by Iain Ryan
‘Aren’t you cold?’ he says, standing over me.
‘What? This? I’m from Melbourne.’
‘I need that coffee you promised me.’
‘Merlo’s closed. Have you seen Jenny?’
‘No. Why?’
‘She disappeared on me and she’s been extra weird lately. Now she’s causing trouble.’
‘None of us in the postgrad room talk to her anymore.’
‘Really?’
‘The last time I saw Jenny, she was screaming at me from across the street in the Valley one night. It was fucked up,’ he says.
‘When was this?’
‘Ages ago.’
‘Last year?’
‘More like the start of semester.’
‘I thought you two were OK?’ David and Jenny used to fool around.
‘We were, well, sort of OK,’ says David.
‘So why was she yelling at you?’
‘How the hell should I know? That’s what she’s like sometimes. What’s this about?’
I stand up and dust the grass clippings from my hands. ‘Has anyone from the uni contacted you recently?’
‘About what?’
‘About me. About …’ And I wave my finger between the two of us.
David smirks, the little arsehole. ‘About us? Bloody hell. What’s going on?’
‘Have you told anyone?’
‘No.’
‘You sure?’ I know the answer. It’s all over his face. He’s insulted that I’ve lingered on this.
‘No, Erma. I haven’t told a soul. I promise.’
Boys like David Brier are always in my orbit for some reason. Nice men who offend easily. All honour and valour over the little things. I flash back to David here insisting on accompanying me to the GP for the morning-after pill and the memory of it grinds.
I start backing up and say, ‘I think Jenny’s behind something going on with HR. If someone from admin comes and talks to you, say whatever you like, but just know that that’s where it’s coming from.’
‘Erma, what? Wait.’
‘Tell them whatever you like.’
‘Wait. Wait.’
I hold up my hand in a muted wave for goodbye.
He says, ‘Jenny said something about that.’
This stops me. ‘About what?’
‘On the street at the start of semester. She was screaming all sorts of crazy shit, but she mentioned you and me.’
‘What did she say exactly?’
‘She was acting crazy.’
‘Just tell me.’
Nice guy David averts his eyes. ‘Something like, “Go fuck that whore who got you into uni.” Something like that.’
I feel myself wince. I take off, walking way too fast now.
Fucking Jenny.
You little—
‘Erma!’
Talk about cutting to the chase for once in her good-for-fucking-nothing life.
‘Erma!’
If Jenny’s out there, I’m going to find her.
You hear me, arsehole?
Tonight.
Jet lag is a miracle drug. I catch the bus into the city where I wolf down coffee and a cheeseburger then change buses and start searching through the Valley. This is Fortitude Valley but it’s anything but. It’s Brisbane’s nightclub district, a place where pain and adversity are created rather than defied. I start at the bottom of the barrel tonight, which is RGs, The Royal George Hotel at the top of the mall. It’s two-for-one jug night and it’s already a nightmare. Clumps of students I recognise sit out in the beer garden, all keeping politely clear of the day drinkers and ranting junkies. A tense standoff.
A kid from my cultural studies reading group invites me to come sit with him. We drink room temperature VB while I scan around. A girl at our table mentions discount cocktails at The Empire. An older guy from a band comes past with flyers for The Shamrock. The warm beer churns in my gut.
No sign of Jenny.
I pour my dregs into a planter box and make to leave. As I stand up, the kid from the reading group says, ‘I might see you later, yeah?’
‘Sure. Where are you headed?’
‘610. Then The Depot.’
This is a good start. There’s a lot happening tonight and I’ve already got a bad vibe. She’ll be out. Jenny always prefers grit over glamour. She’ll be here somewhere, darkening up some corner.
Outside RGs, I stand in the crowd streaming through the mall and check my phone for messages, thinking of my next move. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something smack into a guy’s face. A plastic beer jug skids past my feet. The guy slowly slumps over. His friends gather round. Meanwhile, a scream belts out from back inside RGs. We all turn and watch as a stocky shirtless man stands on a wobbly table in the beer garden. He hurls another empty jug out at the crowd, followed with, ‘Fuck my cock. Fuck my fat—’ Security crash-tackle him to the ground and his body lands with an ugly wet thud.
As I was saying, this isn’t the greatest part of the city.
Ric’s Bar is empty. The cute guy (Rowan) playing records tonight is a friend of Jenny’s so I hang out by the Galaga machine and sip water. Rowan sticks to his B material, careful not to blow his load over the post-work suits.
‘Eye’ by the Smashing Pumpkins.
Portishead live in New York.
‘Spit on a Stranger’.
People come and go.
No Jenny.
10.15 p.m. I push on.
The Empire is empty. Two lesbians sipping Cosmos at the bar. A table of tourists.
The Zoo has a twenty-dollar cover charge.
At The Troubadour the band has already started and it’s some terrible country-rock thing, and the room is full of beards and Nancy Sinatra knock-offs. These are not Jenny’s people. The bartender there is a former student and he has the coffee machine on. I grab a long black, Irish style. Feeling momentarily invigorated, I hit 610, a dingy rehearsal studio and ad hoc venue up the street. Inside, I wade through the smoke machine fog and up the stairs to the small kitchen and it’s there that I find Dylan Copson, already loaded, hitting on a short girl wearing what looks like a maid’s costume from a sex shop. I plant myself beside him. Dylan glances over but doesn’t say hello.
‘I don’t think any of this is true,’ I announce loudly, interrupting him mid-sentence.
‘Who are you?’ says the girl in the costume.
‘This is Erma. She’s my …’ Dylan screws up his face, reaching back through the haze of whatever he’s on. ‘You taught me “Intro to Media Studies”, didn’t you?’
‘Among other things. Are you old enough to be in here?’ I say to the girl. 610 is run by a teenager and they let anyone in.
‘I’m nineteen.’
‘Good for you. Can I borrow this idiot?’
I take Dylan’s hand and drag him away before either of them can answer. There’s a fire escape downstairs and I lead Dylan through it, out into the dark alleyway that runs along the side of the building. The alley is suspiciously wet under foot and smells of bleach and cigarettes. Dylan’s laughing. I don’t know why.
‘Have you seen Jenny?’
‘What? Tonight?’ he says.
‘Yeah. Remember Jenny? Baby-faced, blonde hair, the girl you cheated on your girlfriend with. Ringing any bells?’
‘What? That was you. I was with Jenny after that.’
This is true. And, for the record, while I did teach Dylan ‘Introduction to Media Studies’, nothing happened while he was in undergrad. Nothing. Our fling happened later.
‘Dylan!’
He wipes his brow. ‘Fuck, all right. Nah. I haven’t seen Jenny in ages.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure. Jesus, why are you being so weird?’
I step closer so I can see his eyes. It’s too aggressive. I sense it immediately.
Dylan breathes beer onto me. ‘Can you just—’
‘Jenny. Where is she? I know she’s hiding from me.’
> ‘I honestly haven’t seen her. No one’s seen her. Last time I saw her it was … it was for like ten seconds, on campus.’
‘When was that?’
‘I dunno. Back in April. Fuck, could have been even earlier, hey. It’s been ages.’
‘How do I find her? Where would she go if she’s avoiding everyone?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where is she living at the moment?’
‘No idea.’
‘None? Weren’t you fucking dating her six months back?’
‘I didn’t date her. We just fooled around. I hooked up with Jenny after you, which was, like, two bad ideas in a row.’
I grab Dylan by the arm and drag him in real close, our faces an inch apart. ‘I am a bad idea at the moment, Dylan. You hear me? And you’re a fucking bitch. Stay away from that girl inside.’
He’s so surprised it takes a moment for the anger to flare up. ‘Let me go.’
‘You better not be lying to me, Dylan. And you better not be talking shit about me behind my back.’
‘Fuck, Erma, OK, OK.’
I let him loose.
We stand there a second. He rubs his arm.
‘And you better be working on that lit review for Howard. I recommended your dumb arse for that gig, so don’t make me look bad.’
‘Jesus, OK. Why are you like this?’ he whines. ‘It’s Friday night.’
‘It’s Thursday night, dickhead.’
I’m ashamed to say it but I’ve always been a little bit mean to Dylan. A bit rough and prickly. Never quite like this but always sharp and impatient. He reminds me of someone I hate. This guy called Euan. They look the same.
I’m fading. I drag myself to The Depot and it’s a nightmare, a total collision of flesh and booze. I have a gin and tonic. I do the rounds.
No Jenny.
At the edge of the dance floor with my face washed in orange swirling light, I start to wonder if I’m losing my mind a little bit.
Maybe it’s not all about Jenny?
Maybe she’s going to turn up with the transcripts tomorrow?
Maybe I should just pay her …
Maybe this is all me?
But no, that’s not where it’s headed. It’s not where it started either. Not really. I tell myself, We’re just going to talk this out. I’ll find her tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow. The orange light keeps coming, rolling over and over in sync with the music.
Where is my luggage?
At the office?
At the gym?
I was in a foreign country this morning.
I live on Moray Street, a long bowed road around the edge of New Farm, which is the suburb next to the Valley. I’m halfway there on foot when I realise there’s one more place I need to check: the Alibi Room, my local.
I find Jenny’s sister Gloria holding up the bar. Gloria’s a little thinner than Jenny and a little taller but it’s the same deal. They both have that ghostly hot-girl thing going on. Too weird to be beautiful but always threatening to grow into it. I take the stool beside her and pour us both a cup of water from the canister on the bar.
‘Rough night, Glory?’
She lifts her head. Her eyeshadow’s a mess. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘I’m looking for your sister.’
Gloria’s eyes blink and then, without a word, she starts gesturing around so wildly that I need to steady her on the stool. ‘You know … Jenny’s in sooooo much trouble. Sooooo much trouble. My parents are gonna … fucking … kill …’
‘Where is she? Do you know?’
‘Nobody knows, man! Nobody!’
The barman glances over. I push the water Gloria’s way. She tilts her head sideways and lays a cheek flush against the bar. She looks at me through the glass, a giant fisheye watching.
‘Am I OK?’ she says.
‘I think so.’
‘I mean, I hope she’s OK. She’s missing. Missing missing. She was staying with me and with my folks, kinda splitting her time … but … my folks called the cops a week ago. No one’s seen her, no one’s seen her in … She’s just fucking gone. Have you seen her? You must have seen her.’
I take a sip of my water. ‘I’ve been away.’
The house music cross-fades from Idlewild to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The staff are watching us now. I figure Gloria’s been a nuisance tonight.
Someone taps me on the shoulder.
Quick glance: a guy in glasses. A stranger.
‘No,’ I say.
He taps again and when I ignore it, he says, ‘Glasses or no glasses?’
Gloria gives him the once-over. She lifts her head and her face is wet with Christ-knows-what from the bar. ‘Do it again,’ she slurs.
The guy tips the glasses off then on.
‘Off,’ Gloria says. ‘You don’t need to … hide all that.’
I turn around. The boy has short brown hair and is wearing that terrible combo of a collared shirt under a regular T-shirt. He’s completely unremarkable bar the eyes. The eyes are a piercing bright blue.
I tell him, ‘Hey, buddy, fuck off.’
Gloria shushes me and laughs a plastic laugh. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m Drew. I bet you’d look good in these. I bet you’re a glasses-on type of girl,’ he says. ‘They make everyone look smarter.’ It takes me a second to realise he’s directing all this at me.
‘I’m already smart enough.’
‘I figured. You dress a little bit like a nerd. I like nerds.’
Gloria laughs again.
I lean forward. ‘Your bullshit doesn’t work on me, mate. Go back to Dungeons & Dragons or—’
‘I love D&D,’ he says.
‘Hey, Drew, I’m serious. Fuck off or I’m going to get someone to toss you out.’
Drew holds up his hands and mouths, OK. Just to be sure, I watch him walk back to his friends. There’s no high-fiving. One of Drew’s friends is watching us but there doesn’t seem to be anything serious in it. Still, it’s that time of night. I ask the barman to call Gloria a cab and then I walk her out to the street. When the cab arrives, I say, ‘Jenny’ll turn up,’ even though I don’t know if it’s true.
‘Who?’
‘Your sister.’
Gloria huffs. ‘You know, she’s always been weird,’ and Gloria trips a little as I ease her into the cab.
I take Moray Street the rest of the way home. I’m so tired I can feel myself stumbling. My mind is a loose list of worries and thoughts. I can’t fight them off.
Glasses on.
My keys. Where are my fucking keys?
Kanika.
… that whore who got you into uni.
Cold. Should’ve worn a jumper.
Is it technically Friday? Was Dylan right?
Glasses off.
I find my house.
My bed.
I call out for Harlowe but he doesn’t come.
As I slip into sleep, I hear my voice murmuring, semi-conscious, you, you, before I roll down into the dream void and that’s when the barbarian comes alive.
SERO
1
Through the glare comes grey and tan, then the browns of dirt, the black of ash. Thick ochre blood on the walls. A cave arches overhead and a flat plane of rock – a smooth stone pedestal – lies beneath you, hard like a spear skewered down the length of your body. You find your way upright. A breeze leads the way out to the forest. You stand naked in the rain letting the downpour wash the mud from your skin. You feel nothing. Not the cool temperature, not the sting of exposure. You stretch your arms and legs and your muscles burn, pushing through a hard tightness. There are scars and black tattoos that flex and move on your skin. This is the body of someone who kills for a living. A barbarian.
2
On dusk, you smell smoke in the air and follow it to a small valley and an encampment. Four orcs sit around a campfire under a makeshift hut. Their skin is the mottled green of a toad and each of them wears ragged armour cobbled to
gether from a dozen armies. Their voices carry despite the rain. It sounds like Haraustian. They’re drunk. Too drunk for a scouting party and too drunk for hunting. These creatures are out here alone.
Orcs from the west have a high tolerance for wine, so it’s night before one of them breaks off and wanders into the darkness. He smells of horse manure and sweat, and his piss sprays piping hot against your legs as you collide with him, taking him down. You have his sword before a word is said and you plunge it into him. It’s sharp, like a needle.
The three remaining orcs fight for their lives but do not last long. The first loses his head as you come into camp. The second is stabbed through the heart as he draws his blade. Only the third manages to spar with you, but he’s unsteady on his feet and loses. He stares at you as he dies and his eyes are black like horses’ eyes. There is no pleasure in this carnage, only a sense of familiarity and calm.
As you wipe down the blade, you see that this is a strange weapon you have found. It’s shorter than you’d like. Lighter, too. You stake it into the soft ground and collect the bodies. The orcs have very little of value:
A small bag of gold.
A vial of yellow liquid in a strange triangular tube.
A necklace of children’s teeth.
A map drawn in charcoal.
You take three of the orc bodies and hang them from the trees by their garments. Then you take the remaining one, the one you took the necklace from, and you cut him open like a piece of livestock. In the firelight, you butcher the body for eating, your hands steady and knowing, as if directed by a trance.
ERMA
Movement by the door.
A black room.
Hotel.
Spain?
No.
My laundry basket, my chair, my mirror.
Brisbane.
It’s several seconds before my bedroom appears through the murk. I’m home, but something is wrong. A sound. It’s not in the street. It’s in the living room. Or the kitchen.
