‘So, anyway,’ Ged says. ‘What’re you guys doing this weekend?’
Harrison and I shrug.
‘Ant’s having a bit of a gathering.’
‘Ant as in Anthony Fitzpatrick, your best mate who punched you?’
Ged gives me a look that could kill a small bird, then picks out a button-up with violent red and purple stripes.
‘Yes, Hamlet. My mate. It’s a bit of a welcome back thing for him, and Jess wants me to bring friends.’
‘Welcome back from where?’ Harrison asks, replacing the shirt gently with a plain blue one.
‘He got kicked out of uni.’
‘Ah.’
‘Why d’you want us to go?’ I ask as Ged starts towards the change rooms, already pulling off his NGS blazer.
He sticks his head out from behind the curtain a minute later, annoyed. ‘Cause she wants to like “meet my friends” or some shit, and as bad luck would have it, that’s you dickheads.’
‘We’re not friends – I’m related to you,’ Harrison points out.
Ged emerges wearing the blue shirt. It’s quite tight across the chest, but otherwise not entirely awful.
‘Potato, tomato,’ he says. ‘I need you to come. The others too.’
‘But they’re sick,’ I protest.
Ged gives me another look. ‘As if Cane won’t come if you ask. Leave our cockney sparra to me.’
‘I really don’t think he’ll want to,’ I say.
‘It’s dress up,’ Ged says suddenly, with the finality of ‘checkmate’.
I open my mouth to argue, but then I remember the debacle that was Spew Grant. This is, possibly, my last chance for party redemption.
‘Fine. Where and when?’
‘The Shrieking Shack. Seven thirty.’
‘You’re inviting us to a party at an abandoned house in the outer suburbs with blood on the walls?’
‘We don’t know for sure that it’s blood, do we? And people have parties there all the time!’
‘Jesus.’
‘Sorry, Jesus,’ Harrison says gleefully. ‘I’m pretty sure I have work.’
I ring the Canes’ doorbell on Saturday morning. It’s sunlit-freezing under a hard blue sky and I’m wearing the one coat I own – thrifted and camel coloured – thrown haphazardly over an old jumper of Dad’s with paint all over it. Len’s street isn’t fully up for the day yet, curtains forming tight-shut eyelids on the houses.
The door is painted black, with the old embossed cherubs underneath. I ring the bell again. There’s footsteps inside and then John swings it open. He’s squinting down at his BlackBerry.
I wait for a long minute, before clearing my throat loudly.
‘Hello, Henry,’ he finally says, his voice clipped like a politician’s. ‘How are you?’
‘Good!’ I reply, too cheerily. ‘And … you?’
‘Fine.’ He picks up a black leather bag from beside the door and slings it over one shoulder. He’s wearing a suit and the sort of spicy cologne that has physical weight.
‘Going on a trip?’ I ask.
‘Work,’ John corrects smoothly.
He does something high up in an advertising firm. Something important involving oozing charm and travelling most weeks out of the year.
‘Right! Sorry.’
John tilts his head. ‘What for?’
‘Uh.’
Conversations with John always feel weirdly as though I’m competing in a sport I don’t know the rules of. He looks at me expectantly for a bit, then says, ‘You’re after my son, I’m guessing?’
‘… Yeah, if he’s home?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘Great.’
He looks down at the bottom of my jumper where it’s caked in yellow paint.
‘My dad’s got an exhibition coming up,’ I explain, crumpling it in my hand. ‘Occupational hazard.’
John watches me. His eyes are the same colour as the sky looks through the clouds drifting above us. After a beat of awkwardly silent jumper-assessing, he clears his throat even louder than I did.
Apparently, this signals the end of the conversation, because then he sidesteps me so narrowly that I almost trip over, and walks down the wooden steps.
He gets into his Porsche and accelerator-snarls backwards onto the road without checking his mirrors. I stare after him for a minute, then push the dead-cherubs door back open.
When Sarah was here, the house had a smell that was warm-roses maybe, or incense. Now it’s gone, and still, save for the chandelier tinkling on a heating-duct breeze.
I jog upstairs and find Len lying upside down on his bed playing PlayStation with The National murmuring on an eighties turntable in the background. There’s a photo of his mum hugging her corduroy-covered knees beside it that I haven’t seen before. I think it’s one he took.
‘How’s the plague going, then?’ I open as brightly as I can, standing in front of him.
He pauses the game and sits up. His eyes are pink rimmed and he looks wiped out, but otherwise through the worst of it.
‘What’re you doing here?’
‘I’m your flu tour guide, here to take you on the journey of recovery.’
He snorts snottily. ‘Right. How’s school?’
‘Boring. Half the class is sick; even Martin’s got it, though he refuses to go home. The Sniffer’s got extension requests coming out of his eyeballs. I brought your homework.’
I pick up the spare controller from his desk and wipe it gingerly with a tissue, then sit down on the floor.
We play for a few hours. I even almost beat him a couple of times. He has to keep stopping to cough up a lung into his sleeve.
I look over at his blotchy, sad face. I don’t like it. For some reason, it clogs up my throat.
‘It’s settled!’ I announce, pausing the game again. ‘You’re coming over to mine, and we’re doing something.’
Len looks confused. ‘Something?’
‘We’re going to a party,’ I say, with forced excitement.
‘Where?’
‘The Shrieking Shack.’
‘When you said you wanted to do something, I wasn’t exactly picturing being willingly sacrificed to the Satanic gods.’
‘Technically, there aren’t Satanic gods.’
Len shoots me a dark look.
‘What? I’m just saying, I feel like Satan would be a flying solo type of guy.’
He doesn’t concede me the point. ‘Still, that place is creepy.’
‘It’s a bunch of private school kids. What’s the worst that could happen?’
He sighs.
‘You said I had to get out and socialise more,’ I point out. ‘Experiences, et cetera.’
‘Did I? I don’t recall.’
‘It’s just a party. It’ll be fun.’
‘Need I remind you of what happened last time?’
Low blow – he is in a bad mood.
‘That’s all changed now. I’m a new man.’
He rubs his eyes. ‘Why are you so into the idea?’ he asks. ‘Normally you’d just want to stay in and, like, watch Meryl Streep movies.’
‘Meryl can wait. Tonight, I’m your party guide.’
‘I thought you were my flu guide.’
‘It’s a dual role. My range is endless.’
Len shakes his head, but swings his legs over the edge of the bed.
We’re still bickering about it when we clatter through my front door. I hold up Ged’s pleading texts in rebuttal.
HAmLET R U GUYS CUMING
ANSER ME U FUKR
HAMLET PLS
PLS HAMLET
Len sighs forcefully.
‘Come on,’ I plead. ‘He really wants us to go. You’re good at parties!’
Mum’s in the living
room reading. ‘Party?’ She sits up and looks at us. ‘What party?’
‘We’re not going,’ I tell her.
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s chicken.’ I point at Len.
‘You have to go!’ Dad’s disembodied voice calls suddenly through the open casement window. He shakes what sounds like a paint bottle forcefully. ‘You’re the son of The Reubenator! Partying’s in your blood.’
‘It’s really, really not!’ I shout back. ‘But maybe it could be, if only …’
Len tosses a cushion at my head. ‘Dress-up parties are gauche,’ he says. ‘And we don’t have anything to wear.’
‘Speak for yourself, Margaret Thatcher. I quite fancy myself with some vintage Chandler Bing hair.’
‘What’s the theme?’ Mum asks. ‘Friends?’
Len looks at me warningly, knowing as well as I do that if we tell her, his cause is lost.
I pull my eyes away. ‘Made in the eighties.’
Mum actually screams. ‘But we have plenty of stuff, Hen! Most of Dad’s old clothes are still in the garage.’
‘Perfect!’ I grin at Len. ‘See? We have to go.’
A while later we’re posing beside the staircase dressed in what closely resembles a tracksuit made of scrunched up, fluorescent raincoats (me), and baggy jeans, white sneakers, black sunglasses and arm warmers (Len).
‘Wait!’ Mum says, pulling something bright purple and elastic out of the musty box Dad refuses to throw away.
‘Mum, no.’
‘Yes,’ Len encourages, his eyes lit up vengefully. ‘Go hard or go home, H-squared.’
‘I choose home, then.’
They both pretend not to have heard me.
I let Mum slide the headband onto my forehead. It does look kind of cool. Plus, it holds my hair back where it’s long and unruly at the top.
Len’s fixing his own giant hair in the mirror over the mantelpiece. It took enough hairspray to fuel a small car to get it to look like that, but at least he finally got into the whole idea.
‘Oh, you two look so cute together! Can I get one more to show Gran?’
Reluctantly, I let her take a couple more, indulging Len as he poses with his chin in his hand. And he says I’m dramatic.
We leave soon after, speeding onto the overpass in Len’s car. The Shack looks even worse than I remember, rising up in the cold.
Still, I pull him along by his sleeve, enjoying the role reversal for a minute. I’m a good time Sally, damn it.
The opening strains of ‘Time After Time’ roll down the street towards us as we cross the road. (Cyndi’s a good sign, right?) And at least there’s lights on inside.
I follow Len up rickety stairs to the latticed entryway. It’s like the one we have at home, except this one looks like someone recently set it on fire.
Blessedly, everyone is dressed up – a sea of fluorescent nylon and chiffon dots the chapped floorboards. We’re in what was once a living room, with moth-eaten lace curtains billowing against the open windows. The party spills through several poky rooms, and there’s a makeshift drinks station against a wall in the corner.
‘Coke?’ Len asks.
‘Beer,’ I correct confidently.
He raises his eyebrows.
‘Go hard or go home, right?’ I neglect to mention that I plan on nursing the same stale VB for the entire evening.
He grabs one for himself too. ‘Let’s do this, then,’ he says flatly.
‘What is this attitude? You really do need a party guide.’
Len looks away from me, towards noises coming from outside. ‘Nothing. Come on.’
We venture through a gutted pre-war kitchen to the surprisingly expansive patio. I hang back, watching as Len greets his mates from the footy team. They acknowledge me with a begrudging tip of their chins.
Len comes alive, all at once, until he’s the biggest public version of himself. Laughing joking sparring flirting.
More beer appears, but it’s like that just narrows his focus. His eyes glint, movements blurring.
‘My BOIYSS!’ Ged says, sloppy, when he finds us. He’s wearing what looks to be the top half of a Ghostbusters costume.
‘Harrison Ford actually is working – you’d think Ronald McDonald could give him one night off! Vince cancelled, the bastard. Says he’s too sick. Why aren’t you sick, Lennon?’
Len snakes a hand around Ged’s shoulder. ‘I am. Just wear it better.’
‘Where’s Jess?’ I ask.
‘Drank.’ Ged wrinkles his nose. ‘Jäger is not pretty, my friends. But she is. Even with spew all over her. Isn’t that something?’
‘Mmm,’ we agree.
‘I love her,’ he says solemnly. ‘I want to have her babies. I should go find her, so we can do that.’
‘Maybe help her get cleaned up a bit first,’ I suggest.
Ged’s eyes widen like he’s just remembered something very important. ‘Yes! I’m meant to get towels.’
‘You go do that.’
He tries to look serious, chin tucked into his chest. ‘Aye aye, Cap’n. You guys enjoy, though. Try to catch up with Ant!’ He stumbles off.
Len mutters, ‘Sure. Can’t wait not to do that.’
‘I guess this is a bit of a fizzer,’ I apologise.
‘It’s fine. Always is with Ged.’
Most of the guys from our school are gathered around a fire pit in the backyard, facing the forest reserve.
We join the group, but I hover off to the side. There are only a couple of faces I recognise – Travis Burrell, and Jake Clarkson, whom Len beat for his position on the football team.
‘Wow. You guys look awesome,’ Jake quips with fake enthusiasm.
‘Jealousy is a disease, Clarkson,’ Len responds. ‘Get vaccinated.’
‘Fuck off.’
Clarkson and his mates are all wearing flanno shirts and acid-wash jeans. I feel decidedly over-the-top in comparison, but Len seems unfazed. He sprawls on the grass and warms his hands by the fire.
The guys stare at us.
Len takes control of the situation with a force that makes me uneasy. ‘What are we up to, then?’
‘Truth or Dare,’ Clarkson says.
‘How avant-garde of you. Deal us in.’
Clarkson twists his lips up towards his nose, à la Donald Duck. ‘Nah.’
‘What? Afraid I’ll win?’
‘Is your loser mate even up for it?’
Impulsively, I down the rest of my beer in three gulps. It burns the front, sides and back of my throat before moving into my stomach.
The other boys look at me like I’m a freak.
Len holds back a laugh. ‘Guess you have your answer.’
And we play.
It goes on for a long time, each dare grosser than the last. I earn some paltry points for licking Vegemite off one of Travis’s toes. Len runs through the party stripped down to his underwear.
Eventually, it stops being a game and becomes a pissing contest between Clarkson and Len. The truths taper off and the dares intensify, until we’ve all opted out except the two of them.
Somebody brings more beers over.
Clarkson cracks one and offers it to me. He watches me, waiting to see if I’ll actually drink it. I take a long slug, just to annoy him. Then I drink two more bottles.
Travis declares a while later that the next dare is the last. Winner takes all.
Len leans back nonchalantly, but he has his all-in-nothing-to-lose look that tells me this will be a fight to the death.
‘I dare you,’ Clarkson taps his chin thoughtfully. ‘To make out with …’
‘A kissing dare?’ Len mutters under his breath. ‘Original. Who’s the lucky girl?’
‘Hamlet,’ Clarkson finishes victoriously.
There’s enough alcohol in my system that the words don’t fully register for a moment. Everything feels slightly unreal and the sky swirls overhead. Indigo trees and stars. I do note that Len’s three faces cloud over.
He sits up. ‘What? No.’
Clarkson folds his arms. ‘That’s the dare.’
‘It’s stupid,’ Len says. ‘Give me another one.’
‘Nope. I’m pretty set on this one, to be honest.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Take it, or forfeit.’
I’m dimly aware that the gathered crowd, which by this point is rather large, has gone quiet. Len glances at me for a moment. Eyes bright. Calculating.
I nod once. Multiple beers on an empty stomach isn’t doing much for my judgement. I want him to win. My world has narrowed in focus to that questionable goal alone. He has to beat Clarkson – our very lives depend on it.
‘Go on, then.’ Clarkson’s grin takes over his face, until it’s something sicker. ‘And make it a show.’
Len still looks conflicted. I feel a bit outraged, in a sleepy kind of way, that dare-kissing me is such a repulsive prospect.
With one last lip-biting scowl, he leans forward slowly on his knees. There’s a tense pause. Then his jaw sets, decisive, and he puts cold hands on my cheeks to pull my face towards his.
The crowd whoops, and there’s a disjointed beating in my ears that could either be the music or my pulse, and then I’m not aware of any of those things anymore because Len’s mouth is on my mouth.
It feels odd, at first. Clinical. A neat sentence with no commas.
Then it happens in a spill like thoughts: the bottom of my stomach drops out, and before I know what I’m doing I start to kiss him back. Hard.
I reach my hand up to grip his shoulder, the other spreading out on his cheek so my thumb holds the cut of his jaw. Len’s mouth opens wider; lights switch on under my skin, bursting bruising colour. He scrunches a fist in my shirt.
With him kneeling and me sitting we’re almost level, but still I pull him in, until our knees touch. He pushes back, his tongue nudging at my teeth, and—
Oh.
I know Len’s been with guys before. He just likes whoever he likes. I’ve heard stories – vague details – and okay, maybe I’ve thought about it, but I didn’t think it could be like this. Like being turned inside out and rearranged differently in a tumble of seconds.
Henry Hamlet's Heart Page 7
