Candy

by Luke Davies

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Things aren’t too good, Mason,” I said. “I’ve got to stop. I really like Candy too. But she won’t put up with it. It’s not going to last if I keep this up. I want to travel. I want to go overseas. I want to do things. I’m going nowhere. I just need to knock it on the head. Go back to smoking. I wish I could do it like you.”

  “You can, mate, you can.”

  Mason seemed to have a blind faith in me that even I found embarrassing.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he added. “I’ll do you a deal. Grow a crop with me. We plant it, we look after it, we sell it, we go halves. We’ll sell in bulk, don’t fuck around with small things. You’d know a buyer. We’ll make some good bucks. You and Candy can travel for a year, see a bit of the world, have some experiences. Get that monkey off your back.”

  It was endearing and charming, the way Mason used the corniest old expressions. He even said “junk” sometimes, as in, “Keep off that junk and you’ll be right, matey.” But he got me going with dreams of solid cash and a bright future. And he was the bud man, the gardener. I couldn’t go wrong doing a crop with Mason. I knew also that he could grow a good crop quite successfully without me. That he was trying to be a friend.

  “It’s September,” he said. “It’s time to plant. It’s already a couple of weeks late. But let’s do it. I’m willing to bring you in on the plan. But here’s the catch.” He looked at me sternly. “Tonight’s Friday. Next Friday night, or Saturday dawn, we leave. I know the spot, I’ve been checking some maps. So you’ve got seven days to dry out. If you’re fucked up, we don’t go ahead with it.”

  I was stoned to the gills on the good Sri Lankan brown, so of course I could promise him the world. I was an endless reservoir of enthusiasm. We shook hands on it and I hugged him. “Good on ya, mate,” we said to each other.

  I found Candy in a crowd near the bar. I pulled her aside, bursting with the news.

  “Guess what, sugarplum? We’re going overseas, in a few months.”

  I quickly filled her in. She seemed pleased enough. She knew that Mason represented a healthier life, so something involving Mason and me was better than something involving me and my own brain.

  Seven days to get off smack. A new life. No problem, with this in front of me. I could do it on my head. The very thought of a successful detox made me feel warm and relaxed. I went to the toilet and found a cubicle with a lock that worked and had a nice blast to celebrate. Then I went outside to enjoy the band.

  The next day I still had a gram of T-Bar’s dope and some money to give him, and it’s not like I was about to flush the gear down the toilet or anything. I’ll make Saturday a good one to go out on, I thought. Things drifted into Sunday, and Candy and I were getting sad about leaving each other for a week, so I gave T-Bar his money and got two more grams on credit. We sold a bit and used a bit.

  On Monday we had our last blasts, several times, and we caught a cab to the bus depot for one of those sad and tawdry Greyhound good-byes.

  “Hang in there, Candy,” I murmured as we hugged. “When we see each other next week we’ll both be feeling fine. Just get through this week, that’s all.”

  “You too,” she said. “Don’t fuck up.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ve had my last shot too.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  But the bus pulled out and we waved good-bye and suddenly I could feel the magnetic force of T-Bar’s house dragging at the iron filings in my stomach.

  As long as I stop by Tuesday night, then I should be half okay by Friday night, I reasoned to myself.

  By Tuesday I decided I might as well just keep using, get the crop planted, then go to a proper detox (which was the original plan) next week (which wasn’t). I decided I would have a big hit just before we left early Saturday morning, and leave my dope at Mason’s house, and white-knuckle it for twenty-four hours as a test of strength. I’d grit my teeth and be helpful and agile for Mason, and I wouldn’t have small pupils, or nod off and have him cancel the whole deal.

  So it was business as usual Wednesday and Thursday and Friday. At some point I called Candy, who was sick, and told her I wouldn’t be far behind. She was a little pissed off at my lack of stamina, but I assured her that I really just wanted to concentrate on the crop business for the time being, and that things would be fine, whatever the timetable.

  Friday came and I organized to meet Mason at the pub where one of his favorite bands was playing. I hit up some coke before I met him so my pupils weren’t too small. I told him I was feeling okay and that I’d gotten through the week. I smoked joints with him on the fire stairs and drank lots of beers as if to back up my story.

  We got home to his place about one A.M. I was pretty drunk and we pulled some cones and I really could have done with a big sleep. Mason set the alarm for a quarter to five and said, “We’re out the door by five-fifteen, okay?”

  I figured the beginning of a business venture must be the hardest part.

  Mason shook me awake when he got out of the shower at five to five.

  “Coffee’s on. Jump in the shower.”

  I took all my stuff into the bathroom and locked the door. The Sri Lankan gear was alkaline, so I’d gotten a slice of lemon at the bar in the pub, wrapped it in a tissue, and stuffed it into my shirt pocket. It was a bit dry and stiff now but it would have to do. I put the water and the heroin and a drop of lemon in the spoon and heated the mix and whacked it up.

  I could have stayed in that fucking shower for hours. I’d had a real lot of heroin, thinking of the twenty-four hours ahead. It was a massively peak experience, drifting under that jet of water. Mason banged on the door and shook me out of the silver heat and dream-steam.

  “It’s ten past five. What are you doing in there?”

  I dried myself, dressed, and walked out into the kitchen.

  “Sorry, Mason,” I groaned, “I’m a bit hungover.”

  The kitchen’s fluorescent was very bright. I shielded my eyes.

  I took my coffee upstairs to the spare room and hid my syringe and spoon and dope under the bed. I felt a twinge of nervousness leaving it there, but I knew it would be good to have it to come back to. I felt certain I could make it through a day or a day and a half.

  We were away at twenty-five past. It was dark and the streets were empty, so we had a good run northwest through Sydney. Mason was thoroughly prepared. His sawed-off animal of a pickup truck was loaded down with hoes and shovels and star posts and chicken wire, brown and green spray paint, fertilizers, cooking gear, and sleeping bags and a tent. His professional attitude was reassuring to one in such a dissolute state. I felt I was in the hands of a winner. I, told him I needed to sleep and I closed my eyes and enjoyed the stone.

  A couple of hours out of Sydney there was a bright clear morning sky. The roads were getting narrow and we moved into some pretty isolated stretches of bushland. Mason eased the pickup off the road and into a fire trail.

  He pulled out one of those maps that serious bush walkers use, a government-printed topographic thing with the squiggly contour lines and the heights in meters. It didn’t mean much to me. Creeks, roads, fire trails, contour lines: they all looked the fucking same.

  Mason was in his element. He directed me with his finger. I tried to focus my eyes and look interested, nodding my head here and there at concepts I couldn’t grasp.

  “This is where we are now. We’re going to drive the pickup as far as we can down this fire trail. Then we unload the gear. Then we drive the pickup back to here, and put it over behind those trees. We want as much distance between us and it as possible.

  “So then we walk back along the trail to the gear. If we muscle it, we can carry all the gear between the two of us, so we don’t have to do any backtracking.

  “We’ll follow this track along the creek for, let me see, it’s about fourteen K’s. That’ll be quite a slog. It should be nice to camp here, on t
his sandy bit. In the morning we have to get into some pretty rough scrub. We have to get away from any walking trails, that’s the only way for this to be a success.

  “We’ll head off through this bush here and come up on that ridge. That’ll be a couple of hours. After that it’s downhill for an hour or so. Now, see this spot here? See how these contour lines spread out near where these two creeks meet? That means there’ll be good dirt there. Good alluvial soil. This is our spot. It’s the middle of nowhere. We’re looking at about ten hours heavy walking, the rest of today and a little in the morning.

  “We’ll hoe out a patch and clear the vegetation. Fertilize, plant, put up the fencing, camouflage, get the hell out of there. The trip out will be quicker and easier, we won’t have so much weight from the star posts and seedlings. Maybe only five hours, maybe a little less. If all goes well and the rainfall’s good this summer, we won’t need to visit more than once or twice to check on it.”

  It began to seem daunting. I hadn’t been expecting so much bush bashing, but I guessed it made sense to do it that way. Anyway, I felt committed and strong.

  It was a big day. It was hard on the shoulders. We were fully laden, with a backpack each and several star posts on our shoulders and picks and shovels and mallets and rolls of chicken wire. We were like some tiny strange circus struggling through the heat. I could barely see for the sweat in my eyes. I could feel my face getting badly burnt. Every so often I’d have to stop for a cigarette and collapse in a heap for a while.

  Until about midday I felt fine with the dope in my system, and even at five in the evening I still felt neutral and all right. I thought maybe the descent into sickness wouldn’t happen, maybe there wasn’t enough time, maybe I’d make it without a hitch. It had been so long since the last time I was sick, I think I’d forgotten how bad it could be.

  Near dusk we set up camp and Mason lit a fire and we drank billy tea and ate a stew that tasted good. We had swigs of whiskey and a couple of joints. I felt kind of eucalyptic and all-Australian and a little euphoric in my exhaustion. I was shocked by the number of stars in the sky. I was bone-numbingly fucked and I knew I’d sleep well.

  We crawled into the tent. I lay in my sleeping bag thinking, It’ll be okay. Only half a day or so to get through. Just think of the dope back there under Mason’s spare bed. We talked for a while about our hopes for the future and how, things would be all right. Then I fell asleep hard and deep.

  I woke at dawn, bolt upright in the clear consciousness of the idiocy of my predicament. Mason was shuffling about outside the tent, getting the fire going, whistling, pissing.

  “Come on, mate,” he chirped. “It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

  I opened the tent flap. The ground was covered in a late frost. My bones ached. What had I done? I hadn’t brought the heroin with me! Here I was in—I don’t know, a place with no name, Government Map No. 9030, 1-N, grid reference 130873—and my dope was at Mason’s house in Ultimo. Ultimo. Near the center of Sydney, the Heavenly City of Heroin.

  Ultimo! It was all I could think of. It was a long way away. I just had to go through with this. I wanted to die. I really needed some smack in a hurry. I could hardly share these sentiments with Mason. I wanted to close my eyes and ignore the pain.

  I groaned and tried to go back to sleep. But all I could think was: What the fuck were you doing, thinking it would be okay to leave the dope back there?

  I had to make a show. I couldn’t stay in the sleeping bag all day, though that misery would have been preferable to movement. I dragged myself out into the cold morning and rubbed my wired eyes. Mason handed me a coffee.

  “I’m heating the last of that stew. You want some?”

  He was disgustingly healthy, and I stood there trying to muster up some hatred for him.

  “No, mate. I feel sick.”

  “Well, you’ve got to have something. We’ve got a big day on. Here, have an apple and a banana.”

  I sat on a log chewing miserably. Neither apples nor bananas were mood-altering substances. Coffee hardly counted.

  “Can we have a joint before we go?”

  I was thinking, Anything. Any fucking thing.

  It was already rolled, of course. He flipped it out of his pocket and gave it to me with a grin.

  Let me tell you, pot’s a nice drug, but it’s not so pleasant when it’s not what you want or need. The morning remained sour and the awful feeling that I was in a nightmare trailed me like a shadow.

  We packed up our gear and got going. Or really, Mason packed our gear. I helped straighten the tent before he folded and rolled it. I asked if I could have some of his whiskey, even though it was an embarrassing question at seven in the morning. It was acrid and hot down my throat, and for a moment I felt I was going to vomit.

  I staggered my way, literally, through the day. The weight of the posts and shovels on my shoulders was two- or threefold from Saturday. I kept telling Mason how sick I felt.

  “Maybe I’ve come down with something.”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  He was always ten giant strides up ahead of me, pounding through the dense bush like David Attenborough pumped up on cocaine.

  It was an ugly, ugly day.

  At ten-thirty we stopped on the high ridge he’d spoken about. Mason breathed in the air like it was a form of happiness.

  “Down there,” he pointed, “not far now.”

  But it was all too apparent that Mason’s concept of “not far” was very far removed from mine. I squinted my eyes into the distance, but the valley seemed to quiver in a ghostly heat haze.

  An hour later we reached the approximate spot. I dropped everything off my shoulders and fell into a heap. The last time I’d felt this bad was never. Mason scouted around for five minutes, running soil through his fingers or consulting the oracles or whatever the fuck he did. I lay in the soil sniveling and sneezing, and the sun drilled through me.

  “Over here, this is it,” Mason shouted. “Between these two trees.”

  I willed myself to stand. I dragged the gear through the undergrowth.

  “Mason,” I puffed. “I need a fucking rest, man. I need to lie down. I’m really sick.”

  He looked at me and shook his head. “You do what you have to,” he said. “But the quicker we do this, the quicker we’re out of here. Just help me clear this patch.”

  He moved around and dug a line in the brush and soil with the toe of his walking boots. He formed a rough square about five meters by five meters.

  “You take the hoe, get rid of all vegetation. I’ll take the pick and churn the soil.”

  I did the best I could, under the circumstances. It was not a real lot. I couldn’t stop sneezing. I was covered in a film of sweat, I was gasping for air. I thought I was going to vomit or shit. Finally Mason got pissed off, or as pissed off as he ever got.

  “You’ve got to use a bit of muscle there, mate.”

  I stopped. “I can’t do it, Mason. I think I’m going to collapse. I have to lie down. I’m really sorry. Just for ten minutes. Then I’ll be okay.”

  He didn’t lose his temper, but I think around this time would be the moment when I’d definitely stopped being his business partner. I curled up beside a tree, trying to wedge myself into soil and shade. I could hear Mason working furiously in the background. He cleared the plot in half an hour, did stuff with fertilizer, planted forty seedlings. Then he needed my help with the fencing.

  I held the posts in place while he whacked them with a mallet. I’d come on the expedition in a long-sleeve shirt, and now I’d rolled the sleeves up in the heat of the day.

  “Missed a vein, did we?” Mason asked out of the blue, between swings of the mallet.

  I was taken aback. He nodded to my right arm. There was some bruising halfway along the inside of my forearm, a blue and yellow blush where I’d been searching for new vein territory.

  “No, no,” I stammered. “That’s just … I mean, er, it’s …” My voice trailed
off. “I don’t know what it is.”

  It was a poignant or pathetic moment, depending on which way you looked at it. I knew there was no crop future between me and Mason. I’d never find this place alone, and even if I could, I’d never rip Mason off. It was not my crop and I knew it. I was not a partner. I’d failed the test. Fucked up.

  I was all at sea, here in the bush. Okay, then. I’d make my money the way I knew how, with my dealing, or something like that, and then I’d stop using and Candy and I would still go overseas. Fuck the crop. Besides, my dope was still back at Mason’s. Things were looking up. We’d be back there before long.

  Mason sprayed the chicken wire in random patterns of brown and green, explaining to me that it wouldn’t pay to have a helicopter see any metallic glints in the bush. He secured a rich assortment of foliage to the enclosure, using baling wire and pliers.

  Even in my sickness I could recognize that it was a work of art. It disappeared from view no matter which direction you looked at it from. You couldn’t even see it from ten feet away. It was wallaby-, wombat-, and helicopter-proof. Insects and frost were the only real problems. But somehow I knew that they wouldn’t be my problems. I only had one problem at that moment, as we packed up our gear and departed.

  I was like a horse returning to the home paddock, going faster. I bashed through the bush with abandon. It was a long afternoon, but the pain had moved into a kind of delirium, and with the help of a special Mason after-work joint, I somehow made it alive back to the pickup.

  It was five in the afternoon. I figured that, barring weekend traffic snarls, I ought to be in heaven by seven or seven-thirty. At any rate, even though it was bad to be alive and breathing and thirty-six hours without hammer, it was good to be sitting in the cabin of the pickup compared to hauling through that evil bush.

  As we moved off the freeways and into the suburban streets of Sydney, the only thing I could really concentrate on was traffic lights. Orange is not a good color, and red is even worse.

  I felt like I’d failed, but we didn’t talk about the crop at all. Finally we pulled up outside Mason’s house. It’s a peak thing, a gorgeous feeling to know the dope is there. Just as amputees are said to experience a “false limb” syndrome, so the knowledge of that tiny package under Mason’s spare bed imbued me with a strange happiness that I could have sworn was real.