When the family was tentacle-free, but still reeling from the pain, he led them to the public changing rooms where there was hot water, lucky that the council rangers hadn’t yet locked the facility for the night.
He washed his own stings while the family stood in hot water showers. Then he took his t-shirt off and soaked it in hot water and told the mum to hold it over the child’s face to bring the stinging down.
Twenty minutes of hot water treatment later, they were still scarred in red stripes, but the panic of the pain had passed. Back on the beach they exchanged names more formally and he waved off any hint of obligation. Anyone would’ve helped them, another person almost had. It was nothing. And just random luck he knew enough of their language to be useful.
He left them and continued on his run. The tide was coming in. By morning the beach would be fringed by bluebottle blisters and plenty more people would get stung. The lifesavers would be here to manage it, but he’d come and lend a hand too. Only fair. There was so much to make up for and this was nothing.
If he could, he’d take the tentacles of every bluebottle that washed up, wrap them around his body, and revel in the pain to stop anyone else getting hurt, especially kids.
It would be the right thing. But it was also impossible. He could be stung a million times and not fix all the hurt he’d caused. He could be stung to within an inch of a heart attack from shock and it wouldn’t be enough to make up for what he’d done.
Nothing ever would.
He looked at the angry red welts on his arm and chest. They’d fade to nothing. You’d never know he’d been stung. And that was the problem. Guilt should leave a mark so decent people would know to stay away from you. Instead it soaked through your skin and only stained where you could hide it.
He finished his jog, his stretches and a meditation, and on the way home ran into Scully. A swarm of Irukandji jellyfish would be more welcoming.
“Playing the hero, Joker.”
He bent to pat Mulder. The best thing about Scully was his fox terrier.
Scully grunted, but that was his default, along with his incongruously cheerful, underfed, dirty Santa Claus look. “No one is going to give you a medal.”
“Don’t need that.”
“Go back to where you belong, you fuckin’ idiot.” Scully walked on, but Mulder gave him a look that said I’d take more pats if you’d care to give them until Scully’s gruff, “Mully,” sent him off after his master.
At home, he prepared and barbequed a fish he’d caught earlier that day. He had two juicy peaches for dessert and only one was bruised.
It was a fine warm night after a scorcher of a day and he knew he’d find it hard to sleep. He knew he’d dream. The kid’s screaming was still in his ears; the sound of injustice, an undeserved anguish, a bitter tutorial for innocence in the ways of the world.
He’d dream about hopeless shouting, about heads turned and silences that were more upsetting than all the noise. About protocols and practices that were evil, criminal but entirely legal. About letters that came in the mail with nooses and bullets and blades.
It was better to stay awake than go to that place again. He’d worked so hard to leave it behind. Shed everything he’d loved to pay the price. So instead of sleep he read; through the night and into sweltering heat of the apricot dawn. A favourite. A classic. A well-worn friend. Through the injustice and into the clarity of a clean new day.
It was more than he deserved.
And then she came, and she was too.
He was standing in the sun trying to understand how the night could so easily become a host for his terror, smothering him to a crouch, when the day was so fresh and perfect and he could stand tall again. He sipped coffee. He’d need more than the one cup he was allowed today. It was still early but the beach was already waking. The regulars, the locals, taking ownership. He’d go down when the tourists, the daytrippers, arrived and earn his keep.
Sometimes they came under the railing; occasionally his camp was raided, not that there was anything of value to take except his books and his torch. He was on his third torch. The books, old, grubby and torn, they never touched. One time someone wanted to interview him for a film. Women never came. They had more sense. But she came.
He heard her first. Talking to herself, or maybe to God. It was a shock to realise she was talking to him, calling him.
She wore Skins and a t-shirt, runners on her feet. She had a shiny brown ponytail and she was smiling at him. She was the woman from the beach last night—hot water, not vinegar—and she was looking at him as if he knew the secret to an eternally happy life.
3: Unlikely
Foley wasn’t making the same mistake as yesterday. She’d ruined a suit, given herself a case of sunburn that still glowed through makeup, and had to slink back to the office, gaffer tape her pants back together and admit to Gabriella that she’d failed.
Today was going to be different. She staged a pre-work raid. Early enough to catch a hermit squatter at his camp site before he went wherever a hermit squatter went during the day. She also wore clothing and footwear more suitable for scrambling over rocks. Plus she had an offering. Today she wasn’t going to be Frustrated Foley; she was going to be a winner.
She saw him the moment she ducked under the railing and stepped out on the first ledge. He stood one level down, right on the edge of the cliff face, looking out towards the beach. He was sipping from a mug, casual as Sunday morning, with death at his toes. She gasped aloud, then slapped her hand over her mouth because what if she startled him and he fell. But he turned her way anyhow and surprise made her shout through her hand again.
It was the bluebottle man. The man from last night who’d helped out those tourists.
She held her hand up in greeting. “Good morning. How are you?”
Was he visiting Mr Drum too? Foley had heard him speaking what sounded like Japanese. Hermit squatter men didn’t speak difficult foreign languages, did they? Maybe she needed a third bacon and egg roll.
“Can I come down? Is there a special way to do it? I brought breakfast.” Hell, she was prattling, but she’d only caught a glimpse of him last night and he was covered in screaming kid. He wasn’t covered in much at all now. A faded pair of board shorts and an expression of disbelief. He was tall, built, deeply tanned, bearded and heavily muscled.
“Are you Mr Drum, uh, is he here? I’m Foley.” I feel like a dope. “I brought bacon and egg rolls.”
He stared at her as if she was cloud that might burn off in the sunlight and he was waiting for her to disappear. And she stared back. If he was Mr Drum, he was one sexy homeless guy. Neither the rangers, nor the lifeguards who knew of him, had bothered to mention that.
She raised her hand with the cardboard tray. “I brought coffee too.”
He moved quickly then, as if coffee was abracadabra, disappearing under the top ledge. Before she could think about taking another step away from the railing he was standing on the level with her.
He was barefoot, his hair was long, grown out of a once decent cut, curling about his ears and neck and sun-bleached in a paint chart of variable caramels, sands and honeys. His beard and mo were neat, clipped, not hipster, 1800s, Ned Kelly.
He had the palest eyes, grey as if the sun had stolen their depth and faded them to half-strength. She took a step towards him and he lowered them, embarrassed maybe. She didn’t want to make him feel that way. He was down on his luck. She wanted to help him.
“Hi, I’m Foley.” She should’ve said where she was from, but those lowered eyes cut. She didn’t know who this man was, but he was big and beautiful and reticent, and she’d done nothing to threaten him except arrive.
His chin came up. He held out a hand to shake. “Hello Foley. I’m Drum. You don’t need to come down, but if you want to I’ll help you. There’s an easy way when you know it.”
He spoke softly, politely. Correctly, like a man who’d had a good education, a man who didn’t need to live in a s
quat on a cliff top. She would feed him first, talk to him, and then help him.
She put out her hand and they shook, as though they were both wearing suits, in a meeting room with walls and air conditioning, bad filter coffee and uncomfortable chairs. She watched their joined hands. His was big and calloused, dry, it swallowed hers up, but there was no power there. No I’m the boss of you inappropriate squeezing, no hand on top rolling to demonstrate dominance. It was handshake of equals.
Except she had electricity in her life and he was incapable of meeting her eyes.
“You got stung.” His chest and one arm were traced with thick red lines. “Badly.”
He released her hand and shrugged one shoulder.
They could talk here, on the top ledge, but he looked so uncomfortable, his neck bent so his whole face was tilted down and his hair falling across his forehead. If they stayed where they were, anyone using the path could see and hear them. She’d come dressed for the climb.
“I’d like to see where you live.”
His head shot up and he frowned. He thought she was making fun of him.
“I’d like to see your camp.” He didn’t need to know she’d seen it yesterday. “Here.” she held the cardboard tray out. “This is for you.”
He looked at the tray but made no move to take it.
“There’s a bacon and egg roll and a cappuccino, though the froth has probably melted by now.”
He shook his head. “Thank you, but I’ve already eaten.”
“Oh.” He was an unemployed homeless guy who knew Japanese, shook hands, spoke like a gentleman, and had already had breakfast. Or he was lying? She knew he’d been drinking something. “Please take the coffee at least.”
His hand flexed, but he didn’t otherwise move.
“I brought two of everything and I’ve not eaten.”
He pointed. “See that darker rock with the indentation.”
She followed his hand. He was going to show her the easy way to his camp. He stepped across to where he pointed and she followed.
“From here it’s up and across to go down.”
He reached for the tray and she gave it to him, then followed him up two giant rocky steps and down a curving slope, before three small graduated ledges that worked like steps cut in the rock appeared, an easy way to conquer the varying heights of the rock shelves.
This approach was less intuitive and less obtrusive than the full frontal assault she’d tried yesterday. If he’d been home then, he’d have heard her coming, and given most people would take the straightforward approach, she’d bet he’d never been surprised by an unwanted visitor. It meant something that he’d shown her the right path to his front door.
His camp was as neat this morning as it had been yesterday. The suitcase zipped, the sleeping bag rolled. There was a pile of books by the bed, beaten-up classics. A Hemmingway, a Kerouac. She could see the spines of To Kill a Mocking Bird and The Count of Monte Cristo. If he’d made breakfast, there was no evidence of it, other than the mug, left on the iron table.
He gestured to one of the chairs. “Please take a seat.” He put the tray on the table and walked to the bed, his broad, tanned back, slim hips and athlete’s calves accessible for her viewing pleasure. He picked up a t-shirt and put it on and she sat before he caught her staring, reached for a coffee cup and lifted the lid. The froth had disappeared but that distinctive coffee aroma was joyous. She watched him, standing a little away from the table, looking out to the horizon.
“I can’t drink two of these.” Her second lie of the morning, but this one was spoken aloud. “I brought it for you.”
He stepped up to the table and picked up the cup. “Thank you.”
She plucked up one of the white sandwich bags. “I can’t eat two rolls either.”
He sipped the coffee and looked away.
The handshake, the t-shirt, the please take a seat. She took a gamble on his good manners. “It feels rude to eat in front of you.”
He pulled out the other chair and sat.
She smiled and held out a sandwich bag. Eat my dust, Gabriella. He’d willingly brought her into his camp; if he accepted her food, she was one step closer to having him accept her help.
He took the bag, but put it down on the table and made no attempt to open it. Her own mouth was watering from the smell of the bacon.
“Why are you here, Foley?”
She’d made it this far on false pretences and while he looked perfectly calm and sane, he could still throw her over the cliff; looking at him, he could easily do that, and unlike yesterday, no one other than Nat knew she was here now. The Gabriella in her head stepped sideways, avoiding the dust plume and smiling prettily.
He didn’t smell of alcohol. He wasn’t twitchy. Would a dangerous man stop to help people when he might get hurt himself? Nothing about Drum alerted her to peril. “I’m from council.” She watched him carefully, expecting his hospitality to be withdrawn, if not some outright hostility to surface.
His eyes were on the table. He was very still. “You were on the beach last night.” He looked up briefly and turned his head away. “Hot water, not vinegar.”
She gagged on a bit of bread roll, coughing, and his head lifted. How had he managed to notice her? He had a screaming kid in his arms.
“Are you all right?”
She coughed again and took a sip of coffee. “I’m fine. Yes, that was me on the beach.”
“You tried to help.”
“You didn’t need any. You had it under control.”
He gave a tight nod then hovered a flattened hand over the sandwich bag. “So this is on an expense claim?”
She blinked at him in surprise. Good manners, language skills, neat homemaker, saver of stung tourists, he knew about claiming work expenses, and he looked liked he could model for a surfing magazine. He was not your average drunk, druggie, mentally ill, down on his luck, hairy, smelly, junk hoarding, homeless guy.
“Yes, I guess it is.”
He picked up the bag, the trace of a smile ticking up one corner of his mouth. Oh, if he smiled for real it would transform his face from classic carved cold marble to kissable chocolate fudge Sunday. Under her sunburn Foley blushed, her whole face feeling itchy with it.
They ate in silence but for the occasional wheeling, shrieking seagull. She’d rehearsed a bunch of lines in the car and at the deli, all of them revolving around the idea of introducing herself, showing her concern for his welfare and offering him help.
This man sitting in front of her didn’t fit any of the usual profiles where this strategy might work. He didn’t appear to be a substance abuser, though that was hard to tell. He clearly had an education. He looked better than healthy and he wasn’t talking nonsense. If he wasn’t overly friendly well, hell, she’d barged in on his morning, and she can’t have been welcome.
He stared at the sea. “You didn’t come for the view, exceptional though it is. There are a number of other vantage points as well-located.” He wouldn’t look at her but he was capable of exerting control.
“I came to see you.”
“And having seen me, what next?”
Cheeky, and not going to be pushed around. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Little I can do to stop you.”
There was a lot he could do. There was physical power in his body, and he wasn’t slow-witted. She’d like to have said, yes, stop me, stop me prying, stop me muscling in on you, stop me disturbing you and getting my way, because you look like you know exactly what you’re doing here, and I have no right to talk you into moving on.
But she couldn’t do that. No matter how almost normal he seemed, he was living on an exposed cliff top, and if more people knew about him, things could get dangerous. He expected the why question, she gave him something different to consider while she tried to re-plot a path forward.
“What do you like about living here?”
He screwed the sandwich bag up and used the napkin to wipe his mouth and h
ands, putting both into the tray with their empty cups. He took a long time to answer, so long she thought he wasn’t going to.
“I can be clean here.”
An answer that didn’t make sense. “But you have no water, no electricity.”
He shook his head. “You won’t understand.”
“I’d like to try.”
“You’d like me to move on, but I’m not bothering anyone and I don’t want to leave.”
“In winter it must be so cold and bleak.”
“In winter it’s as winter needs it to be and so am I.”
The softness of his voice was at odds with the sharpness of his words. Her turn to hesitate. “But in the rain and the cold. I don’t know how you don’t freeze to death, get sick.”
“I have warm clothing and there are other places I can go if it gets too bad.” She knew what he meant. Shopping centres, libraries, train stations, waiting rooms, churches.
“Are you religious?”
He closed his eyes. She could only see his face in profile, but he closed his eyes as if the question pained. “I think if there were a God, things would be different.”
She looked out at the coastline wrapped around them. “But this beauty, this place you choose to live in, some people think that’s God.”
“For you, maybe. For me it’s science.”
“Is science your religion?”
He opened his eyes again, but kept them focused on the distance. “If I have any religion at all, it’s to do no harm. I’m not harming anyone by living here.”
“It’s not legal to squat on public land if there’s any danger.”
The law on squatting was oddly complicated. Squatters had certain rights, though they could be charged with criminal trespass if they inhabited a building. Outdoors was a different matter. Council had a charter that protected the rights of homeless people and it specifically said they could inhabit a public place unless there was a threat to security, their own personal safety, or they were causing a disturbance that constituted a breach of the peace and became a police matter.
Drum was doing none of that, which was one reason why this issue had been escalated to community relations and why Foley was sitting here now, wishing she’d brought more than a meal to the negotiating table. The other reason was the outraged artistic director of the world’s largest outdoor sculpture exhibition who’d threatened to go public about Drum if he wasn’t moved on before the exhibition started.
Inconsolable Page 2
