‘Oh, Grace dear.’ She steps out in her slippers, wearing a long floral dress and a knitted cardigan. ‘Are you okay?’
‘BBQ died.’
‘Your chicken?’
I nod, crossing my arms, hugging them tight against my chest.
She sighs and holds her wrinkly hand to her heart. ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. Why don’t I get John and we’ll come over.’ She steps back into the house and calls out to her husband. Together, the three of us walk back across the road into my yard, where Honey Soy is in the coop, kicking dust and flapping wings, squawking hysterically.
Wearing his gardening gloves, Mr Brown suggests I look away as he lifts out BBQ and lays her in a cardboard box. Mrs Brown takes my hand, squeezes.
‘Can you please take her?’ I ask Mr Brown.
Standing in his button-up shirt and high-waisted pants, holding the cardboard box, he flushes and glances at his wife, who answers, ‘Of course we will, sweetie.’
Mr Brown nods and makes his way back across the quiet street with the box. Mrs Brown, pudgy and soft, hugs me tight. ‘Do you need something for dinner?’ she asks. ‘I’ve made potato and leek soup.’
‘I’m fine, Mum is inside making something.’
She glances at the empty driveway, the house with no lights on.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
Embracing me once more, she says, ‘Well, we’re just across the road if you need anything,’ and ambles home.
Dragging the bag of chickenfeed out of the shed, I scatter fistfuls of grain on the ground of the coop, refill the water bowl Honey Soy has kicked over and, with darkness creeping across the sea, I pick several heads of kangaroo paw, blooming early this year, from around the side of the house. I coil them through the coop’s wire mesh wall, scoop Honey Soy up and hold her until her wings are still, then, tears welling, I place her back down on the straw, knowing her coop will now seem awfully big.
Later, in my pyjamas, I cook a cup of two-minute noodles I find at the back of the pantry. Although I’m sure there’s no actual chicken in the chicken flavouring, I throw the sachet in the bin and eat them plain.
With Monty moping around at my feet, I let him drink the soupy leftovers from the cup and fill his bowl with biscuits. I grab a blanket from my room and lie down on the floorboards beside Monty in his bed, remembering how after Ben and I moved into our own rooms, if I had a nightmare, I’d go and sleep in his room. I’d had this undying faith that if we were together, nothing bad would happen.
Mum taps me on the shoulder. ‘Grace, honey.’ I wake to the scent of a butter cake baking in the oven. She helps me to my feet and I hobble over to the kitchen, blanket slung around my neck, and observe the bench, covered in bags of flour, spilt icing sugar, half a block of butter, bowls and trays and cake mix on spoons and whisks.
The clock ticks above the fridge. It’s after midnight.
‘I’m sorry I was so late home. I got held up marking essays, then Mrs Brown called to tell me what happened and asked where I was.’
I prop myself up on a stool. Mum’s voice cracks on certain words, but it’s the most she’s said to me this whole week, so I don’t dare interrupt.
When the oven timer goes off, Mum slips her hands into her mitts and flips the cake out onto a cooling rack on the bench, then cuts a piece for me, a piece for herself. We eat until our stomachs are full, with the awkward hope that we will somehow be satiated.
As I crawl into bed, Mum stands at my bedroom door and wishes me sweet dreams, although I sense in her heart she no longer believes in them.
Twenty
THE PALMS
I’m sitting at the bus stop outside the bottle shop, waiting for Jake to buy us our drinks for tonight, when Dad walks up, about to enter the shop. It’s only now, with him standing before me, neck red, hair thinning, that it occurs to me I can’t actually remember the last time I saw him.
Each of us, awkward at the best of times, stares at the other, mouths gaping, and I’m not sure there are even words to fill a void as wide as this.
Jake steps out, weaving around Dad in the middle of the shop’s doorway.
‘Hi, Ray,’ he says.
Dad ignores him.
‘How are you?’
Still no response.
Jake grabs my shirt and drags me away from my dad, just another man on the street.
It’s an hour and a half drive to the Palms, the biggest town between here and the city. It’s dead during the week but comes alive on the weekend, when the rich people come down from the city to relax, wine, dine and party in their luxurious beach holiday homes.
Turning down the radio, I ring Mum from the car and leave a voice message, telling her I’m staying at Jake’s. With no landline at his house, and a mother who can’t stay in one place for more than five minutes, it will be near impossible for Mum to check up on me without driving around herself. She stays at school late most days now anyway, distracting herself with marking in the lead-up to her year twelves’ final exams, coming home in the dark and baking or cleaning or both until she’s too exhausted to climb the stairs and collapses on the couch, sleeping in till midday Saturday.
We pull into the drive-through of a greasy fast-food joint, roadside in a run-down town. Jake tells the lady on the intercom her voice is sexy, and she gasps, giggling as he orders an absurd amount of food.
‘Someone’s hungry,’ she says.
‘I can’t get enough,’ Jake answers.
Eyes watering, I’ve got my hands over my mouth trying not to laugh.
He specifically requests tight buns and lots of sauce before we drive round to the window. A woman with bleached hair, gold bangles and pink nails has written her number on his cup of Coca-Cola. We’re hardly out of the drive before we burst out laughing.
Jake stuffs his face with a burger as we roar up the highway. Holding up the cup, he cracks up again, almost choking, spitting patty, breadcrumbs and rubbery cheese across the wheel and dashboard.
Where we’re headed, there are expensive beach bars, fine dining restaurants, and a famed nightclub that regularly hosts the city’s most happening DJs. Jake tells me he’s got connections through someone he met at the warehouse who can get me in through the back door of the nightclub without an ID. I munch and swallow, my mushed-up burger thick in my chest.
Outside town, we pass a strip of burnt forest. I recognise a wagon, trays of fruit, a man in a Driza-Bone. ‘Do you know someone lit that fire?’ I ask. ‘I saw it on the news.’
Jake shakes his head, chuckles. ‘Don’t be stupid, Grace. I don’t watch the news.’
‘One person, with a tin of petrol and one match. Look how much they destroyed.’
‘Yeah, it’s fucked up.’
My phone buzzes.
‘That message tone is so annoying,’ Jake says.
‘Mia keeps texting me.’
‘Don’t tell her where we’re going.’
‘I haven’t … obviously.’
‘She’ll lose her shit.’
I read the message. ‘The hearing’s next week.’
Jake focuses far ahead, hands tightening around the wheel, his knuckles white. I turn my phone off and chuck it onto the back seat.
I picture the woman in her chair before a magistrate, lawyer at her side, shirt ironed, hair slicked. I consider her, just sitting there, air in her lungs, colour in her cheeks.
The very thought of looking at her, alive and intact, makes my stomach churn. ‘I don’t want to go.’
Jake takes a deep breath. ‘Neither do I.’
We reverse into a parking bay, by a quieter strip of beach south of the Palms, then take the blankets out of the ute’s cabin and climb into the tray. We lie back against pillows under the blankets and pop open our first drinks, finishing off the last of the fries as the ocean turns deep indigo.
Nudging me, Jake points up at the sky. ‘That first star, it’s not really a star. It’s a planet. Jupiter or Venus, depending what time of the year.’
I rest my head against his shoulder.
‘My dad told me that,’ he says. ‘Probably the only good thing the man ever said to me.’
He offers me a toke of his joint and I stretch my mind to those planets, to the stars beyond, across the unfathomable lengths of the universe. Jake coughs and I snap back to earth in an instant, like an elastic band returning to its original shape. I realise I am awfully small in the grand scheme of things, and yet I am here, aching, and that is just as real.
I take a swig from the bottle of bourbon. ‘My mum told me that some stars are already dead, but they’re so far away that the light from them will still be flying through the universe for millions of years.’
Jake closes his eyes, leans his head back. He smiles.
By the time I’m sitting in the ute, the cabin lights on, trying to do my make-up in the fold-down mirror, I’m seeing double and wondering if this is really the smartest idea. Jake and I get changed in the empty car park behind the ute. In a dress and heels, found in my hand-me-down bag from Mia, I stumble under a streetlight, slurring, ‘Do I look eighteen?’
‘No, not really,’ Jake laughs. ‘But you look sexy as hell.’
‘Piss off.’
‘I’m serious!’ He takes my hand and we make our way to the street, where Jake hails a cab to take us to the main strip in town.
I’ve never seen the beach promenade at night before. We surfed in the state titles when they were held here a few years ago, but at this hour, it’s a whole other world.
There are guys with stubble and beanies leaning against walls smoking cigarettes. Girls with clutches in stilettos and tiny skirts stand in the club lines in tight groups. The ones who strut and show off their cleavage are permitted to skip the queue. On the kerb, several police stand in clusters, eyes surveying the crowd. Music pumps out of narrow entrances, guarded by frowning security.
‘This way.’ Jake grabs me by the elbow and leads me down a side alley. A couple, half-undressed, grind against each other between a garbage bin and a brick wall, so drunk they don’t notice us pass.
We stop at a heavy metal door. Jake knocks twice before someone answers. A man steps out, clean-shaven, hair gelled, wearing a designer button-up, smart jeans, flash shoes and an earpiece, cord slipping down his neck under his collar. Introducing himself as Aiden, he steps aside and motions for us to come in. My heart thumping, I follow Jake into the back staffroom of the club. On a shiny aluminium bench, two men dressed like Aiden are scraping powder into lines with a credit card.
I take Jake’s hand as one turns to ask if he wants a line.
‘Sure.’
‘What about your girl?’
‘Oh, she’s not my girl.’
‘Your loss, mate.’ Aiden chimes in, his eyes sliding down my legs. He smiles at me. ‘So, beautiful, should I line one up?’
Jake squeezes my hand, shoots me a glance. You don’t have to.
‘I’d love one,’ I say.
I watch Aiden empty enough powder from the sachet for two more lines. He hands me a tiny gold tube. ‘Ladies first.’
I take it with shaking fingers.
‘Relax, darling,’ he whispers, leaning over me, so close his breath touches the nape of my neck.
I saw this done in a movie once and thought it was revolting. Now, like the Hollywood woman had in her red satin dress, I bend down, hold the tube to one nostril, cover the other with my finger and inhale. My eyelids flare open as Aiden runs his finger over the bench to pick up any leftovers. ‘Here,’ he says, holding his index finger out in front of my face. I open my mouth and he bites his lip, running his fingertip along my gums. His eyes, dark as a black hole, slide all over my body.
After Jake has had his share, rubbing the leftovers on his own gums, Aiden asks that we follow him. He leads us out the door and onto the dance floor. Bile burns the back of my throat, my mouth so numb I feel like all my teeth have fallen out.
Twenty-One
THE LUCKIEST
Electric currents flow through my body. My spine lengthens, my muscles twitch, my senses feel fine-tuned.
Beams of purple, yellow, pink and blue cut through the dark. Light slants against my black dress, my olive skin. I push past a group of girls, making for the bar. At the counter, a man makes room for me. He smiles, his eyes slipping from my red lips down over my collarbones. I realise I’m smiling back.
The barman turns to me. ‘What can I get for you babe?’
‘Pina colada,’ I say, noticing my voice is louder than usual.
He winks. A pina colada is the only cocktail I’m sure I know the name of. It’s the one from that song my parents played when they were teenagers and later sang to each year on their wedding anniversary. The song they sang when they were happy.
A hand wraps around my hip. It is Aiden, his breath hot against my cheek. Turning to face him, my lips linger just centimetres from his, close enough to taste vodka on his breath.
Minutes later, when the man behind the counter places the drink in front of me, Aiden shoots him a glance, head cocked, and the man nods, moving on to serve the next person. We walk together from the bar, Aiden stopping beside the glass wall at the front of the club, overlooking a deep purple sea. He slips an arm round my waist, pulling me tight against him. I let my lips brush his, then lean back and take a sip of my drink. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘It’s delicious.’ I slide free from his grasp and wander off to the dance floor.
Bass pumps from speakers, so deep it alters my own rhythm. Some girls bob and sway, clinging to their drinks and purses. Others throw their hair and thrust their hips back and forth. I push closer to the girls with wilder performances, trying to copy their dance moves.
One dress strap slips off my shoulder as I dance, exposing the side of my bra. I see Aiden weaving through the crowd toward me and let the loose strap dangle, teasing, then slide it back up a moment later with a delicate brush. He takes me in his arms, holds me close, hips pressed hard against mine. Leaning in, he speaks into my ear. ‘Thought I’d lost you.’
I laugh and drink the last of my cocktail, parched like never before.
He flashes a line of straight, pearl teeth, takes my hand and leads me off the dance floor. At the end of the bar, a bouncer stands at the entrance to the VIP area. The man gives Aiden a grin, unhooks the velvet rope and steps aside. Aiden ushers me into a red leather booth and slides shut the privacy screen. As he pours us each a glass of champagne, I reapply my lipstick, sliding it back into my purse as he passes me the drink. Tiny pink bubbles dance around the glass.
‘Another line?’ he asks, placing his drink on the table, drawing a sachet of white powder from his wallet. I nod.
I inhale with the gold tube, then pass it back, and Aiden does the same.
He rubs the leftovers on my gums and I bite his finger. A moan sounds deep in his throat as he lifts me from the couch and plants me on his lap. I move freely as if I’m in the ocean. His hands hold my waist, the gentle push and pull of the tides and suddenly it doesn’t seem to matter that I’m small or thin. I reach for the two champagnes. We clink glasses, chilled, fruity bubbles bursting on our tongues.
In the dim red light, I run my hands down his chest, tugging on his ironed shirt. His breath is hot and heavy. His hands tighten around my waist and he pulls me toward him, kissing my neck, biting it. He takes my dress strap in his teeth and draws it off my shoulder, bites my collarbone.
Suddenly the screen is flung open, coloured light from the strobe bursting through. It’s Jake, with one of Aiden’s friends from the staffroom. Both have bloody noses. There are three security guards behind them and everyone is talking at once, shouting over the music. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Aiden says. I can barely make out the words. A fight. Two dealers. Police.
Aiden helps me to my feet, kisses my cheek. One of the security guards leans in. ‘Aiden,’ he says, ‘we gotta move.’ Jake wipes blood from his nose, his upper lip trembling. He takes my hand, squeezes it.
We’r
e escorted through the club back to the staffroom. Sudden white light takes away the glamour and Aiden is just a man with panicked, bloodshot eyes. A guard thrusts open the metal door and we escape into the darkness of the alleyway, Aiden and his friend still with us. In my heels, I stumble on the uneven gravel as we make our way around the building, spilling out onto a backstreet. A cab turns the corner and Jake flags it down. Jumping into the back, he slides across to make room for me.
Standing on the bitumen beside the cab, Aiden whips out his phone, offering it to me. ‘Give me your number.’
I reach out, but at the last second, I pretend to fumble, letting the phone fall. It bounces on the street. ‘Oops,’ I giggle and slam the car door shut.
As the cab drives off, Jake lies down across my lap, laughing. ‘Grace, you’re a fucking player!’
Dropped off at the car park, I take off my stilettos, my dress and slip into trackpants and a winter jumper lined with sheepskin. Inside the ute, Jake and I examine his nose beneath the cabin light. ‘It’s definitely not broken,’ I say.
‘Obviously,’ he grins, picking up a fry from the dashboard, popping it in his mouth. ‘I’m unbreakable.’
Outside, we climb into the tray, lie back beneath a sheet of stars and pull the blankets up to our necks. I find his hand beneath the quilt. ‘What was that all about, anyway?’
He draws a deep breath. ‘Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.’
Someone jerks my shoulder, and I hear a rough, disgruntled voice. ‘Excuse me!’
Eyes opening, I wince, a bright blue sky burns my retinas. I sit up, pull my matted hair back into a ponytail. I stink of alcohol and men’s cologne.
The ranger leans over the tray, waves his hand in front of my face. ‘Excuse me!’
I look down at Jake, still passed out beside me, his nose swollen, puffed eyelids bruised purple. I shake his shoulder to wake him.
With the sun high in the sky, I look around at the crowd that has gathered on the beachfront: two men in wetsuits, several women in expensive exercise gear and designer sunglasses, a couple with a dog that yaps, and a bunch of giggling children with ice-creams.
Breathing Under Water Page 13
