by B M Carroll
‘New York?’
‘Only cities around New South Wales – Newcastle, Wollongong, and smaller places like Byron Bay and Nowra.’
‘So why haven’t you come to see us before now?’ Sienna crosses her arms accusingly. ‘Those places aren’t very far from here.’
The truth is complex and he doesn’t fully understand it himself. Seeing the same people day after day makes him feel cornered and exposed instead of loved and secure. Being anonymous makes him steadier, more in control, and if something goes wrong, he can simply move on without having to cut any ties or provide a thousand explanations. How to rationalise all that to children? He could lie and say he was just too busy, but a few more questions would reveal that he doesn’t even have a job.
Celia returns and saves him from having to answer. ‘They’re on their way over. They’re so excited, Robbie. They didn’t believe me at first.’
‘I’m not staying with them,’ he says bluntly. ‘I’m not putting a foot in that house.’
She is visibly taken aback. Glances at the children, who are transfixed at this development. ‘Sienna, take your handwriting homework upstairs. Charlie, go and tidy your room.’
Sienna – very unenthusiastically – reaches for one of the homework books on the table. Charlie has a staring contest with his mother before scraping back his chair. They trudge out of the room with such exaggerated reluctance that Robbie almost laughs.
Celia crouches down next to him. ‘Why don’t you want to go back to the house? Did something specific happen there? You must tell me, Robbie.’
Her scrutiny makes him squirm in his seat. ‘Too many bad memories, that’s all.’
She looks at him even more closely, if that’s possible. ‘But not of Mum and Dad, surely?’
‘No, not them. The problem is me. The problem has always been me.’
Tears and confusion mingle in her pale blue eyes, the exact same shade as his own. She can’t comprehend either his motives for staying away or this abrupt reappearance. He wants to explain: hate is more powerful than love. Self-hatred kept him away. A different kind of hatred prompted his return. Love should have played a part – love for his ageing parents, and for her, his faithful sister – but it didn’t. Hate alone has propelled him to this point.
She takes both his hands in hers, squeezes tightly as though she is never going to let him go. ‘Robbie, I am so happy to see you. I am so incredibly happy that you’ve finally met your niece and nephew. You can stay here, with us, for as long as you like.’
The next day Robbie is feeling tired, overwrought and dangerously off-kilter. Seeing his mother and father after all these years. So much older, more fragile and shrunken. The tears and recriminations for not staying in touch. The questions he couldn’t really answer. His mother wouldn’t stop touching him. Squeezing his hand. Stroking his face or arm. She couldn’t keep her hands off him. At some point a phone was pressed against his ear, his brother Nick hollering on the other end, promising to come up from Melbourne. Later, in Celia’s spare room, sensory overload and the inability to settle down to sleep.
‘I wish I could stay at home and be with you,’ Celia said this morning. ‘But I’ve already had too many sick days. The last thing I need is to lose my job.’
His sister works in an office in Brookvale. The pay is bad but the location is convenient for school. She split up from her husband last year. She claims the split was mutual but Robbie has his doubts. She winces whenever she says her ex-husband’s name.
The children left the house with Celia.
‘Will you be here when we get home?’ Sienna asked suspiciously.
‘Yes, of course.’
Robbie took a deep breath when they left. He made himself a cup of tea and worked out how to operate the TV. The walls started closing in on him so he went for a walk to the local shops, sat on the wall outside the pharmacy, loitered in the newsagent’s until he was asked to leave. Celia had said a few of his old year group still lived in the area but he didn’t see any familiar faces.
Now he’s at his old school, Macquarie High, except it’s gone. Bulldozed to make way for a new housing development. The demolition was more than ten years ago and the houses have established gardens out the front. Celia said that the locals are still angry about it.
‘The kids have to travel two suburbs to the closest high school now. We don’t understand why the government did this. It was such a good school.’
Her memories are obviously different to his. As he recalls it, it was a terrible school. Nobody cared, neither teachers nor students. Celia was two years younger than him; maybe her year group had some genuinely nice people instead of a pack of fucking arseholes.
Robbie leaves the housing estate and strides back towards the shops. It’s rush hour now. People are stopping on their way home for milk, bread and take-away dinners. No sign of Jarrod, Annabel, Grace or any of the others. He can’t explain this sudden fixation with seeing them.
Five p.m. He needs to go home. Celia will be worrying that he’s not coming back. The children will be annoying her with questions. That reminds him. He has some loose change in his pocket. Enough for two bars of chocolate. Not the most extravagant present in the world but all he has to offer.
The next day he’s beset with the same claustrophobic feeling as soon as Celia and the children leave in the morning. The same urge to get out, to distance himself from the cloying walls of the house. He decides to catch a bus into the city. Sydney hasn’t changed much. Some of the roads have been widened. New blocks of flats have been built along Military Road. The bus rattles over the bridge, and Robbie has his first view of the harbour in twenty years.
He hops off the bus and walks towards Town Hall. Almost everyone is dressed in office attire, holding a phone or a coffee cup or both. The ones who aren’t distracted meet Robbie’s eyes before giving him a wide berth. It’s funny how they can sense that he’s different, that he isn’t one of them. It must be his clothing, or perhaps his grooming, even though today he’s shaved and wearing perfectly good clothes belonging to Celia’s ex-husband.
Town Hall is a popular meeting spot. The greetings are effusive: girls squealing and kissing cheeks, men clapping each other on the shoulder before exchanging hugs. When did everyone become so touchy-feely? Robbie keeps walking. This part of the city is more interesting. Chinese convenience stores, organic health food shops, the homeless sitting on corners with signs: Down on my luck and Grateful for anything you can give. He ambles through the buskers and heavy crowds at Central Station. Then he spots a bus with Newtown on its banner. He jumps aboard, barely making it through the closing doors. Katy Buckley works in a school in Newtown. Her contact details were on the email forwarded by Celia.
Katy’s school looks like any other public school: red-brick buildings, concrete footpaths, overgrown grass. It’s lunchtime. Students swarm the grounds, sandwiches being eaten on the go, boys tussling with each other. Short skirts, board shorts, ripped T-shirts; there doesn’t appear to be a uniform or indeed any prohibition of bold hairstyles, body piercings or even tattoos.
Robbie notices an abandoned wheelbarrow under one of the trees. Without really thinking, he slips inside the gates and wheels it around, nodding at the students, not getting too close to the supervising teachers, and stopping every now and then to pick up litter. He is keeping a keen eye out for Katy. A woman rather than the soft-faced girl of his memories. A teacher in place of the earnest student who always had books clutched to her chest. At least her hair colour should be recognisable.
‘Miss Buckley!’
Robbie turns as soon as he hears it. The student is running towards a teacher with dark brown hair and tight-fitting jeans. The teacher is toned – she obviously works out – and has a nose piercing. It couldn’t possibly be Katy.
‘Miss, I’ve left my lunch at home and I don’t have any money. Can I have a pass for the canteen ... please?’
‘How many times have you left your lunch at home this ter
m?’
Her voice is familiar even if her appearance is not. Robbie recognises the wry undertones.
‘Too many times,’ the student replies.
‘Exactly.’ Katy, trying to hide a smile, pulls out a notebook from the pocket of her jeans. ‘Here. Make sure you bring in the money tomorrow.’
‘I will, I will. Thank you, Miss.’
The student belts off. Katy is still smiling. It’s obvious that the student sought her out because she is more sympathetic than other teachers. Robbie remembers now. Katy is kind. She was always the one who ran to get his brother Nick, while the others stood around, watching his torment, never once stepping in to help. Yes, Katy is kind and good and lovely. It’s the rest of them he hates.
The house is strangely quiet when Robbie gets home. That’s right, they’re at gymnastics. They’ll be back by six. He goes into his room to change his shirt: all the walking around has made him sweaty. There’s something on his bed, a sheet of paper propped against one of the pillows. It’s a picture, a crude drawing of a red bus, coloured in with vigour rather than accuracy. Below, a message in wobbly handwriting: Dear Uncle Robbie. I love you. From Sienna.
It’s not long before they burst into the house, an instant infusion of noise and activity.
‘Sienna, don’t dump your bag in the hall. Put it in your room. Charlie, close the door, for goodness’ sake.’
Then the commencement of the panel interview, Charlie and Sienna lined up on one side of the table, Robbie on the other.
‘Where did you go today, Uncle Robbie? What did you do?’
‘I got the bus into the city. Did some people watching at Town Hall. Listened to the buskers at Central Station. It was a good day.’
It was a good day. The best in a long time. He mentions nothing about going all the way to Newtown. Nothing about Katy.
Robbie already knows that he’ll go back to the school tomorrow.
9
LUKE
Luke is rostered on a charter flight every few weeks. He enjoys them; sometimes the passengers are celebrities. He’s had his photo taken with Katy Perry, the English rugby team and Graham Norton. He only asks if he thinks the celebrity genuinely doesn’t mind. Luke doesn’t like to grovel.
There’s nobody famous on today’s flight, just a group of car manufacturing engineers going to Sweden to test their latest models against brutal winter conditions. Luke shivers: he is not a fan of extreme weather, be it cold or hot.
‘We like coming here,’ one of the engineers says chattily. ‘You can achieve way more than you can with simulators or wind tunnels. You know, traction control was refined in Arjeplog.’
Luke doesn’t know. He has only a vague idea of what traction control is. He doesn’t drive, never learned how. His father was too angry to teach him when everyone else was learning. If you’ll stop being such a faggot, I might teach you. Once Luke left home and moved overseas, it never felt necessary to learn. Who needs a car in central London?
The engineers are staying in Sweden for five days and the aircraft and cabin crew are staying too. Apparently, it’s cheaper than flying home and back again with an empty aircraft. Luke doesn’t mind. It’s the chance to catch up on some sleep, and he’ll be getting paid in full while doing so. Nerida, who’s also on the flight, has done some research on the area. Temperatures that can drop below 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Frozen lakes that can be configured as motor tracks. Limited restaurants. Practically non-existent nightlife. On the plus side there are reindeer forests, the opportunity to go ice-skating or skiing and some stunning scenery. Nerida is hoping they’ll get a glimpse of the Northern Lights.
‘I know absolutely nothing about cars,’ Luke says to the friendly engineer.
‘Anything you need to know ...’ The engineer smiles. He has a cute smile. He’s a few years younger than Luke. ‘I might see you in the bar later on.’
Luke wakes the next morning with a dreadful headache and the relief that he’s in his own room. Fragments of yesterday flash behind his eyes. Flirting with the engineer on the flight. Meeting at the hotel bar later on. Throwing back beers, then wine, then shots of bourbon. The only saving grace is that when the engineer – Sebastian – asked him back to his room he said no. Yet more shots as he told Sebastian about how much he loved Aaron, and Sebastian drunkenly recounted his latest break-up. Poor Sebastian, having to get up at the crack of dawn this morning. Trying to apply his hungover brain to complex problems involving speed, physics and traction. Possibly behind the wheel of one of the skidding cars.
Speaking of skidding, that’s exactly what the room is doing when Luke sits up in the bed. Christ, he needs a glass of water. He goes to the bathroom, finds a glass. The water is so cold it gives him a different kind of headache; the kind you get from eating an ice cream too fast. He uses the toilet and then forces himself into the shower, in the hope that it will make him feel better. It doesn’t. A strong wave of nausea hits and he throws up against the walls of the cubicle. The vomit, yellow and watery, runs down the tiles: bile and water. Now he feels insanely hot. He bursts out of the cubicle, gulps in some air. Jesus Christ. This happens every now and then. He drinks too much, and the next morning it feels like he has poisoned himself. Truth is, it happens more often than he’d like. Aaron is always begging him to show more restraint.
The walk back to bed is shaky. He’s like an old man, stopping every few steps to rest and lean against the wall. His phone beeps just as he sits down. It’s from Nerida.
Going to breakfast now. C U there?
The thought of breakfast has him rushing for the bathroom again. This time the vomit has more substance. It gets clogged in the plughole of the basin, sticks to the back of his throat. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.
Another shaky walk back to bed. He lies down, reaches for his phone again. He feels marginally better but doesn’t trust that it’s going to last. He’ll give it another ten minutes before answering Nerida. In the meantime, he checks his emails. A message from work regarding a change to his roster next week. A few SPAM messages, offering him Viagra and fake prizes. One of Katy’s reunion messages nestled in the middle of the SPAM.
From: [email protected]
Subject: New Yearbook
Name: Luke Willis
Highest achievement at school: Being the first openly gay student.
What you do now: Flight Attendant.
Highlights of last twenty years: Travelling the world. Meeting your boyfriend, who is far too good for you.
Lowlights: Drinking too much. You’re pathetic, Luke. Then and now.
Deepest fears: That Katy will ask you to father a child. Hold tight, it’s coming. Pity she hasn’t better taste.
What the fuck?
Luke reads the message again. Is Katy on drugs or something? What’s she doing sending out shit like this? His outrage causes his hangover to momentarily recede. He FaceTimes her immediately. Doesn’t care to check the time in Sydney. Serves her right if he disturbs her at work.
‘Luke?’ Her face, looking concerned, appears on the screen of his phone. ‘What’s up? Is everything all right?’
She’s at home, eating a meal. Yes, now that he thinks about it, it’s dinnertime in Sydney.
‘Everything is not all right,’ he tells her crossly. ‘I just got your crazy message. Have you gone mad? Jesus Christ, there’s no chance, no fucking way on earth.’
Now she looks confused. ‘What are you talking about? What message?’
‘Stop playing games, Katy. I have the worst headache imaginable.’
‘I didn’t send a message. I swear I didn’t. I haven’t emailed you for a few weeks at least.’ She tucks her hair behind one ear. ‘And you haven’t answered my last message, I might add.’
‘Well, someone sent me a message. A fucked-up message about this fucked-up yearbook of yours.’
‘Forward it on to me. I want to read it.’
He does what she asks. He’s deteriorating again. His stomach is clenching
and his head is going to split open. He’s too old for this: getting into drinking competitions with strangers, vomiting in hotel bathrooms, waking up with that horrible mix of guilt, shame and self-disgust.
Thanks to the instantaneous wonders of technology, even here in the most remote place on the planet, it is only a matter of moments before Katy has received and read the offending email.
She is definitive. ‘I didn’t send this, Luke. The email address is similar to the special one I set up for the reunion, but it’s not exactly the same. Annabel and Grace got messages too. More nasty than funny, just like yours. Remember, I sent an email asking whoever it was to stop?’
Luke doesn’t remember; he’s been barely skimming the reunion stuff. Why bother with the details when he has no intention of going?
‘Is it true that you want me to be a fucking sperm donor?’
Silence. Jesus Christ, it’s true, then.
‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ she eventually admits.
‘Fuck it, Katy, it’s a terrible idea.’
Now she’s indignant. ‘I’m thirty-seven, Luke, and I don’t have a partner. What’s wrong with asking an old friend?’
‘A gay friend?’
‘Being gay and being a father aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.’
He groans. This is not the kind of conversation to be having right now. He can’t seem to hold on to any thoughts. Nothing is sticking, only the fact that it’s a bad, bad idea. ‘I can’t answer that. My head is too sore.’
She gives him a knowing look. ‘Big night out?’
‘Yep.’
For a moment, he thinks she’s going to lecture him. But she returns to the matter at hand. ‘Who is sending these messages? Who would even know I was thinking of asking you that question? I haven’t discussed it with anyone.’
‘Fucked if I know ... Look, I have to go. I feel horrible.’
‘Okay. Take care.’ Then a friendly warning more than a lecture: ‘Don’t drink so much, hey?’
Luke hangs up, feels another intense wave of nausea and has to run for the bathroom again. He promised Nerida they’d go to the reindeer forests today. There’s clearly no chance of that. He knows his body. Three vomits means that he needs to go back to bed, sleep it off.
