‘You can’t do this, Gordon,’ she was saying. ‘You can’t be so cruel. You can’t hurt me this much.’
‘I don’t want to hurt you, Cynthia ...’
‘Oh fuck off! You’re enjoying this!’
I rolled over, faced her. ‘I am not enjoying this.’
‘Then why are you doing it?’ she screamed.
And there was no answer.
THIRTY-FOUR
It was on. For real this time. The same arguments, over and over, day after day. It was long and vicious and exhausting. We drank heavily. We screamed at each other. We were two stray dogs, battling it out to the death over the bones of love. Cynthia was the aggressor. She fought it hard and fast and with increasing creativity and desperation. The drinking spurred her on. Between the cortisone and the alcohol, she was uncontrollable. She screamed, cried, attacked me with her fists, knives, scissors. She meant to keep me or finish me off for ever.
My only goal was survival.
I didn’t ask her to leave. I didn’t have the power or the will for it. I’d made my one and only move. All I could do was ride the attack out and wait for her to tire.
Vass looked at me strangely in the hallways.
It was entertaining times for the old men.
From time to time I took the car and fled for a few hours. I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t want to see Leo or Molly. Maree and Frank had their own difficulties. And Sophie was out of the question. I had only vague memories of what had happened at the party. It had the substance of a dream, a bad one. Where had all the hatred come from? But at least I finally understood one part of the situation. And fucking had nothing to do with it.
In the end I went and saw Rachel. She was good to me. I talked and she listened.
‘You have to make Cynthia leave,’ she said. ‘Make the break. You’re only making it worse for the both of you.’
It was sound advice. Useless advice. Rachel knew it. She had her own worries too. She’d started things up with a man and then he’d shot through to Sydney. People were making a mess of things everywhere I looked.
I went back to Cynthia. She was waiting.
‘Where did you go?’
‘I went and saw Rachel.’
‘Did you fuck her?’
‘I don’t want to fuck anyone.’
‘I’m not going to let you do this, Gordon. You don’t have the right.’
It was true, I didn’t have the right. But this time I had the patience, and Cynthia was slowing down.
Another week passed.
We weren’t fucking, but we still slept side by side in the bed. There was nowhere else in the flat, only the couch, and it was too hard, too cold. It was worse for Cynthia. I had friends I could escape to, but there was no one for her. She called up some of her old people from Melbourne and Sydney, but they were a long way away. They couldn’t understand. They didn’t even know who I was.
We went out drinking on Sunday afternoon with Frank. He was depressed. It was over between him and Maree.
‘I suppose I should be happy,’ he said. ‘I should feel like a butterfly that’s just emerged from a four-year cocoon. But I don’t. I feel like a moth. I keep flying blindly into lightbulbs.’
When the pub closed we caught a cab and had it drive by Frank’s place. He was staying at his parents’ house. It was his first night away from Maree. He got out.
Cynthia looked at me.
‘I’m going with Frank,’ she said.
‘Okay,’ I said.
She got out. Frank looked at her.
The cab took me away.
I arrived back at the flat. I was alone.
The house was quiet.
I went to bed.
Cynthia woke me up about midday. She was stroking my hair.
‘I’ve been watching you sleep,’ she said. ‘You’re still beautiful when you’re asleep. I can imagine that you still love me.’
I curled up around her hips. She was warm.
‘How’d it go with Frank?’
‘It was good.’
‘Do you feel any better?’
‘A little. I feel sad. I think I’ll always feel sad.’
We sat there.
For the next three days it was good.
The anger had run out. We were tired. It was over. And the love was still left there. Not enough, but some.
Then a letter arrived for Cynthia.
It was from the Tax Department. It was her refund. It was four or five months late. Four hundred dollars.
I asked her, ‘What’ll we do with it?’
Cynthia looked at the cheque.
She said, ‘I guess I’ll get a plane ticket.’
THIRTY-FIVE
I’d won.
THIRTY-SIX
Next day Cynthia rang around the airlines and booked herself on a standby ticket. It was due in two weeks. She was flying to Darwin. To her parents’ place.
‘Why not Sydney,’ I said, ‘or Melbourne? It’s where all your friends are.’
‘I don’t want friends. I just want somewhere where I haven’t got to worry about living, where someone will look after me. All I want is sleep. I don’t want to work, I don’t want to see anyone. I’m tired, Gordon.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s been terrible.’
‘You’re not sorry enough. You’ll never be sorry enough.’
The two weeks went by. Cynthia quit work. She called her parents. She went through all her clothes, sorting out the warm stuff. She wouldn’t need it in Darwin. Darwin was never cold.
‘If I leave some of this stuff here, will you look after it? Can you do that?’
I said I could.
‘What if I come back, Gordon? I know you think it’s over, but it’s not over for me. I still love you.’
I said nothing.
‘God,’ she said, ‘who’s going to look after you? Who’s going to pick your blackheads? You’ll get sick. You’ll get ugly.’
She was crying.
Her flight was on a Tuesday.
On our last Saturday night together we went out to see some bands that were playing at Easts Leagues Club. We’d spent the day trying to track down some acid. We wanted a big finish. One last time.
No one had any acid. Instead, we arrived at Easts early and concentrated on drinking. Drinking could be almost as good sometimes, if you did it right.
The support band started up. Cynthia lost herself in the crowd. I wandered around and drank and occasionally ran into people I knew. Suddenly there was Darren. His face was red and sweating and smiling.
‘Hey man,’ he said.
‘You’re tripping.’
‘Yep ...’
‘Where’d you get it?’
‘There’s a guy here, selling.’
‘Is he still around?’
‘I don’t know. Look, I’ve got one tab left. I’ve already had four.’
‘Four?’
‘I know. I’m losing it. I’ll sell you the last one.’
‘The thing is I need two. One for Cynthia.’
‘I’ve only got the one. Just take it yourself. She won’t even know.’
‘She’d know. I couldn’t.’
‘Wow. That’s dedication.’
‘It’s caution.’
‘She wouldn’t do the same for you. She’d take it.’
‘Maybe. I can’t, though.’
‘Well, I’ll look around for the guy, okay? If I see him I’ll come get you.’
‘Okay. Thanks. Very much.’
He made off. Four tabs. He looked like he was about to die.
I wandered on, found a table down near the back and sat on it, watching the crowd. Cynthia was in there somewhere, up the front. For a support, the band didn’t seem too bad. Fifteen or twenty minutes later they were finished and Cynthia came back through the crowd. She saw me, came over.
‘I just saw Darren up the front,’ she said.
‘Yeah?’
‘He offered me a tab. Twenty bucks.
’
‘What’d you say?’
‘I said yes please. What else would I say? But then he said no, he wouldn’t give it to me. He said I should talk to you.’
‘I think he was just trying to prove a point.’
She looked at me. I didn’t explain.
Ten minutes later Darren showed up with the dealer. We bought our tabs and settled into the night.
The acid was good, and so was the music. Loud and hard and purging. Cynthia disappeared up the front again for most of the night. I prowled around the back, getting off on the crowd, watching them sway. I could understand their movements, I could grasp the mass consciousness that drove them. But I wasn’t part of it. I was elated and alone. I would always be alone.
Then the band wrapped it up, the crowd screamed and the lights came on. Cynthia fought her way back. Her eyes were wild, she was wet with communal sweat. ‘Why’s it over?’ she yelled at me. ‘Why is it fucking over?’
‘I am only one man, Cynthia,’ I said. ‘I have no say in this.’
She was pure hatred. ‘Get away from me!’ And she was off again, darting across the floor. She was crazy. I went after her.
We caught a bus home.
There were no seats. Cynthia and I stood in the aisle and raved at each other. She was angry, I was angry, we weren’t even hearing each other. The acid was peaking. Looking out the window I couldn’t see where we were.
Cynthia screamed, ‘This bus is taking us to HELL!’
People looked at her.
‘This bus is full of SHITHEADS!’
People looked away.
Cynthia was genuinely scared. ‘Where are we, Gordon?’
‘On our way home.’
‘Don’t lose me, okay.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You know what you are?’ she said, profoundly.
‘What?’
‘You are a mild person.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘It’s nice. You’re nice.’
‘That is bad.’
‘No.’ She sounded weary. ‘In the end, nice is all you want.’
We got off in the Valley and walked home along Brunswick Street. We stopped off in a bistro for coffee, then hamburgers and chips and coke. We hadn’t eaten for what seemed a long time.
Leo and Molly were waiting for us in the flat. They were drinking and smoking. Molly came up and looked in my eyes. ‘You guys are tripping!’
‘Yes, but it’s no good without alcohol.’
Fortunately we had plenty.
Around five a.m. Leo and Molly got tired and set up a bed on the carpet. Cynthia and I went to our own bed. We weren’t tired, the acid probably wouldn’t let us sleep for hours yet. We sat on the bed. Cynthia attacked my zip and got my penis out.
I was listening.
‘They’re fucking in there,’ I said.
Cynthia listened too.
‘Are you two fucking in there?’ she yelled. ‘It sounds like you’re fucking!’
There was no answer. The noises stopped. We looked at my penis. Her hand was playing with it, it was growing. It’d been a good night. It was no time to bring it all up again. It wasn’t worth the pain. And Cynthia would only be with me for three more nights ...
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘jump on. Let’s do it.’
She started tugging off my jeans.
We made it noisy. We threw everything into it. All the hatred and sorrow. All the violence we had left.
And it was good. We knew what to do. We fell out of the bed, fucked on the floor, pumped and squeezed and pounded each other, contorted, climbed back into bed, bit, strangled ... and in the end, I was on top. Her legs were up around my shoulders. ‘I love you,’ Cynthia screamed, ‘God I fucking love you.’
I came. I collapsed over her. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything. I bit into her neck. We held each other there. My prick shrunk away. Pulled out.
I rolled off.
‘Did you hear that?’ Cynthia yelled, for Leo and Molly. ‘Even the mild one can make more noise than you!’
‘Keep it down, Cynthia.’
But she was laughing. ‘The mild one, I called you the mild one, didn’t I. Mild One, I think I love you.’ She kept on laughing. We both laughed. It was true.
Leo cried out from the next room. Will you shut the fuck up.’
But we couldn’t.
Not yet.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The next afternoon was bad. I woke up to asthma and vomiting. Cynthia was no better. Drinking was the only solution. We picked up a carton of beer, a cask of wine. Cynthia paid. Her tax cheque was dwindling away, but she only needed two hundred and fifty dollars for the flight. She’d make it.
Leo and Molly didn’t seem much better. They stayed on, drinking with us. We all felt very low.
Molly said, ‘We heard you two last night.’
‘You were supposed to,’ said Cynthia.
‘You were faking it, I know. Sex is never that good.’
‘It wasn’t the sex, Molly.’
Molly didn’t understand Cynthia. She didn’t understand love. Neither did I. Molly and I would’ve been a far better match. We were both cold and self-absorbed. We had nothing to give. It’d never happen.
We drank all afternoon, watched TV, listened to records. Cynthia’s mood declined. She wanted us to be alone. It was our second-last day.
We didn’t eat. No one was hungry. Leo and Molly wouldn’t leave. Eventually it was night. Cynthia hadn’t said anything for hours. I watched her. I knew she would want to fuck me again. I knew I wouldn’t be up to it. The night before had been good, but if we tried it again, tired and drunk and depressed, it just wouldn’t work.
Around midnight we finished off the last of the drinks.
Cynthia sat down next to me. She said, ‘I’m going to bed. Are you coming?’
‘I don’t think so. Not yet.’
She stood up. ‘Fuck you, Gordon.’
She went into the bedroom. Leo and Molly and I sat there for a while. We didn’t say anything. I knew Cynthia was waiting, they knew Cynthia was waiting. In the end I got up and went in to face it.
She was in bed, smoking, staring at the ceiling. I undressed, climbed into bed.
She said, Will you fuck me now?’
‘No, Cynthia. It wouldn’t be any good tonight.’
‘I don’t believe you. Last night you wanted it and even though I didn’t, I went along with it because I love you. It hurt me last night, Gordon, and you didn’t even notice. And now I feel like it and you just say fuck off, Cynthia, not tonight. How can you do that?’
I lay there.
Cynthia sat up. She started hitting me. Hard. Bunched up fists. A few blows caught me round the head before I got hold of her hands. ‘BASTARD!’ she screamed, ‘BASTARD BASTARD BASTARD.’
‘Cynthia ...’
‘GET OUT OF MY BED. GET THE FUCK OUT!’
‘Okay, Cynthia, okay.’
I let go of her hands. I stood up. There was a glass Coke bottle on the bedside table, full of water. She picked it up and threw it at me. Hard and straight. I ducked. It caught me squarely on the top of my head. Whang. I fell over backwards, hit the floor.
It hurt. My skull was ringing. There was water all over me. I felt the top of my head. I looked at my hand. There was blood on my fingers.
I got up again.
‘Are you satisfied?’
‘No!’
I put on my jeans, then a shirt. I felt my head. Blood was seeping through the hair. I could feel a big round lump with a split on the top of it. I went out into the living room. Leo and Molly were lying on the floor. They looked at me. I went out into the hallway and down to the bathroom. I ran water over my head, looked at it in the mirror. I couldn’t see anything. Too much hair. I needed a haircut. Blood was trickling down my cheeks. I wondered if I was concussed. I held up a hand, counted the fingers. They were all there.
Leo came into the bathroom. ‘What happened? Yo
u okay?’
‘I’m okay. Cynthia threw a Coke bottle at me.’
He examined the top of my head. ‘Jesus, it’s split open.’
‘I don’t think it’s that bad. There isn’t much blood, and I feel okay.’
‘This might need stitches.’
I felt it again. There really wasn’t that much blood.
‘It’s okay. Honestly.’
‘You might be concussed.’
‘I’m an expert on concussion. I know I’m not.’
‘I should ring your brother. The doctor.’
‘Don’t. It’s late. I don’t need him.’
‘I’m calling him. What’s the number.’
‘I don’t remember. Maybe I am concussed.’
‘Bullshit.’
I gave him the number. He went off. I washed my head again and went back down the hall to the flat. Leo was hanging up the phone.
‘He’s on his way,’ he said.
I sat down, poured myself a glass from the dregs of the wine, and turned on the TV. Things didn’t seem too bad. My head felt swollen and vague, but it didn’t hurt any more.
We sat there. Leo and Molly didn’t say much. It was awkward. I felt my head from time to time. The bleeding had almost stopped. Joseph arrived and looked at it.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Just a little cut. Why’d you get me over here for this?’
‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t my idea.’
Just a scratch. Where was the poetry in that? I began wishing that Cynthia had knifed me, cut my throat, gashed my stomach, hospitalised me. It might’ve balanced things up. She was right. I was a bastard. I was no good.
Joseph left. Leo and Molly called themselves a cab. Then I was alone. The alcohol was all gone. I watched TV.
Cynthia came out, wearing one of my shirts. She didn’t look at me. She went into the hall. She came back a few minutes later. She was holding an empty beer bottle. She threw it at me. This time she missed by a good yard. She went into the bedroom. Came out again.
She sat down next to me.
I said, ‘My head’s okay. Joe came over. He said it was nothing.’
She was staring at the screen.
‘What?’ she said.
‘My head. You hit it with the Coke bottle.’
‘Did I?’
She was out of it, completely crazy. I’d been a fool even getting into the same bed as her.
Praise Page 17
