by John Dale
“I don’t think I ever went on a picnic with you.”
This was why Jesse wasn’t a good lawyer. She got stuck on the details, couldn’t see the bigger story.
“Well, you did,” I said. “And we ate falafel and hummus and vine leaves and olives and pita bread. When the food was finished, we fucked on the rug.”
“We did not,” said Jesse, and put her hand over her mouth.
“Yes you did!” shouted the prisoner in the meeting room next door.
“So I took that rug,” I said to Jesse, “and I rolled everything of you inside it—all your pictures and letters, and the James Baldwin books and the Spearhead CDs, and the shirt you bought me in Bali and the shell necklace and the lamp—and I got Tim to carry them with me to the edge of the cliff and throw them the fuck into the ocean, because it’s been ten years now, Jesse, and I can’t haul them around with me anymore. I’ve got to let you go.”
A tear clouded her eye. I never wanted Jesse to cry.
“So it wasn’t Jamie in the rug?” she asked.
“Of course it wasn’t Jamie,” I said.
* * *
My duties to the Lion King were pretty much the same as his cellie’s. Basically, I helped him exercise his privileges. I rolled his cigarettes—and the occasional joint—looked after his cell phone in case we got raided, and answered for him and his cellie at the afternoon muster. In the mornings, his cellie answered for me and the Lion King, and I stood like a sentry at his door, because this was his most vulnerable time, when the wing was almost empty. And yeah, I’m ashamed to say it, but I helped him stand over the new prisoners, and ascertain whether they were black, white, or brindle, before he hit them for protection or invited them into his scumbag Nazi gang.
I’d been in Long Bay for three weeks when Jamie rocked up at the Newtown police station, suntanned and smiling and very, very not dead. He did his charm-the-straight-guy thing. He flattered the cops. He’d been fishing, he said, in the Cocos Islands. He’d just got back and heard the news. The sergeant asked him if he’d caught much. Jamie said he’d caught a bonefish as long as your arm. The way he put it could have sounded like a pass if the sergeant had wanted to take it that way.
The cops called in Jesse, she did her thing, and obviously they dropped the blue because you can’t have a murder when the murder victim’s standing in front of you.
Jesse picked me up and drove me from Long Bay to Sydney Airport.
“So where’s Tim?” she asked.
“Turns out he was fishing with Jamie.” Imagine my surprise.
Jesse seemed angry. “What was this all for, Chevy?”
Even then, when I looked at her, I felt happy and safe, as if nothing could truly go wrong as long as I had Jesse by my side.
“You got your criminal-law experience, didn’t you?” I said. “I’m sorry it didn’t go to court.”
“Are you mad?”
And, you know, I think I did go a little bit crazy when she left me, because I lost two of the four people I loved, and one of the others was already dead.
* * *
I was chewing doughy croissants in the crappy SkyTeam Lounge, wearing an outfit I’d bought in the terminal. I had no luggage, and I was traveling on my Laotian passport. My body was at the airport, but my mind was still in jail.
I was imagining the morning routine. The Lion King had sent his cellie down for roll call. It would be his cellie who told the screws he was alive and, an hour later—after he’d bullied and nuzzled the punching bag—it would be his cellie who told them he was dead. It would also be his cellie who was the first suspect. After all, he had form. He’d killed the girl at Moorebank.
It would be days before they thought of me, a squarehead, an innocent, an architect.
I remembered the Lion King’s lazy, startled eyes as I walked into his cell with a razor blade on a toothbrush handle. I’d get no marks for originality, but sometimes you can’t improve on a classic. He jumped off his bunk faster than I would’ve thought possible. When he came up, I caught him with the same hook that had floored Jamie on the CCTV film, but this time neither of us was acting.
I striped the fat cunt like a tiger, the way my half-brother Trent used to cut up Lions back on Tasman Street, La Perouse, where I was born.
PART II
SEX AND THE CITY
THE TRANSMUTATION OF SEX
by Leigh Redhead
Parramatta
Every great love affair has its origin story. You know, the thing you tell at couples dinner parties, when people ask: “So, how did you two meet?” And ours is a doozy, although probably a little more R-rated than most.
The day I met Josh my life changed, completely, and the funny thing was that in all my twenty-one years I had never believed in the concept of romantic love, let alone love at first sight. I’d never experienced it, and always thought it was a bullshit scam, laid on by corporations to sell greeting cards and Taylor Swift records. I’d always been kind of cynical, I guess. It started at my country high school where I saw all these smart girls fall for the dumbest boys. Everyone’d be drunk at a party and the guys would tell the chicks lovey-dovey shit—anything to get a blowie or a root—and next Monday the sordid details would be online for the whole school to see; the dude wouldn’t even talk to the girl and she’d be so ashamed she’d either OD dramatically on Panadol or enroll in the Christian college on the other side of town. It was pathetic, and it was never gonna happen to me, although that did leave the problem of how to lose my virginity. By the time I was fourteen masturbation just wasn’t cutting it, and I didn’t like that other girls out there knew something I didn’t, so I set about getting that monkey off my back. There was a history teacher I liked at school, Mr. Simms, and as far as I knew none of the other girls had fucked a teacher, so I figured it would be sort of cool, you know?
“OMG,” my friend Shona said. “He’s ancient. It’s gross. He must be at least thirty-five.” She needn’t have worried because no matter how much I lingered after Mr. Simms’s class, leaning over his desk with my top button undone (and I should mention I had the biggest rack in year nine) while asking insightful questions about the impact of European settlement on indigenous people, he wouldn’t take the bait. As a young girl everyone warned me about stranger danger, and older men taking advantage, but pedophiles are like cops: there’s never one around when you need one.
I finally lost it at fifteen, when a band from nearby Port Macquarie came and played an all-ages gig in the park. Drunk on a four-liter cask of goon. Shona and the other girls were giggling and swooning over the front man, but I liked the bass player who hung back, quietly confident. After their set I went up to him, no giggling, told him I liked their songs, and asked if he wanted a line of speed. He did. It wasn’t really speed, just a few crushed-up pills my brother takes for his ADHD, but if you have enough it works. An hour later we were fucking in the back of the band’s Tarago. It didn’t hurt much and there was no blood, thank god. We were together for a while, after I left school in year ten. Long story short, I ended up with another muso, Matt, who was touring with his System of a Down cover band, and at age eighteen I moved to Sydney to live with him.
All this might make me sound like a bit of a groupie, or hanger-on, but I’m not. I like to have my own money, and my own drugs, and I don’t rely on anyone but myself. I’m ambitious, you see, and I think that’s for two reasons. One, I’ve never wanted to end up like my single mother, living dole payment to dole payment and waiting her whole life for a commission flat that never materialized; and two is a book. Now you may look at me and think, She doesn’t seem like much of a reader, and you would be absolutely right, except for this one book I’ve read literally thousands of times, ever since I stole it from the Taree Salvation Army thrift store back in 2007. We used to nick clothes, not books, and my friends thought I was mad, but something about the title grabbed me: Think and Grow Rich.
In case you haven’t read it (and you really should) it was written
by this guy called Napoleon Hill, way back in 1937. He basically interviewed all the mega-rich dudes of the time, and came up with “The Thirteen Proven Steps to Riches” which include stuff like desire, faith, auto-suggestion, specialized knowledge, imagination, planning, decision, persistence, the power of the mastermind, and the mystery of sex transmutation. Now, this last one tends to confuse people and it freaks out Americans, probably because of the “s” word, and I didn’t get it for a long time, but now I do. Wanna know what it is? Well, you’ll have to wait.
So, where was I? Oh yeah, the greatest love story of all time started at a Meriton-serviced apartment in Parramatta that had been rented for a buck’s party. I’d been working at the Sefton Playhouse—the strip club near the station—for a couple of years by then and some of the other girls and I were providing the entertainment. You know the drill—warm-up show, vibe show, fruit and veg, and finally the big shebang: lesbian double with vibes. I did the warm-up, which doesn’t pay quite as well as the others, but was confident I’d make it up in private dances afterward. When my show was over I went to do another line of coke in the bathroom with my best friend Kailee who was up next, then I found one of those pink Bacardi Breezers that the guys had thoughtfully organized for the dancers, and decided to go out on the balcony for a cigarette.
I was standing there in my bikini, enjoying the warmth of the November afternoon, smoking and looking out over the brown water of the Parramatta River, Sydney Olympic Park, and the city skyline far off in the distance, thinking I’d love an apartment here. Matt and I shared a crappy old house in Lidcombe with his drummer Dave, who was a total sleaze but handy to have around because of his drug contacts. They loved it, thought all the cracked plaster and moldy brown tiles were authentic or something, but I preferred new buildings, like this place. Faux-granite benchtops, gleaming bathroom fittings, and immaculate beige carpet. As I smoked I did a quick calculation about how much money I was going to make from lap dances and had just figured that five hundred bucks was quite achievable when I realized I wasn’t alone. Sitting on a chair made of gray plastic wicker, half hidden behind a potted palm, was a guy. Thirties maybe, ordinary looking, dark hair, checked flannel shirt, and glasses. He was listening to an iPod while engrossed in a book.
I nearly laughed out loud. Who in the actual fuck comes to a buck’s party to read? I stuck out my leg and tapped him on the knee with the toe of my Perspex platform. He jumped, dropped the book, then took out his earbuds and looked at me.
I get pretty chatty when I’m high, so I said, “Are you actually part of this buck’s turn, or just some random who scaled the balcony to find a quiet place to read?”
“Part of it,” he sighed. “Wish I wasn’t, but my cousin’s the buck and my brother’s the best man. We’ve been drinking since ten in the morning and were forced to play paintball. What a nightmare. I’m going to slip away before we end up at a brothel.”
“What’s the book?” I asked, and he turned it over to show me the cover.
“The Fall,” I read. “Albert Camus. Any good?”
“Camoo,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“It’s pronounced Camoo. And yeah, it is good. I’m rereading it for a tutorial I’ve got on Monday.”
“You studying?”
“I was. Finished my PhD and picked up some teaching work.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Western Sydney Uni, Parramatta.”
“Get out!” I squealed. “That’s where I’m going next year.”
“Really? What course?”
“Bachelor of Business.” This really impressed most guys I met at the Playhouse, but the dude’s top lip curled. “What’s wrong with a business degree?” I asked.
“Nothing. It’s just not really my bag.”
The muffled thump of the music inside stopped, replaced by woops and applause. That’d be Kailee’s show done and she’d be ready for another line.
“Lesbian double’s on next,” I teased. “You don’t want to miss that.”
He groaned and covered his eyes.
I was looking in my purse, checking I still had the baggie of coke wedged behind my Medicare card, when the glass door slid open and the best man poked his bald head out. He wore pressed jeans, a shiny gray shirt, and a cloud of Lynx deodorant so thick it was nearly visible. He briefly ogled my tits, then looking around the rest of the balcony, spotted his brother.
“Josh-o, you faggot. Whatcha doing out here? Dyke show’s about to start.” He made a V with his index and middle finger and waggled his tongue in between.
Josh raised his beer. “Just having a quiet—”
“Lap dance!” I interjected, slipping my own fifty out of my wallet, waving it around, then sliding it back in, making out like Josh had just paid me.
I don’t know what had given me the urge to save Josh from his brother. Maybe it was because the brother had tried to stick his fingers in when I’d bent over in front of him during my show. Or maybe it’s because strippers are like cats. You know how if you love cats, and you’re all, Here, kitty-kitty-kitty, they’ll ignore you? And if you hate them, or are allergic, that fucking cat is gonna be all over you? Well, that’s what was happening here, I guess. The brother wasn’t looking entirely convinced so I swigged the last of my pink drink, strode over to Josh, planted my legs on either side of his, and held on to the back of the chair. I expected him to flinch, but he was good, hamming it up, saluting his brother with the beer bottle.
Baldy stood there, arms crossed.
“Bit of privacy?” Josh asked. “You watching is uncomfortably close to incest.”
The brother snorted and walked back out the door.
“Thanks for that,” Josh said. When I didn’t move away, he continued, “Uh, you don’t actually have to do it, he’s gone.”
“But what if he comes back? We need to keep up the act. One song. Sit back and think of Camoo.”
We didn’t have any music, so I grabbed his earbuds, stuck one in his ear and the other in mine. A Nick Cave song started playing—“Are You the One That I’ve Been Waiting For.” It wasn’t exactly Lil Wayne, but it would have to do. Then, because there were no pesky bouncers to uphold no-contact laws, I sat on his lap, and the instant the backs of my thighs touched the front of his, the weirdest thing happened. My skin burned with a fierce, inexplicable heat, and buzzed like I was touching a live electrical wire. I jumped up, startled, and as soon as I wasn’t touching him my flesh went cold. Too cold. I couldn’t bear it so I sat back down and the warmth returned. As Nick sang, “You’ve been moving surely toward me,” I leaned in and slowly rested my lower abdomen, rib cage, then boobs against his torso, and it was the same thing as with the legs: a flood of warmth and tingling that made my heart pound. Sure, I was a little high, but I’m a little high most of the time and nothing like that had ever happened before.
“Oh my god,” I said. “Do you feel that?”
“Ye-es,” he said hesitantly.
I couldn’t help it, I leaned in and kissed him. Just a short kiss, more than a peck, less than a porn tonguing, but oh my god. It was like sparks flew between our lips, and my mouth felt like it was stuffed full of Pop Rocks and Wizz Fizz and my brain buzzed like I’d just done an enormous line of the purest cocaine in all Bolivia, even though the stuff I had in the baggie was actually total shit.
Then the song finished and his phone buzzed in his shirt pocket. He fished it out and looked at it, then back at me. He smiled ruefully and said, “My Uber’s here.”
I walked with him to the front door, the other guys so engrossed in the double show they didn’t notice us.
“Well, thanks for that,” he said. “It was quite an experience.”
I stared at him, desperately trying to commit his face to memory, though it was difficult because he was just an ordinary-looking guy. Average height, dark-brown hair, not ugly, but not even as good-looking as my boyfriend Matt, who had chicks literally flinging their slimy G-strings at him on stage
.
A voice in my head screamed, Kiss me, touch me, don’t go! but all I said was. “No problem, nice to meet you,” and then he was gone, and I would never see him again.
Kailee found me in the bathroom, hunched over the sink, grabbing at my stomach which felt like it was being pierced by metal barbecue skewers. She told me later I’d gone deathly pale under my spray tan and she was convinced I’d been raped.
“I feel like I’m going to vomit,” I told her. “I think I’m in love.”
* * *
The rest of the afternoon went by in a blur. I made my five hundred bucks, and when I got home to Lidcombe there was a party going on, like most weekends. I stood at the rusted sink, piled with the usual dirty dishes, and looked out the window. Matt was off his chops, staggering around in the overgrown backyard, attempting to play Rugby League with a couple of friends.
“What’s he on?” I asked Dave, who’d sidled up behind me.
“GHB,” he said. “Want some?”
“The date-rape drug? No thanks.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the Telegraph. The sex on G is amazing.”
He pushed his groin into my arse and I turned and swatted him away. “Fuck off Dave, seriously.”
“You know, Matt plays up when he’s on tour. A lot.”
I knew, and it didn’t worry me. Probably because I met up with the occasional club punter after work, but only if the money was very, very good.
Dave moved in close. He was my height, with shaggy auburn hair and dry lips that collected white stuff in the corners. “It’s not fair if you don’t get to have some fun of your own.”
I pushed him away, took my iPhone into the bedroom, and locked the door. I had research to do.
* * *
“So, how’s your crush going?” Kailee said. We were in the girls’ room at the Playhouse, putting on makeup.
“It’s not a crush. This is serious.” I wasn’t lying. I’d tried to put Josh out of my mind, chalk the whole episode up to a combination of cocaine, Nick Cave, and alcopops, but it hadn’t worked. For the last four days he’d been the first thing I thought about when I woke up, and the last before I went to sleep. And then I dreamed about the motherfucker. I was spending more time staring at photos of him on Google Images than I was planning my financial future. I was losing my mind.
