Cheaters

by JR Carroll

‘Your drinking pals left you for dead,’ he said. ‘They got barred.’ He added, ‘So did we, I think.’

  She sniffed and said, ‘That’d be right. Bastards.’

  ‘There’s some instant coffee out there. Help yourself. I think there’s milk in the fridge. Just smell it first.’

  She nodded, then disappeared from view. Robert heard kitchen noises, then slowly raised himself to a sitting position. Then he swung his legs onto the floor where the hyperdermic lay, and stood. Not too bad so far. He went out into the living room, which was separated from the kitchen area by an island bar. Florence had found the coffee and was trying to work out how to operate the jug.

  ‘It’s stuffed, like me,’ he told her. ‘You have to boil the water in that pot there.’ She seemed rattled, trying to see how to light the gas stove, so he said, ‘Here, I’ll do it if you like.’

  She nodded, leaned back on the bar and placed her hand over her mouth. She was still trying to adjust to her situation. Robert walked past her and started getting things organised.

  ‘I tried to get you a cab,’ he said, lighting the gas, ‘but …’ He turned to her and pulled a face that showed how impossible the position had been.

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ she said. ‘You should’ve just left me to fuckin’ die in the gutter. It’s all I deserve.’

  ‘Hey, Florence. You got yourself shitfaced. It happens to me all the time. No big drama. You’ll feel a bit better soon.’

  ‘I don’t think so. How do you know my name, anyway?’

  ‘You told me that much.’

  The water came to the boil. He made the coffee, opened the fridge, shook the milk carton and sniffed it. ‘Think it’s all right.’

  ‘I’ll have mine black, thanks.’

  ‘Coming up. Here you go. Sit down.’

  She returned to the couch, and Robert took the chair. Together they sipped.

  Florence said, ‘I’m sorry. Thanks for what you did.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  She pushed her hair back from her face and said, ‘Shit. What a fucking day. I feel as if I’ve been trampled by a horse.’

  ‘You might need something solid inside you. I’ll nick down the shop in a minute. Tell you what. While I’m doing that why don’t you have a shower. I might even be able to dig up a clean towel.’

  She produced a wan smile over the steaming mug. ‘I’ve been enough trouble to you already – Robert, did you say?’

  ‘I did. And it’s no trouble. Really.’ He waved an arm. ‘Bathroom’s in there.’

  Robert sat finishing his coffee to the sound of running water. Florence had barely touched hers. He didn’t feel like going out, but there was nothing to eat in the place – hadn’t been for a good while. Food was not much of a priority. Apart from the fact that he rarely felt hungry, it was an unnecessary drain on his severely limited finances. He put the mug down on the floor and checked his wallet: twenty-five dollars, plus change in his pocket. There was a wine cask, beer and cigarettes to buy, which would take care of most of that, and the next dole cheque was still three days away. How he was going to score his next cap was another major problem he didn’t want to think about just yet. Still, he could run to some bread and stuff. There was a hot bread kitchen down the road that sold day-old produce for next to nothing. He checked the fridge, which was almost completely bare except for a jar of mouldy jam and some blackened carrots that had been there for about as long as he had.

  He got up to go, then with his hand on the doorknob went back into the bathroom and found a towel, which he hung on the rail for Florence. Then on a sudden impulse he pulled back the shower curtain partway. Florence was standing with her back to him, supporting herself with both hands on the wall while the water washed all over her.

  ‘Just going,’ he said. ‘Do you like white or brown bread?’

  Florence turned around. If she was surprised or offended to find him there eyeing her goods off it didn’t show on her face. She swept her hair back, holding it behind her head and showing him the full works. Water cascaded off her breasts and streamed from her dark bush of abundant pubic hair, bunches of which were slicked down along the insides of her thighs. She also had hairy armpits, which he hadn’t noticed before. ‘However it comes,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind.’

  She tilted her face up into the torrent of water, shutting her eyes tight. Robert might not have been there for all she seemed to care. He checked her out for a few extra seconds, then pulled the curtain closed again and went shopping.

  In the street he wondered why he had done that. Sex had not been on his mind at all. In fact, sex had not played any part in his life for more years than he cared to remember. Alcohol and drug abuse did that to you. Maybe he just wanted the reassuring experience of seeing a woman’s naked body once more, and Florence’s had certainly been pleasing – one might say sumptuous – to look upon. On the other hand, maybe the few surviving strands of his libido were trying to send him a signal. Considering she was a lush, Florence was in outstanding physical shape. When she had her back to him she had her legs flexed, making her dimpled buns firm and muscular. They had stood straight out and did not sag at all. Then when she turned around her breasts and nipples were surprisingly big, given her apparently less than average build. The minimal, non-supporting bra and the shapeless dress that hung limply from her like a shift did not show her attributes to any advantage at all. Neither had her belly been slack or distended from excessive drink. Clearly Florence was one of those women who looked like nothing until they undressed, and then they hit you right between the eyes. But then she was young, and the grog hadn’t yet had time to make its mark.

  They ate toast, which Robert had to force down with the help of a second round of coffee. The shower had worked wonders with Florence. She had brushed her hair straight back and tied it with a rubber band. The hair glistened, as did her face. Her eyes, although still bloodshot, he could see were a deep and luminous brown. It struck him for the first time that she could be part Aboriginal, but one who looked much more white than black to the casual observer. Except for the yellow bruising here and there, the skin on her face was pallid from being hung over, but the rest of her was noticeably tawny. He saw that she was not wearing the bra she’d had on, and wondered idly if she’d put her panties back on under the grubby lemony dress. Probably not.

  ‘So where do you live, Florence?’ he said.

  ‘That’s a good question. Right now I don’t think I live anywhere.’

  Robert kept his mouth closed. Then, apparently feeling the need to explain further, Florence said, ‘I’m … I was in a house with a couple of those guys from the pub yesterday. One of them, Larry, is supposed to be my boyfriend. What a fucking joke. He just treats me so bad, especially when he’s pissed. All I am is the house bitch as far as he’s concerned.’

  Robert ripped the cellophane from a packet of Longbeach and got one going. He was starting to feel twitchy about the brand new wine cask in the fridge, sitting there waiting for him, but it seemed rude to interrupt Florence in mid-flow.

  ‘Larry Wolper’s a fucking mongrel,’ she said tonelessly, staring. ‘He’s bashed me and thrown me out so many times. But he knows I’ve got nowhere else to go, so I’ll always crawl back. All those guys are the same. They suck up later and give you a good root and think it’s all right.’ She looked at Robert, who was thinking more and more about that first drink of the day. ‘They’re builders, working on the new casino. They work all hours of the day and night, then when they get some time off they hit the piss bad, get into fights, all that macho shit. When Larry gets a skinful he looks around for someone to punch, and he’s not fussy about who he lays into. I’ve seen him take on three guys by himself and beat the shit out of them. One time he broke his arm on someone’s jaw, and he still trashed this other bastard using one hand. He just goes right off his brain.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Christ, they’ve wrecked some pubs. I don’t usually tag along … like, it’s not my scene, violence, b
ut yesterday I did, for some stupid fucking reason. Mainly I was feeling depressed, I think. Anyway …’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not going back, not this time. Fuck him.’ She dropped her head and held herself.

  Robert seized his chance and said, ‘How about a drink, then. You can’t hit the streets cold sober.’ Without waiting for an answer he cracked the cask and poured two generous glasses.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, and straightaway took a good mouthful.

  Robert gulped some down, a steadying dose, then stubbed his smoke and got another one started. As an afterthought he said, ‘Do you want one of these?’

  Florence wordlessly accepted, and Robert lit the fag with the end of his. His hand was not so much trembling as vibrating – a condition that did not go unnoticed by Florence – and he could feel an attack of the sweats coming on, cold beads of the stuff popping out all over his face, which always made him feel like a piece of fungus. Soon the cramps would hit, then he would be in the shithouse for half an hour.

  ‘What about you, Robert,’ she said. ‘What’s your story.’

  ‘My story. Well, it’s a bit of an open book, really. I’m what you might call a … recreational user of hard drugs who also happens to enjoy a drink or so. Not that I’m a junkie – don’t get the wrong impression. It’s not as if I’m hitting up every day, Florence. Maybe once a week, twice at the most, depending … And apart from that I’m just your average bit player, one that will do to swell a progress, start a scene or two, that kind of low-level hack. Certainly I am not Lazarus, come from the dead – not yet, anyway.’

  Florence accepted his flippant response without understanding a single word of it. In any case she had knocked around enough to know not to ask too many questions. They then talked about less personal matters. Florence wondered if he’d been in the place long, since there wasn’t much furniture – his fridge, which was an old, round-shouldered unit that made a lot of noise, the couch and chair, some haphazard piles of books on the floor and a monstrous seventies TV set which Robert said had been there when he moved in. The owners probably left it behind because it didn’t work very well, he said, and because it was fucking heavy, which Robert found out when he tried to haul it down to Cash Converters, where most of his other possessions had ended up.

  A few hours slid nicely by. Robert had got a decent buzz going, which as always made him feel benign and at peace with the world despite his myriad ailments and short-term future. Only the here and now rated. Sweat, both hot and cold, dripped from his face and sprang from his armpits in a continuous outpouring. He realised at one stage that he had not washed at all that day, as he had not done the day before, and that he had worn the same clothes for days. Generally that was because he crashed on the bed fully dressed when there was nothing left to drink, then in the morning felt too bad to perform the normal, civilised functions. Those had been reduced to a quick mouthwash and a splash of cold water over his stubbled face. There had been no soap in the flat for a couple of months. He shaved whenever – but always on the days he was required at the DSS. He could not remember the last time he had a proper haircut and had stopped going to the laundrette. The denim shirt he now seemed to wear full time was stiff and crusty with dirt and sweat. The marbled stonewash jeans were black down the front and on the bum from wiping his hands and sitting on pavements. By degrees all his old standards had fallen away, and now he was on his hambones. He had set out on this road with stout resolutions about maintaining appearances and so on, but all that stuff soon began to lose its relevance. Once or twice he’d even pissed the bed overnight, much to his horror and chagrin. But even this could always be rationalised later: If the worst I do is piss the bed, I’m not doing too bad. At least I’m not choking on vomit.

  During this pleasant, pearly fug, at around the time when the dipping sun blinded him through the venetians, Florence asked whether he minded if she stayed for two or three days, just until she got herself organised. Robert airily waved an arm and said, Sure, why the hell not. Let’s have a party. Let’s tie one on, baby, he told her, grooving in his chair and dropping ash all over the floor as usual.

  Giggling, Florence slipped from the couch onto the floor, splaying her legs. Robert shimmied unsteadily across and topped up her glass, singing, I get a peaceful, easy feelin’, And I know you won’t let me down, before squirting some wine directly into his mouth and over his chin. Then he lit a couple of smokes and passed one over. The world was indeed rosy at this moment, but even so the hungry jackals were on the prowl, circling around his brain, edging closer all the while: Christ, where’s that next fuckin’ score coming from?

  5

  Even while he was happily agreeing to put Florence up he had a feeling he was making a big mistake. Still, when you’re out of your mind you tend to do that kind of thing, or why bother getting pissed? May as well be sane and rational all the time. He was used to living on his own and not having to deal with anyone else, added to which there were his unsavoury habits and his unsound physical condition, which could be embarrassing for both of them – especially in the loose bowel department, say, or whenever he had an attack of the jimjams and started seeing monster cockroaches crawling out of the ventilators in the middle of the night. Well, it was only for a few days – although he was well aware that in these circles a few days could easily turn into a few weeks or even months if he wasn’t on the ball. Not much danger of that happening, however, in view of the fact that there were few home comforts in the place and nothing for Florence to sleep on except the couch. No way was he giving up the sanctuary of his bed. There was, stashed somewhere in the wardrobe, a sleeping bag he could offer her. Anyway, soon she would be gone from his life and he’d never see her again, so a temporary inconvenience was no big deal.

  When he next came to he was lying on the floor in the dark. Groaning loudly, he hauled himself up, crashed against a wall and made it into the bathroom with no time at all to spare. Oh, Christ, this is the absolute fucking pits. I’ll take the big sleep anytime. He sat there for a long while, grasping and massaging his face and moaning into his hands as his body once again tried to turn itself inside out. Finally he fell on his bed, and when his eyes stickily opened again it was just daylight. Well, well. Here we go again. Great life if you don’t weaken …

  On the lounge room floor lay the remnants of the night’s fun and games: wine cask, from which the bladder had been ripped, glasses, empty fag packet, saucer crammed with butts, butts on the carpet, Florence’s handbag, in which he dimly remembered her searching for something or other, her white sandals. On the couch she was so silent and still she might have been dead. He leaned over her and saw that she was breathing soundly into the back of her hand, which was squashing her nose. She was holding her body tightly, as if she were cold, so he pulled a blanket from his bed and draped it over her. Then he had a good, long shower and put on some different clothes. He even considered having a shave, but that was pushing things too far, considering his badly shaking hands.

  While he was having a coffee and mulling over his lack of funds she woke up, twisting her head thisaway and thataway to see where she was. Then she saw him, frowned and sat up, drawing the blanket around her shoulders like a poncho. It was still early enough to be cool in advance of another warm day with a northerly blowing.

  ‘Good morning, Flo Jo,’ he said.

  ‘Goo’ morning. Whatsa time?’

  ‘No idea.’ He looked out through the blinds. ‘I’d say … about eight, give or take.’

  ‘Oh. Well …’ She was working her dry mouth, trying to form words, but it was hopeless. He made another coffee and put it on the floor next to her. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Thanks, Robert. What’d you call me before?’

  ‘Flo Jo. The runner.’

  ‘Oh.’ She tried drinking the coffee, but it was too scalding and she could only blow on it.

  ‘But Florence is a nice name. A lovely name, in fact. Nice town, too. Or was, last time I was there. It’s probably fucked along
with everything else now.’

  ‘You’ve been to Florence?’

  ‘Many years ago. In a previous incarnation.’

  Florence nodded. Still spaced out – or maybe just dumb, he couldn’t tell – she accepted everything he told her at face value, without registering a reaction of any kind.

  ‘For six whole weeks I lived in a whitewashed stone villa with a terrazzo floor and a mezzanine and a swimming pool in the hills among vineyards and olive groves,’ he said, speaking mainly to himself now and staring at the window. ‘Every day the sun would shine and we would go for walks and fill a large bottle with new wine from a man called … Natolino, up this dirt road, then pick up parma prosciutto and cheese and some olives and a breadstick and come back and have lunch on the patio next to the pool. After that we would go to bed and make love and sleep and make love again … and then at dusk go to the village and eat linguini and bisteca and drink quantities of house wine from the region and practise our Italian on the waiters. Then at the end of the night we would go home arm in arm, singing ‘Volare’ and ‘That’s Amore’ and laughing and stumbling and falling down like lunatics all the way because … we knew how deliriously happy we were, and no-one else did.’

  Turning towards Florence again he said, ‘That was the most … sublime, the sweetest time of my life, but now whenever I think of it I see it as an old movie I have viewed over and over, and I’m not even in it. I can replay the whole thing frame by frame, but the faces of the characters are erased, the way they do it on the TV news. I can … I can still see that villa and the bluish haze that made the hills quiver and undulate like a mirage. I can vividly hear the millions of insects protesting at the going down of the sun. I can taste the wine and especially I can taste the woman. I can even feel the dry, crackling stillness of the days and the crushing Tuscan heat on my head and shoulders, but … I’m just not there any more. It’s like an implant: someone else’s memories.’