Sold to the Devil

by Blair Denholm

  He shook his head. ‘I think you should just get used to it. When in Tasmania, do as the locals do. Part of our strategy is to blend in, be inconspicuous.’

  ‘I guess you’re right, doesn’t mean I have to like it. But on the other hand, your mangled ears aren’t exactly normal. Hard to blend in with those suckers attracting attention.’

  He had no argument to that, so he pulled his beanie down low to hide the offending lugs. ‘Better now?’

  ‘I guess.’

  Gary shoved open the door like he was late for an appointment with a cardiologist. What a relief to get out of the biting wind. They burst into a spacious room with a long bar, dotted with pool tables.

  ‘Now this is a pub,’ said Gary. He waved his hand like a shopping channel model. ‘Look at this awesome selection of beers. Less craft crap, more for the unsophisticated working class. Like us.’

  He nodded hello to a scruffy barman, in an apron with a comb-over and a three-day growth, who was stacking packets of chips in wall racks. They walked past groups of twenty-somethings huddled around pool tables. Looked and sounded like European backpackers. The clink of glasses and the clack of snooker balls made Gary smile. So did the two beautiful blondes chatting animatedly in a sing-song lilt. A threesome with a couple of Scandinavian babes would be nice. Not tonight though. Tonight was for settling in, observing, getting a feel for the place. Time for fun and games later.

  ‘Reckon Hobart could grow on me, Trace. Dunno why mean-spirited bastards call it Slowbart. Might even get used to the cold.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. Bit early to make a call like that. It’s nowhere near winter yet. Imagine what that’s gonna be like if this weather’s any indication.’ She laughed and plopped herself down on a stool.

  Gary could barely wrap his frozen fingers around the glass the barman placed lovingly before him. ‘Um. Maybe I was a bit hasty there. My hands feel like ice. Hang on a sec. I’ll check if they have one of those hand dryers in the toilets to warm ‘em up.’

  She brushed his thigh as he stood. ‘Dylan, when you get back we need to discuss our long-term strategy. Before you get pissed.’ Tracey wriggled her tiny backside on the barstool, reached across and grabbed Gary’s hand.

  ‘That’s the pot calling the kettle black, Trace.’ He shook his head and pulled his hand from her grasp.

  ‘Is that some kind of snide remark about drugs?’ She leapt to her feet, stuck her face right up in his grill. ‘I’m not a junkie, okay?’ she hissed. ‘I’m a recreational user. Don’t forget, it was my heroin that saved your life. Anyway, I haven’t touched the stuff in over a month. I’m clean.’

  He sighed. ‘I apologise.’

  ‘Accepted.’

  ‘You jabbing a heroin hotshot into that thug’s neck, saved my neck. In a bizarre way, I guess your habit is the reason I’m alive today.’

  ‘Don’t you fucken listen? I said it’s not a habit!’

  ‘Jesus. I said I was sorry. Calm down, will ya? And lower your voice.’

  ‘No. I won’t be told by you what to do or what to say. You got me, Dy-lan?’ Tracey thrust out her chin.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey.’ Gary draped an arm across her shoulder. The woman was mocking him. ‘Relax. Making a scene’s doing no-one any favours.’

  Pool balls cracked and his heart rate jumped. Christ, this had escalated fast. Maybe Trace is having delayed withdrawals, DTs or whatever junkies get when they go cold turkey. Probably lying about being clean for a month. Her behaviour gave no clues she’d weaned herself off the gear. After all, what did he know about her? Not much. Who was she? The last thing he needed was a skittish drug addict putting him at risk. Time to make her see straight.

  ‘Trace, I shouldn’t have said that. But if we don’t knuckle down and get on with it, bad shit’s gonna happen. Not only to me. You’ve aided and abetted. I’m a wanted man. For stuff I didn’t do, but no-one’s going to believe me. And if they don’t believe me, they won’t believe you, will they?’

  She shook her head. ‘I hate people thinking I’m a junkie. More so when it’s you. We’ve been through a lot together. In a short time. I feel we’ve got a special bond.’

  Exactly what he didn’t need. He wasn’t over the loss of Maddie. Didn’t even know what they’d done with her body, what day she died. Nothing. And here’s Tracey talking about a “special bond”.

  In the recovery period after his plastic surgery, he opened up to Tracey about what happened back in Queensland. No need for secrets anymore. Tracey adored him. Always looked to hold his hand, cuddle up. And she forgave all his sins.

  ‘It’s the dependency,’ she said on the drive to the ferry. ‘The gambling, the alcohol, the cocaine. You’re a good man at heart, I know it.’

  He knew it was bullshit. She was wearing rose-coloured glasses. He’d ditch her at some point. For her own good. Let her get some independence, go their separate ways. If she could finish that uni degree online, she might find a good job. Or she could go back to being a hooker. Not like she’s been out of the game for long. A month. This town was going places, construction work on every block. Lots of lonely workers building shit. They’d be needing female company. She’d command top dollar in this boom economy.

  ‘You’re not a junkie. I was outta line.’ He tried to manufacture an expression of contrition. ‘Going for a smoke out the back. Only be a few minutes. Then we can nut out our strategy.’

  Gary’s thoughts turned to his best mate Foss, abandoned by necessity, not desire. Their famous strategy sessions extracted Gary from many a scrape. He missed Foss nearly as much as he missed Maddie. Could Tracey even come close to Foss’s level? Nah, probably not.

  Tracey grinned. ‘You’re exactly like me. Addictions up the wazoo. Sex, for example.’ A wink sent Gary on his way, cigarette already dangling from his lips.

  It was only slightly less cold in the cramped smoking courtyard than out on the street. Only because there was no wind in the alcove. The afternoon sun had raised the temperature a tad, but it still didn’t feel like much above zero. What the hell would winter be like? Surely this snap was an aberration. He hoped to God it was.

  Tracey had wasted no time making friends while he was gone. Away for a mere ten minutes (five puffing on a durry, five tipping $150 into a poker machine and pressing max bet on each spin, winning nothing), and already some bloke was chatting her up. His muscles were so well developed Gary could discern the ab ripples and pec curves under the man’s jumper. A Neanderthal gym fanatic with an alpha male square jaw and regular features magazines call handsome. In the company of a petite female half the gorilla’s size.

  ‘Hey, who’re your new mates?’ Traces of acne on the bloke. Maybe an anabolic steroid habit. The roids must make him impervious to the cold – the only person in the bar without a jacket or coat.

  ‘Uh, we haven’t actually introduced ourselves.’ Tracey spun on her stool. ‘They were just getting a drink.’ The female swung her head to look at whoever was talking, like she was centre court at a tennis match. Eyes wide and head nodding.

  ‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘Too crowded in the other bar so we came in here.’

  Right, spotted an attractive woman on her own more like it. With their confident stances and exaggerated head nods, they looked to Gary like a pair of professional hucksters. What are they peddling? Suss them out and send them packing. Hopefully Muscles wouldn’t be a prick.

  ‘My name’s Ed. And this is Selina.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Tracey and this is Dylan. We’re from Melbourne.’

  ‘We’re locals.’ Ed gave a warm smile. ‘I live in Sandy Bay and Selina lives in Berriedale. Her place has a spectacular view of the world-famous MONA museum.’

  Gary gawped. Bloody hell, detailed biographies before they’d even shaken hands. Does Selina get a turn to speak?

  ‘We’ve just arrived in town ourselves,’ said Tracey. ‘How lovely to meet such friendly people straight up, hey Dylan?’ For a second Gary forgot his new moniker. ‘
Earth calling Dylan. You awake?’

  ‘Uh, yeah. This cold weather’s playing havoc with my system. Ha ha. So, Ed, you like living in Hobart?’

  The conversation was the kind of small talk in which strangers engage. Warm, convivial, non-controversial. Ed did the bulk of the talking. Selina remained silent as a doorstop. Soon they were onto their fifth round of drinks, all paid for by Ed. The man was a self-promoter the likes of which Gary hadn’t seen since looking in the mirror on the last day of his job as a world-beating real estate salesman on the Gold Coast. But Ed’s rant was all a bunch of bluster, which meant Gary’s attention level was minimal.

  ‘So, what about you guys? What brings you to Hobart?’

  ‘We’re having a bit of a holiday,’ said Tracey.

  That satisfied Ed. No follow up questions, no curiosity about their jobs, hobbies, nothing. Never mind he’d told them all about his successful business, Devil Food Catering, his magnificent house in Sandy Bay and his trophies for body building. He mentioned briefly that Selina was a nurse, and he’d bought her the house she lived in. Well, she rented it off him, but dirt cheap, so it was practically a gift, right?

  ‘Yeah, Melbourne’s great, but give me Hobart anytime. Not keen on this cold spell, though. No one is.’ Ed took a long draft from his foamy pint. ‘The weather bureau assures us it won’t last and all should be back to normal by mid-March. Winter’s gonna be a killer. Right Selina?’

  A nod. Her only contribution to the interaction was nods at Ed’s prompting.

  ‘Hey, me and Selina are heading up to the Republic Hotel in North Hobart to see an awesome cover band. Wanna tag along?’

  Gary and Tracey exchanged a glance. ‘Sure, why not? We’ve got nothing else planned, have we, Trace?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  A feeling of uncertainty washed over Gary. Something between elation and deep foreboding. He hadn’t seen a live band in ages, so that was a plus. But for some reason he couldn’t pin down, Ed set off warning signals in the pit of his gut.

  The band at the Republic shook the room with its high-energy music. Fans pogoed shoulder to shoulder in time to the beat of a drum machine, soaked up throbbing bass lines and squealing guitar riffs. Bodies jumped and thrashed to classic tunes from the 80s and 90s. The two-man outfit played glam rock, hair metal and big anthemic hits. Black Snake, Kiss, Bon Jovi, Aerosmith, Gunners. The crowd whistled and stomped between tunes. The lead guitarist’s banter had the punters laughing like drains. The bassist stood aloof, barely acknowledged anything in his vicinity, save for his own bobbing head. Gary guessed the guy was whacked out on dope.

  As the duo launched into Mr Big’s To Be With You, Gary felt a tap on the shoulder. The close, hot breath of something shouted. Ed grinned at him like a baboon. Gary couldn’t make out a thing under the beanie. More mouthing of silent words from Ed and a thumb gesture pointing to the back of the crowd.

  Fuck it. This is ridiculous. Gary lifted the side of his beanie. He leaned right up to Ed’s cheek and hollered. ‘What? I can barely hear a thing.’

  ‘I said come out the back for a breather.’ Ed enunciated like a newsreader. A look of curiosity crossed his face, but any questions about Gary’s mutilated ear remained unspoken for now. ‘Maybe a smoke.’

  ‘Didn’t think you indulged. You haven’t had one since we met.’

  ‘I don’t. Just hate this shithouse song.’

  The song the band was playing might be a masterpiece, but the crowd didn’t like the choice. A couple of middle-aged women in leggings and denim jackets and three crusty old blokes in cardigans remained on the dance floor. They swayed back and forth to the hypnotic ballad.

  ‘Where are the girls?’

  ‘Already out there waiting for us, I guess.’

  Ed bought a pint for Gary and something red that looked like an energy drink for himself. The pair elbowed a path through the throng.

  The open-air beer garden offered little protection from the cold. Six freestanding gas heaters topped with steel reflector umbrellas attracted small groups of drinkers and smokers like moths to a bright light, but if you weren’t right next to them the warming effect was zero.

  ‘There they are.’ Ed pointed to Tracey and Selina, seated a table at the far end of the beer garden. ‘The girls seem to be getting along nicely.’

  The two women were engaged in eager conversation with a twenty-something female. Long, dark dreadlocks, oversized red-framed glasses, flouncy petticoats, tattooed wrists and forearms.

  As the men approached, Gary picked up the scent of patchouli oil wafting off the hippie chick. Not one for mixing with alternative lifestylers, he’d gladly make an exception for this soap-dodging flower child. She was a stunner – one of those gorgeous faces that reminds you of a catalogue of models rolled into one perfect specimen. A glance around the space revealed a melting pot of patrons: hippies and hipsters, tradies in high-vis jumpers, white collar workers in suits and greatcoats. But his total focus was on the hippie.

  ‘Hi. Love the dreadies.’ Gary beamed at the woman, channelling his former self, used car seller and real estate wunderkind no-one could resist. A beautiful blank face stared back at him.

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied in a voice as chilly as the weather.

  ‘They keep you warm in the cold?’

  She gave him a lingering look loaded with disdain. ‘Of course not. Why the hell would you think that?’

  ‘Um…’ he stammered.

  ‘Yeah, what? Spit it out.’

  Women didn’t talk to him like that. Not when he was being polite. Must be a bloody dyke. Regroup, Braswell. Maybe she’s had a bad day.

  ‘What I meant to say was you–’

  Dreadies didn’t even wait for him to finish. Rude cow shook her head, turned her attention back to Tracey. Flashed her a gleaming grin of perfect teeth. Licked her lips like she’d eaten a sugar-coated donut. She looked at Selina and made the same gesture. Yep. She’s a dyke. And on the prowl to boot. Damn. But he was turned on by the thought of these women getting it on. No, surely he was imagining it. They’re all nice, straight, boring white chicks shooting the breeze over drinks. Nothing to see here. Move along.

  Gary lit a cigarette, took a drag and sent out a plume of smoke mixed with steamy breath. He sat next to Ed who spat out something to a bloke in a trench coat. Gary missed the actual words, but they couldn’t have been nice. The man jumped to his feet and bolted for the nearest exit. Within seconds his silhouette was jogging along a laneway outside.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Surely Ed wasn’t another standover merchant like the recently deceased bastard from the Gold Coast who’d made Gary’s life a living hell.

  ‘I told him you were a killer fresh out of prison, and he looked like the guy who ratted you out. So he legged it.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m kidding. I asked him to run down the road and get some charlie from a dealer in Yardley Street. He’ll be back in thirty minutes or so. Interested in partaking?’

  Finally. Someone talking his language. It had been too long and, besides, the cold was making his toes and fingers numb.

  ‘Bloody oath, Ed. Don’t mind if I do.’

  Gary lay on the hotel room floor and counted multicoloured stars creeping across the ceiling. The cocaine Ed bought proved the hit Gary needed. Only Tracey refused a snort, claimed to be on a health kick. Yeah, right. Once a junkie. Pissed on beer like the rest of them, though. Probably snuck a jab of horse back at the pub judging by her wooden expression.

  The TV was tuned to a music channel. Songs of the 90s with an emphasis on grunge. Despair dished out by the disillusioned. There’s no art without suffering as Kurt Cobain, Eddie Vedder and Daniel Johns proclaimed in their songs of anguish. Music to slit your wrists by. But if your head was screwed on right and you weren’t suicidal, the music was beautiful. Gary loved it, and topping himself never crossed his mind. Okay, maybe once. A few months ago he contemplated taking a long one-way stroll into the surf at
Southport. But things were on the slide then.

  Now conditions were brighter, life was for living, and tonight’s improv party proved the point. The only downside was the size of the room. Cramped as two fat guys in a phone booth. Swinging cats was out of the question, let alone stretching out and getting comfortable. A quick glance at Ed told Gary the bloke must be a grunge enthusiast too, either that or the coke had addled his brain. The man sat stock still in a plastic chair on the other side of the bed, stared at the classic clip of Pearl Jam’s Jeremy as if in a deep trance.

  The three women lay squeezed together on the small bed. Tracey on the side near the window, breathing the steady rhythm of sleep, Selina wedged in the middle also in the land of nod, cuddling Hippy Chick, who was nearest to Gary, propped up on one elbow and slugging the remains of a stubby. Fed up watching the parade of stars on the ceiling, he decided to push his luck again.

  ‘Hey, fancy another beer?’

  ‘Sure. And my name’s not “hey”. It’s Fern.’

  ‘I remember. Ed told me back at the Republic. I tried to talk to you, but you treated me like dirt. Got the impression you didn’t want anything to do with me.’

  ‘You gave up too easy. I never let guys think they can have me with a few smooth lines. Besides, Ed was all over you on the cab ride back to the hotel. I think our muscle man’s got the hots for you.’

  ‘What the fuck? He didn’t say he was gay.’

  ‘He’s not…technically.’

  ‘What does that mean, technically?’

  She laughed and squinted. ‘You’ve heard of LGBTI?’

  ‘Of course. And isn’t there a Q and a few other letters?’

  ‘Yeah, the acronym varies but the B is a constant element. Ed aligns with the “B” chapter. As do I and Selina.’

  His Adam’s apple took an elevator ride and dropped straight back down. Earlier visions of Fern and Selina rolling around naked on a rug returned, made him catch his breath. He felt a drop of drool form at the edge of his puffy lips.

  ‘Do you and Ed and Selina have something going on?’