it? Right darling?
But yeah, apart from staring at the walls, I’ve also had
heaps of time for reading since I’ve been in here. You know what I read the
other day? It probably sounds a little old-fashioned, not very politically
correct and all that, but I read this old book about dog training, and in it they
reckon that when you punish a dog, you’re supposed to punish it straight away
or else it doesn’t know why it’s getting smacked. It won’t see the correlation.
I know it’s pretty much common knowledge, and I knew about it before, but
reading it just made me think about you. But you’re not a dog, are you Jane.
Are you? No. No, you know what you’ve done. Even after all this time. We both
do. So no, you can’t be a dog, so that’s fine. Right?
I also read, that they reckon dogs suffer from separation
anxiety more than any other animal when their companions – they called their
owners “companions”, you’d fucking love it – are always at work, because they
are such devoted loving animals. There we have it. Conclusive evidence. You’re
definitely not a dog. Phew! I guess though, that means I can’t tell you to sit.
What about lie down? No. Roll over? Hmm. I know, let’s try something simple.
How about when I point my finger at you and pretend to pull the trigger, you play
dead.
But hang on a minute, if you’re not a dog, and up until I
read that article I was 100% convinced you were, what the fuck are you then?
Certainly don’t fit the description of a man, do you Jane.
So I’ve been thinking and thinking and thinking and I just
can’t work it out myself. I’m sure if some scientists cut you up and did a
whole bunch of experiments on you, they could work out what you are. But
there’s no time for that kind of rigorous probing. All I know is I tried every
fucking thing I could for you and look what it earned me. Don’t bite the hand
that feeds you. Isn’t that what they say? There I was though, all that time,
feeding the mouth the bites. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sore, and I’ve
certainly learned my lesson. I’m never gonna make the same mistake again.
I’d bet your life that you still blame me though. You’d
never admit it, but that’s half the problem. You couldn’t be honest if you
tried. You think you’re honest, but you just say what you think you’re supposed
to say. You’d just say shit like, “I don’t blame you Dick. I know how hard it
was for you growing up.” I sincerely doubt it Mr. Brisbane Grammar. Mr.
My-Parents-Have-Always-Been-So-Supportive-Of-Me…Mr. Man. What
a horrible joke. Even prison doesn’t prepare you for that sort of humour. But
my all-time, eleven-out-of-ten personal favourite was when you used to say, “I
just need some space Dick. I can’t live like this anymore.” Oh dear. That’s
terrible. But believe me darling, I understand. I know. Sometimes you just feel
like you need to escape. Me too. Well funnily enough, that’s another thing that
I’ve been thinking about and thinking about and thinking about. But on this
matter, I think I’ve found a…a mutually beneficial solution.
It’s funny how things happen though. One day, I was minding
my own business, just chilling, enjoying my state-funded holiday, staring through
the TV, just thinking about you and your needs when I heard “Yellow” by Coldplay
come on, with the bit about the stars shining for you, and then, Poof! There
you were. In the crystal ball.
It was just some feel-good story at the end of the local
news about a little place called Wesbrey Downs Community Daycare. Maybe you’ve
heard of it. Not my thing really. Some shitty little hippy brainwashing scam by
the look of it. The kind of thing you and your mum would be right into. Steiner
or some shit. And apparently, they were celebrating Yellow Ribbon Day, whatever
that is. I didn’t catch the start of it but you know, every day is
international something-or-other day these days. Just another one of these
charities trying to guilt you into giving money to save gay muslim whale-trees from
climate change or something. It doesn’t matter. What matters, is what I saw. I
couldn’t believe it at first, but hey, the crystal ball doesn’t lie. I mean, it
was on TV. And by the light of a million million suns, like a comet blazing
right at me, from the darkness you were revealed.
I could see it’s just what you always wanted. Steal my daughter
away, my little Snail, my darling baby
Nell, and drop her in amongst those wide-eyed cult-following fucks singing
songs about fucking sunshine and rainbows. Last time I saw her she was only
just starting to string a few words together and vomiting up milk. Next time I
see her she’ll just be regurgitating all the shit they’re feeding her there. What
about telling her the truth, cunt? Do all those non-gender specific
multicultural fairies they’re teaching her about get flogged by their parents
when they’re drunk? Are they getting touched by their faggot paedophile teachers?
Or raped by their best friends? The real world is shit for girls. It’s fucking
brutal. You can’t trust no-one but yourself. How is she gonna survive getting
taught by Constable Care to think its all hugs and fucking kisses?
And as if having to listen to Yellow wasn’t bad enough, the
whole place was this horrible, pastel yellow. I’ve had more appealing diahrea. Diarrhea.
Diarrhoea. However the fuck it’s spelt. But, there she was, my little Nell, not
so little anymore, in the middle of that shit, pale yellow ribbon pinned to her
yellow shirt, in that horrible brainfucked yellow room with all those doe-eyed
kids, holding hands in a circle with all the “multicultural” staff. Coldplay
fouling up the air while it cut to slow-motion smiling and laughing and playing
on eco-swings.
And there you were, in the circle, holding hands with your
new slag. I could tell right away there was something going on. And talk about
colour coordination, even she was yellow. Obviously decided to get yourself a
mail order bride eh, Jane. Aussie
girls not good enough for you? Or maybe none of them would touch you with a ten
foot cattle prod. No wonder she puts up with your shit. Yellow fever certainly
got you by the…well, whatever it is you have down their in place of balls. You
ought to get that checked out. Then some greenie politician came on trying to
save the world before the next election. I wonder how many different colour
ribbons she’s worn this year. I bet she’s got cupboard full of them just in
case. Then it was back to you two standing there smiling away. Clapping your
hands in slow-motion. I nearly gagged. I bet you both have matching yellow
bumbags. I guess it suits you. It is the colour of gutlessness. I tell you one
thing though. You better not have my baby calling what-ever-the-fuck that slutface’s
name is, Mum now too. Her real mum, her only mum, has got a line out of this pit
you dug for me. Ooh yeah baby, it’s a long way up, but make no mistake, I’m
climbing.
I was fucking livid after that and in no mood to argue about
who the “you” in that poem is supposed to be. Bad Moon Rising is my best friend
in here, but I swear I would have put a plastic spoon through her heart if she
had’ve so much as said a word, poor bitch. But later, when I cooled down a bit,
what spun me out the most about seeing Nell, was not that my baby had grown so
much, the world has a way of moving on without you in here, especially after
three extra long years away from my two year old girl…No. It was that she
didn’t look like you or me or a combination of the two. She didn’t look my dad
thank fuck, and I couldn’t even tell you if she looked like my mum. She looked
like Paulo. He always had pretty eyes; blue-grey eyes, almost a bit chinky; with
big fat lashes, all set against that thick black hair and his girly little chin.
Even his skin was beautiful and tan. Like a young Elvis. Paulo was always the
pretty one, and I was the tough one. Least that’s what I told him. I used to
tease him about being a girl. He fucking
hated it. Can’t blame him, could you? After having actually been one, I
wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But he loved me. He was the only one.
Looking back, I was just so clouded by this indescribable rage
about it all before, you know, about everything. I couldn’t hear myself think. But
now, now I’m clear skies. Now, my rage has definition. When I first started
this mental home game, it was like a disaster zone in an acid lab, I could
barely get through it without tripping. But now, it’s totally spick and span. There’s
nothing left to trip on. I’m free. I’m in prison, but I’m free. I can look
around and know exactly what I have, and where it is and why it’s there. Not
that I’ve got much anymore. Between you and your mates in blue and the judge,
it’s a wonder I have anything at all. You took my daughter. The judge took years
off my life. Then when I got here they took my clothes. The only thing of
theirs that I saw get taken was their sweet fucking time while they checked
every hole I got, chatting away like they were stuffing a fucking Christmas
chook while they were at it, looking to see what else they could take. My
dignity perhaps. Oh well. What’s one more rape by your friendly neighbourhood
police. At least these bitches used rubber when they inserted themselves.
Fucking pigs. They truly are filthy animals. And as if his life wasn’t enough, then
they took my brother’s watch off me. They even took my Vitalis, because
apparently some dumb bitch in here got the idea a few years back to try and
burn herself alive with hair tonic and now they won’t even allow me my own
fucking bottle of Vitalis. I’m using fucking canola oil. Oil is for cooking,
not for good looking. But this is my fate. Written in the electric zodiac. It’s
inescapable. Those years they’ve taken, I know for a fact I’ll never get them
back. As far as the rest goes though. The stars only know.
It’s all been slow motion in here too, except without all
the clapping and smiling. But the pace is picking up. Things are fairly moving
along now, and in a certain little dobber’s direction. Not mentioning any
names. And you thought you were away. Footloose and free with Dick out of the
picture. Well I guess it’s true. You did get away. But not far away. Less and less
further with every moment the sky turns. It’s almost dawn now and in these
twilight between-times, I can see an exit sign glowing above my door like the morning
star. Glowing so hot it’s almost scorching. And when morning finally does come,
even though last night the chick on the news predicted blue skies for Brisbane
and the greater metropolitan area, I suspect things are going to get very dark.
What I’ve found, is that prison is like a rear-view mirror
in a locked parked car with tinted windows, and the more I look back on things,
the more I realise just how snobby and ungrateful you really were. I always
tried to include you, but you always looked down on me and my friends. We’d be
having a drink, having a smoke, having a laugh, sometimes we’d get a bit rowdy,
but so what? All you’d ever do was just sit there being ignorant at your
laptop, tap-tap-tapping away. Who were you chatting to that was so much better
than me and my mates? Wouldn’t have hurt you to get involved. In fact, as it
turns out, the opposite is true. And always with the screen facing the other
way. Just your mum was it? Who talks to their mum that much? I mean really.
Anyone would think you have a complex. No doubt you were just bitching about me
anyway. Bitching and plotting a kidnapping. And when it wasn’t your mum, it was
nobody. Good old nobody. Responsible for 90% of the world’s problems, that
cunt. I mean, what bullshit. You’d have to be stupid to think I was that
stupid. And anyway, I know you fucked that girl from work. You should have seen
the sweat pouring out of you whenever I asked about her. You’d st-st-start to
st-st-stutter and act like you had no idea what I was talking about. And after
that time I brought her up in front of Jessie and Cyn, even they said to me
later on that you looked guilty as fuck. They wanted me to ditch you, but like
a fool, I was like, what about Nell? You probably think they’re liars too? You
think they’ve never seen a man lying to their face? Half a woman’s world is
lies, Jane and half the population of the world is men. Even a dog could make a
correlation like that. Which is probably why you can’t. And anyway, every time
we went to the supermarket you were nervous as shit. So, where’d you do it? In
the coldroom? In the toilet? In the bum? Or did you root it out the back, where
me and you first hooked up. They always say men can’t resist a girl in uniform.
But, it seems like even Tina the check-out chick got the flick too though in
the end. Just couldn’t compete with a bit of hot young Asian pussy could she? Is
her pussy the space you needed so bad? From the amount of space you claimed you
needed she must have one big fucking hole. It’s just such bullshit. You
complain about being isolated, then go on and on about needing space.
Even in here, surrounded by proper isolated chicks that are
gonna be locked up for a large part of their lives if not their entire life, and
who could certainly do with a bit of extra space, I still don’t have to listen
to so much whinging. There’s women in here who have put up with things you
couldn’t even imagine, and now half of them will never see their kids again,
because they wouldn’t put up with it anymore. Only women bleed, my friend. Only
women bleed. And who does the Criminal Justice System punish? Who do all the
religions punish? Women might bleed but they’re not the ones with blood on
their hands.
So here’s a little piece of advice Jane, maybe if you stopped
whinging about how hard your life is, and smiled every once in a while, or God
forbid talk to people, it would be easier to find a friend. Maybe if you didn’t
just think you were better than everybody, you wouldn’t be so isolated Jane. But
no, nothing was your fault. Everything was always somebody else’s fault. Or my
fault. Well it wasn’t my fault your dumb fucking parents named you Jane was it
Jane. Or should I write, Yáh-neh.
Another prime example of you thinking you’re better than
everybody else. You always had to force it on people. Just to prove yourself
right and make people feel stupid. Try and make them fit in to what you want. ‘It’s
not Jane, it’s pronounced Yáh-neh, if you write it phonetically it looks like
this, it’s Sveedesh.” Well you’re in fucking Australia now! Your name is Jane.
When you write it, it looks like Jane. J-A-N-E. Jane! I went and looked it up
on Google one day, and surprise, surprise, even in Sveeden, Jane is a girl’s
name. Stick that up your arse dry, Yáaaaahneh, you fucking faggot. I’m in a
women’s prison and everyone in here has bigger balls than you. You may not
wanna sound like the bitch that you are but God saw fit to name you
appropriately. God knows what he’s on about. He gave the three wise men a
single star. He’s given me a million million of them. And that old bearded
bastard up there knows what I’m gonna do to you.
You think a piece of paper from the cops is gonna stop me?
You think moving up to the Sunny
Coast can hide you from
the stars? Uh-uh, no way baby, my stars will shine in every hole you crawl
into, Jane. They’re shining so bright I can see right through you, straight out
the other side, to where you’re nothing, to where you’re less than nothing, to
where Nell has forgotten you ever existed and not a trace of you can be found. Praise
the Lord!
It’s like James Brown. You know James Brown? Another star
right there. Humming with magical charge. You know that song of his, “A Man’s
Man’s World”? He told it like it is. There was a real man. A man who
speak-a-da-truth. A man who could get the cosmic stadium raging. And I bet he
could’ve fucked for hours in his day. Not that you’d understand anything about
that hey, Janie boy. Yaaahneh. Well
lucky for old Dick here, I know a thing or two about it. I know what makes a
man’s world spin. You all just think you know it all. You just make it too easy.
You’d all give the right ball just to get a load of the left. Those of you with
balls that is. Well here’s a little secret. A little survival tip. Hard earned
and well learned. If a man thinks he can get his cock sucked, he’ll tell you
whatever you want to hear. Let him think you like it though, and he’ll tell you
whatever you want to know. Well, dear, sweet little Jane. You wanna know what I
know? Well suck my cock Jane, because I know an awful, awful lot about you.
It’s all coming together, pardon the pun. I’ve been working
on a surprise, a present for you, because I really feel like I owe you one.
It’s been little dream of mine, to try and…well, you know…set things right. Ms.
Counsellor said I got to have dreams. Something to work towards. “Reach for the
stars.” Her pamphlet said. “Reach for the stars. Nothing is impossible if you
just believe in yourself.” I just can’t wait to see the look on your face when
I touch those stars and all my dreams come true. And even though I know, everybody
loves getting presents, I’ve always felt, and it’s especially true in this
case, that is far more rewarding to give than to receive.
So, I’ve spent all my spare time in here plotting. I guess
you inspired there. Plotting and spinning a man’s world like an atlas globe.
And when I stopped that globe spinning with a swift thrust of my finger, where in
the world do you think my finger landed? 176A Rogers Cres, Wesbrey Downs, Qld, 4513. Amazing.
What are the odds? It’s like a million million to one. I’ve always wanted to go
to 176A Rogers Cres,
Wesbrey Downs, Qld, 4513.
Ms. Counsellor will be so proud, though I don’t think I’ll
get a chance to tell her. It’s been a long time coming, but after all my hard
work and perseverance, finally my dreams are coming true. And it’s only been
about nine hundred and twenty six days, twelve hours and forty-three minutes. I
mean, you’ll have to allow for the fact that by the time I finish writing this
sentence, that would have changed but it’s more or less right. Also, there’s
the blurry ten minutes or so that it took for the pigs to peel me off you, drag
me across the road and pin my face to the bitumen before they tossed me in the
back of the divvy van. But…more or less…that’s approximately about right. But
hey, who’s counting right? Not that I could have even if I wanted to. They broke
my brother’s watch while they were at it. I don’t know when, but somewhere
inside of that ten minutes the glass got cracked and the hands stopped on
seventeen past three in the AM. Then when that door slammed, that was the first
tick of a new time for me. Like BC changing to AD. But it wasn’t just the birth
of a new era. And it was kinda the opposite of a saviour being born. It was
more of a countdown had begun. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Can you hear it? Stop
for a second. Listen really hard. It’s only faint now, but, can you hear it?
Can you hear that alarm? Shh…Stop breathing Jane. Can you hear it?
…and…
Jane rushed out of the bus, bumping his way through the opening
doors with the ungainly collection of backpacks and shopping bags he had
gathered through the day. He was already twenty minutes late. God only knows what time we’re gonna get to the
party. He had no doubt Nell would be the only girl left, probably sitting
down drawing her remarkably detailed “maps of the world” as she called them, as
per usual. By the time they got to the party, he surmised, the kids would
already be sorted into packs and she’ll be hard-pressed to find a friend
without causing envy and suspicion among the parochial and insecure little
people. In thirty years, she’ll be telling her counsellor about this day as one
of her original wounds, he was certain of it.
Writing unsent letters to Daddy for therapeutic relief. Amongst other things,
the mental image of thirty-five year old Nell distressed him more than slightly.
He rushed in the door trying not to look as hurried and
jittery as he obviously was. As predicted, his daughter was alone on a little
chair, at a little desk covered in big bits of paper and crayons scattered
about like a shattered rainbow. “Hi darlin’, sorry Daddy’s late again. I had so
much to do today. You ready for Jacinta’s birthday party?” The words all came
out pre-packaged, wrapped in a single breath.
Nell nodded, without showing approval. She shuffled her
drawings – maps again it was – all together with the casual efficiency of an
office worker, tapped them on the table to straighten them out and put them in
her Hello Kitty backpack; the movements eerily reminiscent of his own paper
shuffling ways, since he’d upgraded from night-fill at Coles to his part-time customer
service role at the Caboolture Transport and Main Roads Customer Service Centre.
The single parent pension helped too, but he still didn’t seem to have enough
time in the day. Though he often thought the problem wasn’t a lack of time,
just how he spent his chronological coin. When Jane saw his daughter begin
putting the vast palette of gaudy crayons back in their tub, he put the
shopping bags down, slightly flustered, to help her. He could tell it made her
feel like she was in trouble. Fail.
“Ok,” he said when it was done, “Nellie baby, we gotta go. I
know it’s Daddy’s fault about being late, and making us rush, but if we don’t
leave now, we’ll miss the bus. Say goodbye to Ms. Safina. You’ll see her again
in the morning.”
“Bye Ms. Safina.” The only
remaining staff member, Jane could see she was clearly just pottering around
looking for things to do while she waited for Jane’s clumsy rushed parenting to
get Nell out the door. Her handbag, and some take-home paperwork were sitting
on one of the kids tables closest to the door. It was like lights on in a
nightclub. She was always gracious and understanding towards the parents and
assorted custodians of her charges, and loved each and every child to bits. And
they all loved her back, children and adults alike. But spending her days
caring for kids and dealing with the equally demanding grown-ups was
emotionally draining. Caring for one kid, just in the morning and evening,
before and after work was draining enough. He shuddered at the thought of
switching places for even a day. And a day was not over for Ms. Safina until
the last child was picked up, the alarm set, and the front door locked behind
her. He felt terrible about making her wait.
“See you tomorrow sweetie. You enjoy your party, and have an
extra big piece of the birthday cake for me. Bye Yáhneh.” He grimaced a genuine smile over his shoulder
as he ushered Nell out the door.
Ms. Safina always pronounced his name correctly. With the J
like a pinched Y, a short ‘uh’ with emphasis for the A, and a clipped ‘eh’ at
the end. It was always a relief to be around people who could look at letters
on a page, and not be dumbfounded or even mortified when they were spoken in a
way that didn’t match their preconception. No matter how many times he’d
explained his name, far too many people would just look at him with disbelief
and more than a smidgeon of scorn and go right ahead and call him Jane. It was
one of the many things in his life he was expected to accept, but never could.
He could have changed his name, or went by a nickname, but why should he. It
was the world with the problem, not him.
Other people, people he’d known for years, would pronounce
it more-or-less correctly, but always with hesitation, balking at the
foreign-ness of it all. And then there was always the inevitable reference to
“A Boy Named Sue.” There were rare exceptions, and had always been exceptions.
Some of them came in the form of people he never would have expected to get it
right or try. He’d even once fallen in love with a girl in large part due to
her initial acceptance of, and casual – and at the time he felt sexy as fuck –
delivery of his name.
With Ms. Safina – Feiza out of hours, and her non-toxic
poster-paint coated apron – it was effortless. She was one of the rarities,
though at sixty-two, despite holding her own, Jane didn’t find her sexy as such.
She was more like an almond all over; almond eyes; almond chocolate skin; and
the kind of nutty that everybody loves. As an immigrant herself, with a
complicated heritage, she clearly understood the difference it made though to
respect his name, and the comfort it afforded him. When she said it, it sounded
natural and free to mingle with all the other names as an equal.
As Jane, with Nell in tow, turned onto the foothpath from
behind the bougainvillea-coated cyclone fencing that hid the centre from the
street, he saw the thirty-two pulling up to the bus shelter. He bolted off the
mark, calling out to his daughter over his shoulder, bags and backpacks flailing
as he legged it for the bus, hoping frantically that the driver would pity
them. The door stayed open and when he got to it, he stood in the doorway
sweating, instinctively holding it open as he waited for his five year old
daughter to catch up. The bus driver, endured it all impatiently, but had
nothing to say in reprimand. Nell got on, touched on with her little go-card,
pocketed it, then sat in the disabled section. Her feet, a foot off the ground.
Jane fumbled his way through the ordeal of paying for his own ticket with the
loose shrapnel hidden in amongst the house key, phone and other assorted pocket
flotsam and jetsam that seemed to breed in his shorts. Out-organised again by
his daughter. The doors were still closing as the bus rolled away.
The Google maps directions actually kept their promise, with
the help of Jane clinging to the yellow poles and anxiously watching street
signs go by – as he himself was watched with condescension by the old lady
sitting next to Nell, obviously disturbed at his incompatibility with fatherhood.
At Jane’s signal, Nell reached up to press the red button, though without her
usual enthusiasm, and the bus dropped them off directly across the road from
Jacinta’s house – a standard eighties built brick home, with a standard lawn
and assortment of standard shrubs and Bunnings bought pot plants in Bunnings
bought pots – at the exact time it was supposed to. Thirty-five minutes late
for the start of the party.
It was all happening in an open double carport at the back
of the house. Nothing had been spared. Every possible children’s party product
that could be purchased from Coles was out of its thin plastic packaging and
polluting the suburban environment. He recognised them all. Balloons, pastel
paper streamers, a table full of paper plates and cups with cost-efficient
party designs on them, with a budget selection of lollies, chips and – to
Alana, Jacinta’s mother’s credit – juices instead of soft drinks on which to
gorge. Party blowers were blasting, and party hats adorned the heads of the
friends and siblings of the birthday girl. Various parents, some donning hats
themselves, were mustering them together for a round of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.
The pressure of getting here was now replaced with the awkwardness of seeing to
it that Nell was accepted into the herd. Alana spotted them coming up the
driveway, and came halfway down to greet them.
“Hi Alana. I’m really sorry
we’re late, it’s just been one of those days”
“Oh hi…Yar-nee. Hi Nell.” Alana was one of the hesitant balkers,
though not one he’d known for long, and even then it was only through the brief
windows before and after daycare. “Yeah, look, tell me about it. It’s been
pretty hectic here. But, it’s no worries. You haven’t missed much. There’s
still plenty of food left and the kids are just about to start playing
pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. And we still have to do the cake, so...yeah, it’s
all good. They’ve all just been running around off their heads on sugar, but I
guess they’ll sleep well tonight. I know Jacinta will probably wanna stay up,
thinking she’s a big girl now, but I’d be surprised if she makes it past eight
thirty tonight. I won’t be too far behind her after all this. Tell you what.
It’s hard work getting this many kids to have fun together. I’m knackered
already, and it’s only, what…” she shakes her wrist and glances at her watch,
“shit…it’s that late already. No wondered I’m buggered. I’ve been up since
five.”
“Well it’s for a good cause, right?” He got a shrug, a sigh,
a smile, an eye roll and a single upturned raised hand all at once in response;
and understood all too well the sentiment it expressed.
Alana then looked down over the plate of watermelon and
rockmelon slices she was carrying to address Nell directly. “You go join in
with all the other kids Nellie darl. Jacinta’s just in the house grabbing a
scarf for a blindfold, but she’ll be out soon. Would you like a piece of fruit
sweetie?”
“Yes please.” The fact she
responded with actual words stabbed subtly at his heart.
She reached up and took a slice of rockmelon, said thank you
and made to walk over to the gathering mass of eager children.
“Wait, Nell, babe,” Jane said, fumbling to get his backpack
off his shoulder and open it without hindering his daughter’s smooth transition
into the party, “Don’t forget your present for Jacinta. Put it over there on
the table with all the others.”
At least, he thought, he might
have got one thing right. The present looked bigger than any of the others on
the table, and the plastic Bake-a-Go-Go kitchenette inside, hand-picked by his
daughter herself, complete with flashing light flames in the oven and a timer, was
sure to be a winner. He’d even bought some batteries so they could play with it
immediately. His daughter would look like saint and so would he when she saw
him next. Win-win. He didn’t feel comfortable reinforcing gender stereotypes in
little children, but he wasn’t about to have his daughter hand over a Tonka
truck or one of those plastic guns that go tat-tat-tat-tat-tat to her little
princess playmate. And the last thing he needed was “those” looks from the
other parents, and a daughter that hated him more. If that was even possible. It
occurred to him suddenly that SpongeBob might have been an option as he
squatted down to hand wrapped and ribboned gift it to her.
“Now, Nanna Klara is going to come pick you up this
afternoon after the party so you can stay with her tonight, remember. She said
she’s getting fish and chips tonight. That sounds awesome, ey?” Nell looked
over her shoulder, distracted by a flurry of squeals that erupted briefly from
the mini-cyclone of children she was about to walk into, but didn’t respond.
“Look, Daddy’s really sorry about being late again darlin’.
But we made it in the end, didn’t we? We always make it in the end.” He smiled
at her hoping it would be contagious. It wasn’t. “Hey, look, there’s Jacinta.
You better go say happy birthday.” The birthday girl had just come running out
of the house in a Dora the Explorer outfit that was obviously one of her
presents, one of her mother’s scarves dangling from one hand.
“You go play and Daddy will see
you tomorrow morning at Nanna’s house, ok.”
“Ok.” Was all she said. Jane could see he was still
unforgiven, but at least the party was starting to draw her attention away from
his failings as a father.
“Ok, have fun. Give us kiss.”
She did so dutifully, said goodbye, then wandered over to place
her offering on the table of presents and join the waiting tail-pinners who
were gathered in a line of sorts. He began to doubt that even the party might
cheer her up. If that failed, there was still his mother. Nanna Karla seemed to
be the only constant in his daughter’s world that never alienated or failed
her. Alana had gone over to officiate for the game, and was in the middle of
spinning the first contestant in quick circles to make them dizzy. Jane felt it
would probably be best if he just slipped out without fuss. He’d already explained
to Alana on “Jacinta’s Party” Facebook event page that her grandmother would be
picking her up this evening and given her his new phone number, just in case
she needed to call. He could have kept his old number, but he just felt like a
change. It felt strangely cleansing. If anything did happen Alana would
probably handle it much better than him anyway. She might not be able to
pronounce his name without straining, but she was a good parent, and he knew
from the nano-particles of pity he could detect in her practised pleasantries,
that she worried about Nell, and felt a need to care for her, like a three-legged
puppy made more worthy of concern through the cuteness of its disadvantage.
Feeling like a terrible parent wasn’t new, but it was never
comfortable. He might laugh it off with his mum, or with Sonia, but deep in his
heart he couldn’t even muster a corrupted chuckle. As Jane walked up the street
to the other bus stop, he was plagued by guilt. It had started to become
debilitating. ‘Ok’ and ‘Bye Daddy’ were the only actual words Nell had spoken
to him this afternoon. The rest of the time she was sullen and to Jane’s
lingering shame, sad. He knew it wasn’t just sadness about today’s foibles. It
was a sadness too large to squeeze into a five year old body, and so it found
ways of distorting his daughters features in order to escape. Luckily, Nell
loved Nanna Klara and never added abandonment to her list of grievances while
she stayed there. The list was growing nonetheless.
Jane had been planning this afternoon for weeks now. An
afternoon without Nell. A shameful luxury that felt as hollow in practice as in
planning. She would never be far from his thoughts, especially after what had
just happened, but she would not be there. She would thankfully, be in capable
hands for a change. He’d been telling himself that he needed the break; that it
would give him much a needed respite; that he would actually stretch out a fresh
canvas and do some painting. But he knew it was just as likely that he’d end up
watching some reality chef program, where the contestants are brutally
humiliated by cocky patronising professionals who consider themselves realists
in a horrible process of belittlement that viewers were somehow supposed to
approve of and be entertained by. How could they expect to rid schools of
bullying with how-to programs like that crowding the free-to-air channels,
encouraging people to sink their boot in via Twitter. Either way, first things first,
a cup of tea and a large dose of prescription Tim Tams on the reclining sofa
was in order.
Sonia was working late, then picking up her older sister Leilani
from the airport after having just spent six weeks back home in Laos
visiting their family, so that evening the two bedroom flat was his. Laos had never been home for Sonia, but Leilani
was ten years older, and spent those first ten years living in Luang Prabang
before returning in her late teens to live for many years, before moving back
to the Sunshine Coast. Sonia knew her Laotian family,
but only through a couple of brief visits, and didn’t feel the urge to visit
them as strongly as the rest of her family. For Sonia, Noosa was home. Even
though she had been conceived in Laos,
she was born in Australia
after her family was sponsored by her grandfather Kaili who for many years they
had assumed dead at the hands of police from one government or another, but
turned out to be very much alive. Apparently, Sonia’s mum’s dad hadn’t been all
that impressed with, or particularly quiet about, the Communist
collectivisation programs in the seventies and fled to Thailand, swimming the
Mekong to be extorted by Thai border guards and taken to one of the many refugee
camps along the border, to eke out an existence with tens of thousands of
others. As a former translator, he found uses for his skills, assisting people
with claims and other daily tasks that had to be done in Thai. He took
English lessons while he was their from an ex-RAAF guy who’d stayed on after
the war and decided to help out in the camps, and through this he gained a
familiarity with Australia which helped him greatly when he applied for asylum.
Eventually he was resettled in Fairfield in Sydney.
The story Sonia had told Jane, was that one day, Granddaddy
K as she calls him – though she said when he pronounced it, it sounded like
gun-daddy – saw photos of the Glasshouse
Mountains in a library book and they
reminded him of so much of Laos,
that he just up and left within a week. Apart from the occasional Aussie who
took issue with a gook, his journey by bus, train and foot was much simpler
than his previous travels through conflict-ridden Laos. He made his way to the Sunshine Coast to find it lived up to it’s
glorious name and spent the rest of his long New Australian life in the Noosa
area. His English had improved considerably and quite quickly. Sonia said he had
been fluent in White Hmong, Lao, Thai and French before he even got to Thailand, so
picking up another language wasn’t going to be that difficult, though ne never
lost his accent – quite possibly deliberately. He was just that kind of man. He
managed to find himself work teaching private French lessons as well as
endearing himself to the locals by introducing Laotian patisserie skills into a
local bakery. He even had a stall at the Maleny folk festival back in the day,
where apparently, he tried his first ever tab of acid at the age of
fifty-three.
Eventually he regained contact with his family who had
stayed behind in Luang Prabang and who he dared not contact for many years for
fear of bringing down the wrath of the government upon them. He gained
citizenship and was able to bring his pregnant daughter, son-in-law and four –
soon to be five – grandchildren to Australia. Her family lived with Granddaddy
K until he passed away, which was only a few years before Jane and Sonia met. He
was, and still is her favourite person in the entire world. While her parents
worked long hours to support her and her new younger brother and at the same
time sending money back home; struggling also with the transition between two
almost opposite cultures and languages, Gun-daddy K stayed home and raised his
grandchildren, educating them in language, the labour movement, comparative
religion and baking. In the meantime, training them up to be as meat-pie Aussie
as a Hmong Laotian kids could get. He was like a one-man documentary. Jane
wished he could have met him.
A miserable “Yay!” was softly muttered in his brain at the
thought that he had finally managed to get some time alone to wallow in his
self-pity. He suddenly got the urge to spend the night at his mum’s. But no, he
would let his daughter have her happy-time with Nanna. Maybe he could hang out
with Sonia and Leilani. It was a promising thought, but, in his current state,
he would just be draining the joy out of their reunion and forcing them into
English by being the lowest common denominator. Besides, half the reason he was
late for the party was because he had taken a detour via Spotlight in
Morayfield to buy some new oils as motivation. The guilt was palpable. It would
be worse if he then betrayed the memory of Nell’s sadness by just giving up on
the idea of painting altogether. They were expensive too, but he got a kick out
of browsing the hues. In the end he settled on a pthalo blue, a burnt sienna and a burnt umber, a deep cadmium red
and a much needed titanium white. He even bought himself a nice fat,
fine-tipped pig hair brush. Not that he had a clue what he was going to paint. It
had been so long since he’d actually painted anything, but there were days like
this where he would make comfort buys from art supply stores and then go home and
watch TV. He promised himself black and blue that today he would actually
paint. And he would. After the tea and Tim Tams, with the telly on to dilute
his guilt. Directly after that, he would definitely paint.
His connecting bus was late, or had come early and he missed
it, he couldn’t tell, but either way he had to wait and didn’t get home until
right on sunset. By all other measures, the day had been beautiful. Skies of
pleasant late-August air in that infinite Gondwanan blue. A few stoner clouds,
way up high and not doing anything drifted around with no better thing to do
than wait for the sun to go down and put on a show for them with peach and
mauve and all the colours of a candle flame. It could have all been a bland
beige for all Jane noticed. On the ride home he almost convinced himself to
just get off and go to his mum’s by arguing with himself that he could paint
something there with Nell. Another win-win. His phone was in his hand, ready to
call, but the thought of his new solution failing and Nell going to bed unhappy
prevailed, so instead he checked his emails, paid a bill on-line, re-pocketed
the phone and resigned himself to the original plan.
The mailbox had bills and junk mail literally stuffed into
it and he scolded himself for still not having added a “No Junk Mail” sign,
also scolding the postie for being so rough with his belongings. He’d bought a
sign, close to two months ago now, and left it on the kitchen bench to ensure
it would be done. He hadn’t seen it now for at least a month and it was most
probably buried beneath the accumulating pile of junk mail that had arrived in
its absence from the mailbox. He cut across the lawn, noticing just in time
that the neighbour’s dog Gordy, a friendly, and obviously well-trained
Rottweiler had left another present for him. He counted his blessings. The
mail. The shit. They could all stay where they were until tomorrow. Or next
week for all he cared right now. He was exhausted, and the idea of picking up
dog shit or ascertaining his level of debt was only going to make matters
worse. He would have to convert those bills to email only. Put that on the
list. The idea of painting exhausted him even more now, in the way that only long
promised commitments to revive old pleasures can.
Through the vertical blinds, Jane could see the light had
been left on in his side of the small duplex where he lived. He’d obviously
left it on that morning. It just added another layer to his feelings of personal
inadequacy for the job of parenting. Can’t even manage the simplest of tasks.
No, he assured himself he was being too harsh on himself. It’s just been one of
those days and much deserved R and R awaited him inside.
Next door, in the other-half of the duplex where Shaun and
Prish – the owners of Gordy – lived, the lights were off. They had gone down to
Murwillumbah to visit family for a few days and to climb Mt Warning. Prish
mentioned it two days ago as they crossed paths on their respective morning
pilgrimages to work. The idea sounded amazing. Even just to go up to the Glass Mountains
for a day trip would be great, but Mt Warning, the view was supposed to be
spectacular. Sonia would love it. So would Nell. Win-win-win. Although he had
heard that the local Bundjalung people didn’t actually like people climbing it.
He really did think that those peoples wishes ought to be respected after
everything they had endured, yet the idea of his daughter, standing up there
staring at the world and feeling like her daddy was the best daddy in the world
made him doubt his allegiance to own morals. Maybe he could call. Ask for
special permission. But what if they said no. Nothing was ever easy.
Gordy the Rottweiler must have felt the need to leave his
going-away present before spending three hours in the car. Jane cast a glance
over his neighbour’s lawn. Spotless. He had to hand it to Gordy. Even he could
see that compared to Jane’s clover-filled dry-patchy lawn, shitting on the
emerald green majesty of his humans’ lawn-bowls standard front yard would be a
crime. Maybe they didn’t even train him. Maybe he was just aesthetically
repulsed by the idea himself.
Without putting down his cargo of shopping bags and
backpacks, including now his daughter’s Hello Kitty day-care bag, only to pick
them up again, Jane searched through his pockets with the skill of a desperate
single parent for his key. Single. He had been with Sonia for six months
already, and they had known each other for about eight, having met her at a yellow
ribbon day event at Nell’s daycare that she had volunteered for. The day all
the cameras turned up and scared the hell out of him. Apparently he missed the
permission-slip they sent home, and was left to either sign it there and then
or deny his daughter her fifteen minutes of fame. Easy choice for a Daughter’s
Choice, Most Terrible Father Ever Award candidate like himself. He had even
held hands with her on the day though it was not his idea, and was just an
awkward parent involvement gig. But it did feel like fate when her number was
up and she fronted up to his desk at work to reapply for her suspended driver’s
license. So it went from, oh this is embarrassing to she was having a party.
More of a gathering. Would he like to come. Well, it sounded nice, and thank
you and well, and um, and but I’ve got my daughter so. But you’re welcome to
bring her so. Um, shit, sure, why not.
Sonia really was all he could ask for and more. He was in no
rush to get involved, and she was fine with that. She was cheeky and charming and
being with her had been sweet and slow and lovely. It took them nearly four months
before they even had sex and he didn’t feel like any time was wasted. But as
far as parenting went, he felt undeniably single still. She was great with Nell
and she had a nephew the exact same age, same month even, that Nell loved to
play with. He had no doubt that in time Sonia could easily take on a greater
role in both of their lives, with Nell’s blessing. Nell would probably end up
loving her more than him. Even that would be fine, so long as she was happy.
But not yet. It was all still too soon. Too raw. It was still too hard to cope
with everything himself without burdening another person with his troubles. His
poor mum had to deal with it already. He didn’t know what he would do without
his mum co-parenting Nell while she still parented him.
Jane didn’t own a car or a large collection of keys to guess
at in the dark. He only ever carried a front door key on a weird purple fish
keyring with boggle-eyes that Nell had chosen. There was always a backdoor key
stashed up on one of the struts of the awning that hung over it, but he’d never
once needed it. It was there for his mum and nowadays for Sonia. Keeping track
of his house key was one skill that Jane could honestly say he never seemed to
have lost. He may have lost his mind for a while there. More than once, truth
be told. But his wallet, his phone and his key were always present and
accounted for. Maybe it was the feeling of being able to get at least one thing
right. Maybe it was focusing on Sonia for a while and not himself. Maybe it was
the relief of knowing he’d soon be in the door and this horror of a day would
soon melt into tea and chocolate and yes, even painting. Either way, when that
key came out of his pocket, and those little black beads in the fish’s plastic
bubble eyes were rolling around as it dangled there, his troubles seemed to
just dissolve.
He unlocked the white wooden door and walked straight across
the open plan living room to the kitchen to drop off his stuff before returning
to close it behind him. As he swung it shut, he felt its breeze on his sweaty
face, immediately followed by an intense, horrible sensation that couldn’t have
lasted any longer than the bare minimum needed for it to be sensed at all. It
sent a murky undercurrent of disquiet through the calm he had found literally only
seconds ago.
After what happened, Jane wasn’t unfamiliar with such
feelings, but he hadn’t felt them for quite some time. And not so strong. But
they, he had been told, would take years to disappear completely, if they ever
disappeared completely at all. It was like the smell of vomit on a couch. You
clean it as best you can, use all the recommended products, but every once in a
while you sit down, and at the very edge of perception, like a vomit ghost, you
smell it. He glanced at the mirror on the wall beside him; the one he used to
check himself on the way out the door every morning before work, and was caught
off guard by what he saw. A tired, tired looking man was looking back at him;
and he knew exactly how that man felt.
He went back to the kitchen, and by the time he got there,
the feeling had vanished, so acquainted was he to burying them. He picked up
the remote, pressed a button, and a cheesy rock song parading as an anthem
started blaring, mid-way through an ad for the upcoming NRL Finals Series. He
quickly muted it, glancing up at the clock on the wall, ten to six, then down
at the TV guide, open on the bench. As he’d predicted, ‘If You Can’t Stand The
Heat’ was going to be on in an hour or so. The latest in young chef
psychological torture entertainment. He left it on mute and put some water in
the kettle, then put it on the stove. He lit it with the old, child-friendly
lighter that only had spark left in it and browsed the tea selection jammed into
the lower shelf. Chamomile sounded nice, with a bit of soy milk and honey. In
fact, it sounded very nice. Not the kind of drink to perk you up for a hard
night’s painting, but his body had spoken. He took his Daddy mug from the dish-rack
– not letting the sink full of unwashed dishes augment his melancholy. He put
the teabag to his nose for a medicinal whiff, then dropped it in the mug,
squirted some honey on top and waited for the water. The milk would go in last,
after the teabag squeeze. Otherwise it’s a waste of milk. He could hear Sonia laughing;
pointing out to him recently that it was also a waste of honey, but for some
reason it just didn’t seemed so great a crime as the milk. He pulled a pack of Tim
Tams from one of the shopping bags, he’d bought two just in case, tore it open
and started his dinner early, browsing aimlessly through the TV guide for an
excuse not to paint. There was local news on Nine. The news would be as good a
program as any to numb the mind. He glanced back up at the clock. Six o’clock
on the dot. He flicked channels and turned the volume up again half way through
the dramatic fanfare that anyone would recognise as news music.
“Good evening. Tamara
Spencer with you.
The Federal
Government is coming under fire again today for it’s policy of offshore
detention from a coalition of doctors and health workers, protesting proposed new
amendments to the Australian Border Force Act, which they claim could see
health professionals jailed for up to two years for disclosing information
about the conditions inside the offshore processing centres…”
Being Swedish by birth, Jane always mocked Aussies for their
cruel incompetence when it came to social policy. He had not returned to his
Scandinavian homeland since he was a child, but still he brimmed with pride at
his northern social-democrat paradise with its free education and sensible
social policies every time he grimaced at the news. Being one step removed from
the victims of Nazis and Soviets, he couldn’t help but draw comparisons. Australia was a
good place, a great place, it got a lot of things right, but it seemed to be
priding itself on becoming more and more wrong.
“…the Minister for
Immigration and Border Protection shrugged off the attacks, but refused to
comment further, saying he wasn’t going to offer a running commentary on
operational matters.”
You’d laugh if it wasn’t so
serious, he thought. How they could get away with it was beyond him. Not that
he was out on the street protesting every time he heard about some inhuman new
policy announcement. He didn’t write letters or call his local member or even
really talk about it all that much except with Sonia, his mum and the TV. He
just disapproved. Strongly. That’s how, he thought. Because there are twenty
two million people all disapproving in unison, though probably for different
reasons and most were probably just like him. Too tired, too lazy, too selfish,
too self-righteous, too scared to actually get out there and be a part of the
process. He didn’t even watch the news half the time. They could be rounding up
the latest hated ethnic groups, tattooing them with numbers and shipping them
off to death camps already for all he knew, and if he found out about it at
all, the most he would probably do is mutter some curse at the political class
via the idiot box, feel self righteous and then watch the next episode of Big
Bang Theory and not even find it funny. As he came out of his ruminations and
back to the news, he realised he’d just missed a whole bunch of information
probably related to exactly what he was just talking about. I should get more involved. Join some group
or something.
“Coming up, more breaking news on today’s daring prison escape from a
Wacol prison in Brisbane’s
south-west.
New findings come to light that suggest the Great
Barrier Reef could be suffering from coral bleaching at a much
faster rate than previously thought.
And the saltwater crocodile, that gave a Kununurra family a scare, when
they came home to find it sleeping inside their pet ducks’ bathtub. Stay with
us for these stories and more, coming up after the break.
“Fucking hell.” He said exasperated. Exhausted by everything
all at once. This wasn’t numbing his brain at all. He muted it for the break
and scanned the TV guide for more suitable alternatives. Nothing jumped out at
him. Maybe he could get the paint ready. No, he wasn’t ready yet. Slouched
over, elbows resting on the bench, head in his hands, his focus went to the
window to his left that looked out from the kitchen. He lazily tilted his head
while leaving it cupped by his supporting palms. He could see all the way down
the street. It was now almost completely dark outside, except for the orange
electric glow of night time in suburbia. He drifted into the grey area between
thoughts and nothingness that was as close to the opposite of lucid dreaming as
one could get. Awake but unaware. All senses fully functioning but no signals
getting through. A filter, perhaps an evolutionary reflex for preservation of
sanity had been inserted between his sensory organs and his brain in an
involuntary action much like what a liver or gall might do to toxins. Yet some
part of him was receiving those signals, and deciding which were worth
transmitting because suddenly, he snapped back to full awareness, disoriented,
unsure of how long he’d been away. His eyes had registered the end of the ad
break and the return of the news. He couldn’t remember what he’d been thinking
about even if he tried. He wasn’t sure there was thinking involved. His brain
had made an executive decision to zone out and then to zone back in. He picked
up the remote, not even needing to look to press the button and un-muted the
TV.
“Now, to more on this
morning’s dramatic prison break. Three inmates from the Brisbane Women’s
Correctional Centre, in the south-western suburb of Wacol escaped from the
maximum security prison this morning, in a violent breakout in which one guard
was killed and another staff member seriously injured. The three fugitives have
so far evaded police attempts to capture them. Police have…”
Dick. Suddenly he was experiencing the complete opposite of his
previous lapse into cerebral absentia. Suddenly all of his senses were crisp
and attentive. Again involuntary responses had made the call, but this time
they seized control of him in order to ensure his unadulterated attention. Unlike
before, where thinking about nothing seemed to have taken so long, he was now
squeezing in multiple thoughts and tangents all into the space of milliseconds
and following them all. He tried to think that it couldn’t be; that he couldn’t
possibly know what was going to come next; that it could be about anyone.
“…now released the
identities of the three women, who are still at large and are asking for
community assistance in their search. They have warned that all three women
have histories of violent crime and might be armed. ”
Dick.
Three photos flashed up on the screen. Names beneath them.
Three hardened faces side by side. Typical photos of criminals that so
obviously separate them from normal people who smile and feel remorse and don’t
have malice in their tightened lips and lethal malignant eyes. The newsreader’s
voice continued speaking in the grave tone reserved for serious situations that
are unfolding as it is enunciating each cautionary and newsworthy syllable, but
all sound seemed to disintegrate. It went wherever he had gone all those very
many long moments ago. Behind an involuntary screen; some reflex censor that
decides for you what you need to hear and what you don’t.
On the left, Clarissa Mooney. She looked like she was only
just old enough to be permitted entry to a nightclub. She was light-brown with
features that could have made her a super-model, or the next Angelina, if she
didn’t look like she wanted to murder your kitten in front of you for Christmas.
From somewhere distant, like a radio signal from another world, a grave voice
told him she had been in jail for armed robbery and occasioning grievous bodily
harm.
In the middle, Annabel Bodstrum, with the hardened face of a
middle-aged woman who’d spent as many days breathing prison air as Jane had breathing
at all. If not more. Her haggard complexion made it seem like that prison air
had been filtered mostly through white-ox cigarettes and her expression was one
of volatile resentment for a world that had no doubt shattered her innocence
like a bottle across the head at a very young age. The inter-galactic voice
told him she had been serving a life sentence for the murder of her husband and
his pregnant lover by repeatedly stabbing them both while they slept in her bed.
Dick.
The third was a pale-skinned woman, with high cheekbones and
dark gelled-back hair. A woman thirty-one, no, thirty-two years old now, that
could pass for twenty when she smiled, with a black tattoo of a snake on the
inside of her left thigh, whose forked tongue get’s lost in her naturally
minimalist pubes. Whose father somehow convinced the courts to give him full
custody over her and her older brother Paulo after their mother OD’d on heroin
while cooking dinner and subsequently burned down half the kitchen of their
home in Werribee when they were two and six years old respectively. Whose
father then raped and beat them both repeatedly for years. Whose brother later
turned to speed and heroin and alcohol himself, and was shot and killed by
police at age fourteen when he pulled a knife during a raid on their family
home. Whose father was arrested in a police sting on paedophiles later that
year but committed suicide in the lock-up before he ever faced trial. Who was
raised a ward of the state from the age of ten, and was raped several times
again, this time by a police officer. Who, though attempting suicide at age
twelve with the razor she used to shave her armpits, managed somehow to get
through it all alive, but not unscarred, to find work as a teenage prostitute
and stripper. Who followed that career up the coast to Bris Vegas, and away
from the shadows of outer suburban Melbourne.
Who by some miracle never once contracted an STD and found it within herself
after a stripper friend was beaten to death by her boyfriend after he
contracted gonorrhoea, to quit sex work and find a job at a Coles in Inala. Who
met there a young co-worker from a more calm and privileged background than
herself, that accepted her, and left a comfortable open relationship to be with
her and eventually gave her a baby that left tiger-stripe stretch-marks from
child-birth on her hips that never bothered him one bit. A five-foot six
Scorpio, who never seemed to put on weight, no matter how much she ate, but
occasionally got a little rounder around the jaw. A skilled manipulator with an
extremely seductive smile, eyes that could hypnotise or damn near murder a
blind man depending on her mood. With a body that, while she carries it like a
tomboy, could easily suck the blood from a man’s brain and let it all go to his
head, should she choose to wield it or reveal it. Whose breasts have sagged
more than she’d like, or care to admit that she cares about, but that she still
won’t put in a bra for no cunt. Whose victimised soul contained so much
super-condensed loathing and despair that when Jane fell in love with her at
his own peril, it was at a time that he now sees was just the passing eye of
the storm in her poor wretched category five cyclone of a life. Rica
Hansen-Romero, whose eyes were staring out from the screen like adrenalin-filled
syringes stabbing into Jane’s heart.
“Police have urged
anyone with information to contact Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000.”
Jane’s stomach felt like it had been attached to a brick and
dropped out of a plane as he stood there in dizzy shock. The news presenter’s
voice moved on, past the dying Great Barrier Reef and somewhere into the Northern Territory or Western Australia or wherever Kununurra is,
where the wily young croc had made a meal out of some family’s duck and passed
out in its bathtub. The gravity had left the voice and was replaced with a
goofy half-chuckling, who’d a thunk it, zaniness that reassured us that,
despite global catastrophes and the obvious corruption of all we hold dear,
that you can still be entertained by the news. And now for sport. And now the weather.
But Jane didn’t follow her to the Great
Barrier Reef or the Kununurra. He stayed exactly where was.
Someplace else. He was living out his entire time with Rica Hansen-Romero in a
jumbled slurry of raw emotional imagery. Out of his body. Out of his home. Out
of mind. Out of time. He was still staring at Rica Hansen-Romero. His whole body
was riddled with Rica Hansen-Romero. Still transfixed by her television stare.
Her black hair glossy as fresh ink, slicked back just like it always was. Just like
at the trial. Just like it was at their home in Inala. It was Dick’s home.
Jane’s Prison. He’d escaped, and now so had she.
The hair. A rush of uninhibited fear surged through him,
like anti-anaesthetic, and he spun around checking the room for his ex. His
hand was rubbing away just below his left collarbone, unconsciously fiddling
with the scar. He knew what it was that hit him when he was closing the door
now. He knew why he had felt the faint yet overpowering trickle of fear rush
through him. Vitalis. He had smelt Vitalis. The only person he had ever known
in his entire life to use Vitalis hair tonic for men, who even knew what it
was, was his ex-girlfriend and Nell’s mum, Rica Hansen-Romero.
Dick.
No. She couldn’t be
here. How could she find me? I moved. We moved before the trial. I’ve moved
twice since then. I have a restraining order. Still I think? I moved away. I
should’ve gone to Sweden.
Fuck! I should’ve gone to fucking Sweden. How did she find me? Why
Dick? Why? How could she get insi…the back-door key.
The thought nearly dropped him to the floor, as though it
had instantly disintegrated the calcium in his legs and spine, but with
adrenalin for a crutch, he ran down the short hallway, past the toilet and through
the tiny laundry area practically slamming into the back door, checking the
button on the handle. Locked. He opened the door and reached up to feel around
for the key on the awning above him. It was still there. But it wasn’t there
alone. On the face of metal beam where it sat, were the trails left in the dust
by fingers as they had taken the key from its hiding place. Are they mine from just now? Mum’s? Sonia’s?
He checked his fingers for dust. A
little, but it didn’t prove or disprove anything. He went back inside, taking
the key with him, locking the door behind.
He headed back to the kitchen, and started searching
manically through his backpack for his phone when the kettle started whistling.
And the toilet flushed.
After what seemed like thousands of litres gurgling, carrying
god knows what as it was swallowed painfully by the plumbing system, the handle
twisted, the door opened and out walked Dick. But she turned left, walked a
casual couple of steps down the hallway then turned right, into the laundry,
where Jane heard a tap turn on, water begin flowing, the sound of it flowing interrupted
by rubbing hands before it joined the toilet water on its way to wherever water
goes. The tap turned off.
He expected her to walk out, but instead he heard the ratcheting
turn of the washing machine dial. Click. It was pulled out to start. The hum of
the pump. Three beeps. More water flowing, this time filling the tub inside the
machine. Does she even know I’m here?
He still hadn’t found his phone and the need grew more and
more urgent with every slow-motion galloping second. The front door was on the
other side of the apartment, with sofas, chairs, and a table in the way. Dick had
always been always quick. Jane had thought on numerous occasions, that if, if
she hadn’t gone through what she did, if she’d been supported, she could’ve
have been an Olympic athlete. She was a natural. As it was though, if she came
out of that laundry, and saw Jane running, he was sure she would have him by
the table. The front door may as well have been on a separate continent to him,
with a lounge room ocean filled with deadly furniture reefs on which to crash
in between. His head swelled with horrific anticipation and an endless stream
of paranoia masquerading as prophecy. The smell of Dick’s shit wafted over from
the toilet; the recognition of its stench, an acrid, sulphuric reminder of just
how close he had been to this woman. Of just how long they had been together. Of
how completely he had loved her once. And just how little that all mattered now.
He physically felt the sickening sensation of the space between where he was right
now and the last time he’d had to deal with Dick alone and face to face,
disappearing, as the two eras slammed together like high speed passenger trains.
Then she stepped out of the doorway, looking straight down
the hall at Jane. She had a white towel in her hands, rubbing them slowly and
thoroughly. Her hair slicked back. All thoughts ceased holding Jane’s
attention. Now, raw responses lined up, waiting to be deployed the instant this
predator made its move.
It was so obvious now. Of course she knew he was there. She
had been waiting for him. She had wanted him to be more confused. More
threatened. More menaced by her casual behaviour. She wanted him to be waiting
for the moment she stuck her head out of that laundry door to stare down the
hallway at him as if it was he that was intruding on her. She wanted to have
him ready for the next move. He was cornered. Check-mate.
While they had had a honeymoon period in the beginning, It
hadn’t taken long for Jane to learn of Dick’s past, or for her instability to
become more overt and at times outright dangerous. But, even at the end, or
what he thought had been the end, Jane was always shocked by Dick’s ferociously
calculating mind. It’s conversion of inference and suspicion into suitable pseudo-facts;
its impermeable, even front and addiction to control; almost reptilian in her
indifference to suffering. He could remind himself that it is all just a
consequence of the brutality that she has suffered. But he couldn’t remind her
of that. Pain and suffering had become her comfort zone. Just like every time
before, in hindsight he’d be kicking himself for not seeing that for what it
was before trying to take her out of that zone. That task, it took years to
admit, was beyond him, saddest of all, he had resigned himself to a horrible
conclusion: that it was beyond anybody. He still didn’t believe it, but he had
to make do with it as an explanation for the world like a Christian accepts
virgin births and the resurrection. He spent years trying to persuade himself
to leave, to get out from harms way, while convincing himself it was cowardly
and heartless to do so. Then after yet another one of their episodes, he
chastised himself not avoiding what was so clearly crocodile infested waters. When
it came to the crunch though, each time that she flipped, it was too late and
he was stunned prey. He was a sitting duck. He wasn’t even good prey. Prey runs.
Prey will even fight back. Jane was more like low hanging fruit, just waiting
to be plucked only to have one bite taken out of him and left on the ground to
rot, and feed the tree that would produce more of the same. Boy would the
newsreader get an excuse to use her half-chuckle voice out of him.
“Why did you come here, Dick?” he couldn’t believe he said
it. Quacking at a crocodile. Yet he also couldn’t believe his voice sounded so
together. It almost sounded confident. He just had to initiate, to take his
share of the control. But he felt weak all over, as though what he’d done was
just Plan B for Dick. Or maybe there was no plan at all. Maybe she just wan…Where’s Nell? The question exploded into
his mind like an atomic firecracker. BOOOM!
Where’s Nell? It tortured him as though the question itself was the
interrogator, peeling his fingernails back demanding an answer he had no way of
giving. Where’s Nell? His mind was
being drawn and quartered.
“Where’s Nell?” Dick
asked, ripping the question from his head, causing Jane to attribute even more
power to her. Perhaps she’d put the question in there in the first place. When
she took it and said it out loud though, it was more demanding than asking,
though she maintained her you-know-something-terrifying-is-going-to-come-after-this-false-smiling-bullshit
mask.
“Sh-sh-she…she’s not here D-Dick.”
“I-I-I c-c-can s-s-see that, Y-Yáh-neh. You got two eyes, I got two
eyes. We can all fucking see that. Where is she?”
The mask was gone. As far gone
as the water from the toilet.
“Sh- She’s with Mum, Dick. Sh-She’s not coming home tonight.”
Jane regretted every syllable the moment it passed his lips.
Dick pondered the response for a long uncomfortable second, threw
the towel back through the laundry door then pulled a scrap of paper out of her
back pocket, unfolded it and read it, but not aloud. A new mask, one of feigned
surprise and sardonic curiosity, was constructed, recycling all of her facial
features in the process, with only the faintest trace of her previous visage of
honest unrefined rage.
“Oh! At Nanna Klara’s tonight is she? At your mums, eh? And
where is dear, sweet old Nanna Klara living these days?” She looked at the
paper again, like a palm card assisting her in this whole melodrama, “Wouldn’t
be 46 Cooperman Drive,
Mileambah, by any chance, would it?”
Jane just about collapsed. The futility of wondering how she
knew didn’t stop him from doing so. It was as futile as wondering how she found
him, and how she escaped and how this was going to pan out. And yet he did. The
essence of that futility flowed through him and sucked the oxygen from his
blood. As his knees buckled and his mind caved in and his stomach churned, he
wondered. He was terrified. And he had no doubt whatsoever, that Dick knew just
how terrified he was. He had known her long enough to know a genuine smile when
saw it. It disappeared as quickly and as smoothly as it had come.
“What the fuck’s she doing at your mum’s when her real
mum is right fucking here? You think it was easy coming all the way up here to
fucking Wesbrey Downs, just to see my baby girl, ey, Yáh-neh?”
She took a few steps down the hallway until she was standing
in the light of the kitchen. The light she must have turned on when she first
arrived. A Current Affair had started on TV. This’ll be on there in a week he
thought. Shaun and Prish, his mum, Ms. Safina, Nell. Nell? The kettle was still whistling, screaming now. Jane tensed.
His eyes trying to absorb the entire room. Escape routes. Potential weapons he
could use. Potential weapons she could use.
“You’re not supposed to be here Dick. Just go, please. I’ve
got my phone. Please Dick. I’ll call the…”
“The police! Go on. Call ‘em cunt. Don’t bother with an
ambulance though. Won’t be a need to go to hospital once I’m done with you,
Janie boy. And if you really think I give a fuck about the police, you must be
dumber than I give you credit for. No one’s gonna get me back into that
shithole. Uh-uh, tonight, we’re gonna sort out this custody battle without any
of your fucking lawyers or judges or cops or nosy fucking neighbours. Just me
and you. And anyway…you touch your phone, and I’ll break your phone-swiping
fingers. Who knows, maybe I’ll do it anyway.”
Everything flooded back. A deluge, saturated with the debris
of his time with Dick. The dry bloody shades of their relationship and the
soul-distorting soup of claustrophobia and agoraphobia through which he had
waded seemed to spill out of him and fill up the entire room like a noxious gas.
Fear rode him like a doped up horse. And the kettle raged on.
“If I had of known my
baby was gonna be over at, what was it, 46 Cooperman Drive, Mileambah, I would’ve
just gone straight over there. But this is good. Kill two birds with one stone,
as they say.”
Jane desperately wanted the butcher’s knife that lived in
the little wooden stand on the bench. To feel its black handle in his palm. Like
in the movies. It was too big for his chopping tastes and so he never used it.
He preferred the little paring knife. Either would do right now. But that big
blade always just sat right there on the bench, maybe two steps from where he
was standing and seemed much more appropriate to his needs now than it ever had
before. It might get him killed too, just like in the movies, but he was sure
it wouldn’t hurt his chances of surviving either. He shot as quick a glance as
he dared towards the block, but was forced to do a double take when he saw it
wasn’t there.
“You want this?” Dick asked, lifting up her shirt, high
enough that Jane could see the round bottoms of her bare breasts. Just below and
between them, the usually peaceful knife looked murderous, holstered in the
waistline of her black jeans. The blade must have reached down to her crotch,
and as she slipped it out, she let it drag deliberately up along the mound of her
pelvis.
Surely those aren’t prison pants.
Jane realised that somehow, between escaping and getting
here, Dick had managed to find some new clothes. Yellow t-shirt, black jeans.
She’d even managed to find some Vitalis. Where could you even buy that? Jane
had memory from just before Dick’s arrest of her saying that it had been
discontinued or something? Did she steal it? Was there some dead body in a
vintage barber shop somewhere between his house and Wacol? Or did she have
someone on the inside, like Red from Shawshank Redemption, who could “acquire”
things. A creepy feeling shifted through Jane’s skin when he realised what he
was seeing before him – Dick was wearing Sonia’s clothes. She must have left them here. He couldn’t remember. It wouldn’t be
out of the question. But…Has she done
something to Sonia? The shirt was so generic that it wouldn’t normally
stand out, but on closer inspection, he could see that it was the yellow t-shirt
she’d been wearing when he met her. He didn’t own one and she wore it often
enough that she could have just left it here. Maybe in the wash. And the jeans.
They were definitely her black jeans. Her favourite jeans. With the brown
stitching and faded knees. So what’s in
the washing machine? Fuck I hope she’s not involved in this.
He pushed the thought aside. The clothes had to have been
here. The ad on the TV was explaining the classifications systems for programs
so parents could decide what was suitable for their children and the kettle was
gurgling, feverishly burning up the last drops of water it had left, its
whistle, breathy in its death throes.
Dick held out the point of the knife in Jane’s direction and
Jane could see very clearly a future where that point punctured his body
several times at least. If he ran, it would ram down on him and bite its way
through his ribs to pierce his heart and/or lungs. If he tried to punch her,
something he never once did, even at the end, he had this gruesome vision of
his hand being chopped completely off, though he doubted it was possible
without a samurai sword or a chainsaw. No, if he tried it she’d be smart about
it – Dick had been in far more fights than him and he knew it – and would
probably just go low and drive it into his belly. Into his liver. Or fend off
his pathetic attempt at self defence and put it through his throat. Or his eye.
There were a thousand possibilities surrounding him, each as likely as the
next. One thing was for certain, it wouldn’t be going in somewhere so trivial,
as just below the collar-bone this time. If it missed the vital organ it was
aiming for, it would be going in again for seconds.
Nell?
There was still a bench between them, but Dick had moved to
one end. Jane was halfway along, and consciously put the barstool that Nell had
sat at to eat cereal from that very morning, between them. He had a window
behind him, but it was covered in security screen. He could jump the sofa and
head for the door, but Dick’s path was less obstructed and if he tripped and
fell, he would never get up. He was going to have to fight either way. And
after that, he thought, he was probably going to die.
Dick picked up the remote and turned off the television. The
silence was overwhelming. The kettle had unobtrusively ceased its squalling and
had been quietly absorbing the flames that still raged on full, as Dick and
Jane faced each other, surrounded by the vacuum of suburbia. The stink of
overheating out-gassing metal had begun to fill the air. It was the kind of
smell that rings all sorts of alarm bells in one’s head. A house-fire in the
making. But it didn’t smell half as threatening as the blatant aroma of Dick’s mysteriously
acquired Vitalis.
“I suppose you want these clothes back too. Is yellow not my
colour? I guess you prefer me in prison blue. Want me to do a strip-tease for
you, Jane. It’s been a while for me.
But for you, I’m capable of doing just about anything. Maybe after that, you wanna
probe me, see if I’ve got anything else of yours tucked away.” She slid her
hand down into Sonia’s jeans, and rubbed, swivelling her hips and making
exaggerated porn-star faces, while lifting her shirt with her knife hand, Sonia’s
shirt, and again the bottoms of her breasts were exposed, her nipples coyly
remaining as hidden as her next move. The bizarre connection between her
psychotic sexual display and the distant memory of their earliest times
together; times where Jane found Dick not only sexy, but irresistible; where
they had fucked madly in parks, in public pools and for their first time, out
the back in the shadows near the dumpster at work; made him feel ill all over.
She continued to grind against her finger and taunt him. He couldn’t help but
wonder if she was actually wet from this. She was gone. For an instant, her
face looked like a child. Like Nell. A new wave of disgust came up, as though
his soul dry-reached and mingled with the horror and fear and sick bewilderment
that had been assaulting his senses since he first realised Dick was not only
on the loose, but in the house. This
poor, poor girl. Jane swore right then and there as he had so many times
before, that if he ever caught someone fucking with Nell, he’d kill them. No
ifs. He’d kill them. He’d never killed a thing in his life. But would. He
could. If Dick’s father hadn’t killed himself, Jane would kill that fucker too.
In a heartbeat. Search him out and… Distracted by his oaths of vengeance at the
men who cause this sweet children to become as toxic as Rica Hansen-Romero , he
had ignored the bizarre menace that was seemingly arousing herself before him.
She was saying something to him.
“You just gonna watch? It’s ok. Wouldn’t be the first time
for me. I’ve seen it all. You name it, I’ve had it all to me and nearly
everything I’ve had it done to me, I have been seen having it done. Or maybe you
just wanna fuck me? I don’t see why not, it’ll only take a minute. One last quickie,
for old time’s sake. Is that what you want?” She snapped, suddenly penetrating
the air with the knife, a razor sharp whish sound, announcing its swift
movement. “You wanna put it in me, Jane.
Oh, hang on, wait, have you got any protection? You know what it’s like these
days, and who knows what you’ve caught from your little China doll.”
Horror once again became the dominant sensation, and somehow managed to
penetrate even deeper into to Jane’s deeply terrified mind. Deeper than his mind. This shit was tickling
at something primordial in him. Some form of fear that even single cell
bacteria must feel as Sonia died a thousand horrifying ways in his mind.
“So, if it’s not on, it’s not on.” Her hand was out of her
pants, her pants, and she was
waggling a finger in the air, in a gentle tut-tut, right next to the blade that
she was menacing him with. How the fuck could
she possibly know so much? He was freaking, wondering if Sonia was ok, if
she’d made it to the airport while assuming the worst. If Dick knew his address
and his mum’s address and he knew about Sonia, could she have hurt her already.
Or killed her? He stretched his head in unnatural contortions trying to
remember the last time they had sex; the time before; the last time she
showered in his house; the last time he saw her throw clothes on the floor; the
time before; the time before that. Nothing. Dick’s hold on him grew ten-fold, like
tentacles coursing through his body. What was in that washing machine, he
wanted to know. Why had she been washing her hands so long? And where was Nell?
“But that suits you just fine, doesn’t it?” She went on. “We
both know where you’d like to stick it, you fucking faggot. But those kind of
proclivities come at a very high price. And I’ll cut that thing off and stick
it up your own arse before I let it touch me again.” She didn’t move it much,
but he felt the blade home in on him slightly, as though it had a laser sight
putting a red dot over his heart.
“Dick, please, I never …” He
didn’t even know what he was going to say but apparently his brain had decided
something ought to be said, and denial seemed the natural option. But she cut
him off to finish it for him.
“Never what? Never lied! Well
that’s a lie right there.”
She stepped closer. He took one step back. Her voice
lowered, but the knife rose. The red dot was between his eyes. “Never cheated?
You think I couldn’t read the signs, Yáh-neh.
I know, you think I’m just some fucked up bevan chick with no fucking brain of
her own. Street smart maybe, but not clever. Not intelligent. Well, I may not
have your edu-ma-cayshun. I may not have read as many books as you, but I can
read men. I can read you. It was just so obvious. I bet Tina wasn’t so stoked
when you dumped her for your new matching yellow slut.”
“What?” Now Jane was honestly
just perplexed, it took him a moment to catch on to who she was talking about,
but the matching yellow thing was still completely out of left field. Of all
the things Dick was, racist wasn’t normally one of them, but when she was in a
rage, he knew for a fact, nothing was off limits, but… She’s absolutely gone. Dick is gone. “Tina? From work? Why are you
so obsessed about her. She worked in the check-outs, Dick. I did night-fill. I
hardly ever saw her. Apart from buying stuff off her, I think I only ever spoke
to her once coz we did stock-take in the same aisle and I needed her pen or
something. And even then I was freaking out. I couldn’t talk to anyone anymore
let alone girls, without feeling like you would explode. Especially at work. I
was nervous as shit and embarrassed coz we fought so many times right in front
of all of them. But whenever you asked me something like that, you always had
your mind made up. Anything I said just made me look guilty to you. Honestly,
Dick please, I’m not blaming you, I know why you don’t trust me, but please. I
didn’t do anything with Tina. It seriously took me a moment just now to even
know who you wer…”
“Fuuuuuck!” She screamed it so hard the air in the room
seemed to change colour. Her face contorted. Her entire body tensed, her fists
clenched, the cords of her neck strained so hard they might have snapped. She
didn’t even scream at him. It was at the world. At everything. That terrible
everything that gets to us all sometimes, but gets to some much harder than
others. Dick harder than most. Jane couldn’t help but feel for her in that
moment. He saw all the years of abuse she had suffered. Her own father for
God’s sake, that sick motherfucker. She was a tortured puppy, bitten by rabid paedophiles
and left to survive in the wilderness of government institutions. Tears welled
in her exhausted and enraged eyes; eyes looking in on a soul he was still to
that moment fighting to believe was not beyond repair. She might as well have
been eternal for her to fit in all that abuse and yet she couldn’t hide the
original child that lived in her still; that reminded him again and again now, unmistakably
of their five year old daughter. He had an urge, nothing more than a feeling,
boldly optimistic considering the circumstances, that if he reached out and
just touched her hand, gently, with all the love he had, she might just come
down from this dark rumbling storm-cloud. A sub-atomic feeling of hope, that
dared him to stick out his hand and bond with her. It would be risky, her
reaction unpredictable, potentially explosive, in all probability fatal, but it
would be honest. It would be true to the chemistry they once shared. He would
be completely exposing his heart, both emotional and physical, to attack, but
that felt right, because from here, no matter what may come Jane was certain,
there could be no more masks. His hands were shaking in morbid anticipation, on
the very edge of lifting, his feet one neural pulse away from stepping towards
her, when she exploded, and all hope was vaporised.
“I’m so sick of that
bullshit. ‘Honestly darling. I hardly
ever saw her. I only spoke to her once. Nothing happened’. Hardly ever
ain’t exactly never, Jane. And I
certainly can’t say I’ve never heard that one before. You were always so clever
with words weren’t you, Jane. With
your Brisbane Grammar education. But you couldn’t hide your body language. That’s
where the truth is. Any motherfucker over two years old can talk shit with
their mouth. But it takes real pro to talk shit with their body. You were
sweating bullets every time we went shopping. You practically got a hard-on
when we went through her check-out. Pretty little Tina. Fuckable, big-tittied
Tina. That’s probably why they call it a check-out. So cunts like you can perve
on little girls like her. I bet she was better than fucked up Rica could ever
be. I bet Tina never started crying when you fucked her. I bet China doll
doesn’t either. Why wouldn’t you go for that? Even my friends said you looked
guilty when I mentioned her to
you in front of them that time. And those girls know their shit. And I can tell
you right now, women can spot guilt on a man like an eagle can spot a rabbit in
the desert. We’re designed for it. And then our skills are honed by cheating,
lying bastards our whole lives. You act like you’re so different. I bet you any
money if I didn’t have these titties here, you wouldn’t have touched me with a
ten foot pole. If my dad had’ve managed to fuck
up my face as much as he fucked up my head, you’d have left me to the dogs. You’re
just like the rest of them. You managed to fuck me out the back of the
supermarket on a smoko break when you already had another girl on the go. Why
not Tina? You expect me to believe you were innocent when I saw the way she
avoided my eyes when we went shopping together? Do you have any idea of how
much bullshit I have heard come out of the mouths of men like you? No, because
you are just like the rest. You couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. And you all
think you can get away with it and then blame us for it. You tell yourselves we
just go around making shit up. And beat us until we agree with you. But oh! Typical
fucking women eh! It’s always the woman’s fault. Men can do whatever the fuck
they want. Fuck whoever the fuck they want. And what are they called. Legends.
Studs. And me? What was I called? A slut. A skank. A whore. But that didn’t
stop them coming back for seconds if they thought for an instant they could get
away with it. Didn’t stop them when all they wanted was to get their dick wet
for a minute. But the moment you need help, those times where you just can’t
take it anymore. They’re nowhere to be found. Just like that. Then they could
go back to their wives and drink wine and talk about how fucked up society is
and how women shouldn’t dress this way or that way. Or find some new young bit of
pussy to fuck and fuck over. And then look down on me. And what do they say
when I’m left fucking destitute and abandoned? I had it fucking coming didn’t
I? It was a different story when they thought they could get a root. Weren’t so
uppity about how little I was wearing then. But what did I expect? Women are always
in the wrong. We’re just fucking hysterical. We just making shit up coz we’re
so emotional. Coz we’re on the rag. I suppose I was just making shit up when
you snuck out in the middle of the night with my baby. That little girl I
carried around for nine months. That I gave birth to. My whole fucking world. I
fed that girl with those titties you and every other dumbfuck man can’t keep
your eyes off. I gave her life, and all you get is a stiff cock. Even before,
with a knife in my hand, all you could do was look at my fucking tits. That was
all my fault too wasn’t it? Or was that just a figment of my fucking
imagination too. Even when I’m just imagining things I’m wrong. When you
kidnapped her, and took her to your mum’s house. Nanna fuckin' Klara. Now at,”
she shook the note with the address on it, “46 Cooperman Drive, Mile-fucking-ambah, I
was wrong. I had to be. The lawyer said you were right. The judge said you were
right. Well motherfucker! You right now, Jane?
You right now?”
With that last word still leaving her lips, Dick flicked the
address at him and launched forward, faster than Jane thought possible, even
for her, putting her full weight behind a lunging, stabbing motion which, if
the blade had’ve made its mark would have surely come out the other side. But
Jane fell backwards, more from shock than strategy. When he looked up, he saw
Dick rushing in for another attack, but he launched his feet up at the bar
stool that stood between them and it lifted up to meet her tumbling braless breasts,
hitting the blade too, making a sound as though the collision actually made the
edge that much sharper.
He scrambled backwards, a reverse crawl on all fours until
the back of his shoulders came hard up against the wall with the security
screen window. The bench was above him. He pulled himself up and hauled himself
over into the kitchen side, as Dick crashed into the corner with another
swiping movement. A chunk of plaster was gouged from the wall where the knife
had struck. Dick was growling and yelling. Not words, but intelligible
nonetheless. It was pure rage speaking with perfect diction.
Jane stood up and started grabbing whatever he could from
around him and hurling it at his former partner of four and half years. The wooden
pepper grinder, sailed past Dick’s head and hit the TV with such force a crack
shot out in all directions on the screen. The chopping board, flew like a
Frisbee, skidding off the junk mail on the bench before collecting a glass and
a magazine on the dining table, no where near where Dick was standing. Jane
picked up a wok from in the sink, still half-filled with water from soaking,
and with both hands tossed it at Dick, soaking himself in greasy, soy sauce
flavoured water in the process. It stung his eyes, but he could see it didn’t
connect. As he went to grab an empty wine bottle, left there from the dinner
he’d had with Sonia and Nell the night before, Dick vaulted over the bench, but
mistimed her landing and crashed into the cupboard right next to Jane. This was
his chance. He bolted towards the hallway, but Dick swung her knife wielding
hand out and the blade caught his ankle. The bottle left his hand and kept
going forward until it met the wall with a hollow clunk, but Jane went down,
and the hot sensation of blood escaping and unfathomable pain, shot from his
Achilles up his spine to his brain.
Dick sprang up, coming in for the kill. Though this time the
prey had been more resilient, she knew she was still top of the food chain.
Jane looked down at his foot, his sock slashed open to reveal a bubbling bloody
wound. He could see the layer of fat beneath his skin, pale yellow and white. Was
that bone? Dick was coming at him full speed. He shot his bleeding ankle up,
his foot dangling limply, and Dick ran straight into it, her stomach bending
around it, as a burst of forced breath shot from her lips. The horrendous pain
of the impact, caused Jane to momentarily slip into another plane of existence,
before resurfacing back to the present with the horrible realisation that Dick
had fallen right beside him, the knife opening up his upper right arm as she
fell. More blood. More pain. But nothing near as much as his ankle. He bounced
up to his feet and fell just as quickly, landing a good metre away from her.
Everything went sparkly white as he spent another long protracted moment blanking
out to deal with the excruciating sensation of having put his full weight on
his half severed ankle.
Dick, who must have smacked her head hard on the edge of the
sink or something, sat up slightly dazed, with a trickle of blood slowly seeping
from her temple down her high cheekbones; cheekbones Jane once found utterly irresistible
when she smiled. Drops of blood speckled the yellow shirt
Jane tried once more to stand, and managed to get himself up
on his good foot, with his other leg cocked to keep it up. His back was to the
stove and the heat of flames that had now turned the bottom half of the kettle a
luminescent red, felt like they were burning him too. They probably were. Pain
was everywhere. But without the stove he couldn’t have remained standing. He
couldn’t run anymore and Dick was now getting to her feet in the only exit from
the kitchen that didn’t involve getting across the bench once again. Something
Jane knew without doubt he could not manage. The knife, somehow, was still in
Dick’s hand as she stood before him, with the already coagulating blood from
his ankle and arm that Dick had fallen into, now covering large sections of
Sonia’s clothes; the bloody yellow shirt clinging wet to her left breast; a
little stream of red still flowing gently down Dick’s face, to fall and mingle
soaking with his own more liberal offering.
“If you kill me Dick, you’re gonna go back to jail. Just
stop it. Please Dick. Please! You’ll never see Nell again. She’ll never want to
see you again. Is that what you want? She could still forgive you Dick. I will
explain it all to her. You could explain it to her. Please. Just stop.” He was sobbing,
screaming hoarsely, pleading and breathing like an exhausted dog.
“They were never gonna let me see her again anyway. And
neither were you. You were glad I was out of the picture. And if I was you
right now, I’d be making promises I couldn’t keep too. At least this way, I got
a chance. I could take her up north, or over to WA, where no cunt will bother
us. And if they do find me, and they get to me before I pull a dad, and prevent
myself from going back to prison.” She didn’t have to explain for Jane to know
what she meant, “Well, at least this time it’d be for something I actually did,
and not just attempted.”
It was the blade Jane saw, not Dick. The light above caught
it as it came slashing at his face. He ducked, but he felt something hard
connect with the top of his head. The feeling was so raw he had no thoughts
that seemed to fit the description. He slid down the oven to the floor. Above
him, in his periphery, he saw a sudden explosion of orange light. Then Dick,
Rica Hansen-Romero, from the TV, flew back from the stovetop with a ball of
flame where her hair should have been. She crashed backwards into the bench
with such force, it looked like her spine bent a full ninety degrees, before
hitting the ground in a screaming fit of fire. She was clawing at her head and
lashing out with her legs. The pungent stink of burning hair and flesh forced
its way into Jane’s fading consciousness, rousing him briefly to witness the
flaming writhing agony before him, only to let him fade again.
Jane had no idea how long he was out, but the flames were
gone. Though her scalp was still smouldering, Dick had stopped moving. The
odour of her Vitalis fuelled incineration thick in the air. Jane’s head felt as
though someone had hit it with an axe, and little pieces, like woodchips, had
flown off, leaving a wedge in his skull. “Nell?”
He didn’t know whether he’d thunk it or said it. He had to get up. He had to
get to the phone. Had to call Nanna Klara. Had to call triple-O. Had to…
A beeping sound.
The washing machine. Dick put something in the washing machine.
Jane managed to open his eyes from a lost dream. His vision
coalesced upon a twisted, blood-stained lump, laying across from him…
Beep.
He snapped awake again though his eyes barely opened. Blood
had begun to glue his eye-lashes together. There were pools of dark red, with
skid marks through them all over the tile floor, left by the chaos he had, he
was guessing, just lived through…
Beeeep.
He came to, slumped against the stove, to the memory of
Dick’s fiery head flying over him and across the kitchen. Dick hadn’t got up to
attack him again. He was hurt though. Hurt very bad. And where was Nell? She’s at mum’s. She’ll still be mad at me.
I should just stay home and paint…
Beeeeeeeeeeeep.
Gasping he woke suddenly, with a clarity that felt
unnatural. Concussion and shock saved him from the ordeal of being too aware of
his pain. The light above, was as bright as any sun. He had to move. He had to
find Nell. The thought of getting his phone, calling triple-O, calling his mum,
seeing Nell, picking her up and hugging her to his chest, feeling the proof
that she was safe, gave him new found strength. The thought of standing up to
do it though, made him realise just how weak he was. But he had to. He’d drag
himself there even if it took him an hour. Even if it killed him. He had too.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
That’s not the washing machine. The fire alarm. Dick’s head set off the
fire alarm.
Jane let himself slide sideways down the oven to the ground in
order to begin the longest journey across a kitchen floor he would ever embark
on. He inched his way over the tiles, past Dick, careful not to touch her, rounded
the bench, and dragged himself like a shark-bitten seal over to where his
backpack still lay. Occasionally his ankle would catch on the tiles, or debris
from the fight, and he would blank out in agony, only to rouse again, and drag
himself on towards everything and everyone that could make this better. Past the
barstool that saved his life, to the corner by the window that almost killed
him. His bag lay there waiting for him. He put everything he had into getting
himself upright enough to lean on the wall, then, with the hand on the arm that
hadn’t been slashed open, started going through the compartments of the
backpack.
Another beeping sound. Different to the shrill fire alarm. The load is finished, he thought, until
he felt a familiar buzz in his cargo shorts. The phone had been in his pocket
the whole time. It was ringing.
By the time he’d managed to get it out, the call had ended.
He was beyond sighing. It was just another tragic and potentially fatal irony
to accept. It made a beeping sound, quiet compared to the wailing of the fire
alarm. ‘You have 18 missed calls: Mum’ the
screen said. Eighteen! How long have I
been out? Then the phone started to vibrate, and in less than a second came
a beeping sound to notify him he was being called. ‘Mum’ the screen said. His
bloody fingers tried in slow desperate clumsiness to answer. The touch screen
didn’t seem to register the swiping through the film of blood. He squeezed with
all his remaining might and slid his thumb from the little incoming-call green
phone to the outside of the circle. It was answering. He put the phone to his
ear, and when he did, he felt the blood that coated it completely and pooled up
inside its hollows. He tilted his head to the side and coagulating blood drained
from his ear hole. He had to force himself to stay conscious.
“Mum.” It came out a shattered
whisper.
“Yáhneh. It’s Mum. Are you
there?”
“Mum.”
“Are you ok? Yáhneh. What’s that noise? Yáhneh, have you
seen the news? It’s Dick. Dick’s escaped from prison. The police called me not
long ago, said they couldn’t get in touch with you. Did you not give them your
new number darling? Yáhneh
I’ve been worried sick about you. They said they went to your house but
you weren’t home. Are you ok? Yáhneh. I’ve been trying to call you too but you
weren’t picking up. Are you at home? I put Nell to bed but, should I come get
you? Yáhneh, where are you? I spoke to Sonia, she said she hadn’t heard from
you either, but she’s all the way down in town still with her sister. Yáhneh,
are you ok? Please darling. The police said they were s….”
The phone fell to the floor. Another alarm. Beep. Beep.
Beep. Not the phone. The washing machine.
Dick’s load must be done.
…Jane.
A FEW WORDS OF ACKOWLEDGMENT AND EXPLANATION
Hi,
If you’re reading this, then you’ve just read my take on Dick and Jane. The “Dick and Jane”
concept, was a creative writing exercise set out by Stephen King in On Writing; his attempt at explaining
the art and work of creative writing; and how he “came to the craft”.
The concept was designed to put a spin on the usual bad guy
vs. good girl trope all too often played out in thriller fiction—and
unfortunately, all too often in real life—by reversing the genders of the
victim/attacker. It wasn’t intended to be a quasi-feminist statement, “Hey!
Women have the right to be psycho killers too!”, nor a misogynist apologist
narrative saying, “See! Men suffer too!” It was much more of an attempt to get
people, new to the craft, to think outside of the little hollow cube like thing
we hear so much about.
He set up a scenario involving two people, Dick and Jane,
ex-lovers with a terrible history that led to their separation via means that,
while unspecified, were clearly less than a peaceful agreement. He inserted
certain props into the narrative mix, like Vitalis Hair Tonic and a boiling
kettle, but other than that, he pretty much left it up to each individual
writer who took the plunge to turn these elements into a story. This is my
attempt to bring Dick and Jane to life, and perhaps…death.
After writing this story, I contacted the Stephen King
Website to see if they were still making good on the offer in On Writing, for sending in our versions
of the tale. The reply was swift and polite. Jordan. M. Hahn, said that Stephen
had not thought through his generous offer, and the possibility that people
would still be sending in Dick and Jane stories even still, decades after the
original publishing had not occurred to him at the time. Thank you, but, sorry, no. We are planning on
removing that offer from future editions of the book.
Bah! Rejection is nothing…sob. I love my Dick. And my Jane.
Surely somebody else would be interested in seeing my Dick and Jane if Stephen
is too busy writing his next best-selling novel. I will try to get it published
elsewhere I thought. But I should ask permission. The last thing I want is a
literary hero suing me for using his Dick and Jane without permission. So I
wrote back. Excuse me sir, another moment of your time. Can I..? Would you mind
if..? Of course I’ll acknowledge you. Really! That’s fucking awesome news!!!
Regards, yours truly.
That’s my version of events and I’m sticking too it. What my
version of Dick and Jane turned into was more than just a writing exercise. It
was an exploration of some of the most deplorable of human tendencies, and how
they affect those that can’t escape them. I give you Dick and Jane.
I would say enjoy…but it seems like the wrong word.
Dau Branchazel 2015