Please Don't Leave Me Here

by Tania Chandler

  ‘Who’s Ryan?’

  ‘My brother.’ She smiles to herself — for a second, he was jealous.

  He carries in the Esky from the car while she turns on the power at the main switch and looks for cleaning spray and cloths. The house is full of dusty shells collected by children over the years, paintings of beaches and ships, and old family photographs: lots of black-and-whites of Papa fishing from his little tin boat.

  When they’ve finished cleaning inside the house, they take the covers off the furniture on the back porch and brush away the dust.

  ‘We forgot to bring music,’ Brigitte says as she lights a mosquito coil.

  ‘No we didn’t.’ Matt goes to the car boot and lifts out a portable yellow-and-aqua CD player.

  ‘Cool. Is that new?’

  ‘Yep.’ He clears a shelf for it next to the barbeque, where there’s a power point to plug it in. ‘No Nirvana. OK?’

  ‘OK, Kurt.’

  ‘Stop with that, or I’ll start calling you Courtney.’

  ‘OK, Kurt.’

  He feigns exasperation, shakes his head, and tests the gas bottle with his foot. ‘Empty. I brought some baby octopus I could barbeque. Should we go across to Paynesville for more gas?’ He pulls his brown sweater on.

  ‘We could.’ She looks at him in the half-light. He’s pressing buttons and twisting knobs — trying to work the CD player. He pushes the hair off his face, concentration creasing his brow.

  ‘Or we could …’ She steps towards him, knowing there won’t be any baby octopus tonight as she takes his hands and pulls him down onto the black-leather couch. The CD player starts playing. Nick Cave, of course.

  They sleep in Nana and Papa’s old bed in the middle bedroom. Mosquitoes buzz around Brigitte’s ears as she lies awake in Matt’s arms. The sleeping tablet she took isn’t working. Worries bubble away in her mind: the future, work, Matt. The only thing she used to worry about was which nail-polish shade to choose at the beauty salon. Now she worries about everything. How can she leave Eric without him killing her, or killing Matt? She reckons Eric did kill somebody once, or organised it, or had something to do with it anyway — she over-heard him on the phone talking to somebody about a body dump. She pretended she hadn’t heard properly, that she’d imagined it. She’s not as dumb as he thinks: the people he associates with, the drugs, are scary stuff, dangerous. She tries to push down her fears, but nothing — not drugs, alcohol, or lying to herself — blocks out the thoughts that froth to the surface during the black, sleepless hours. If only she and Matt could stay here, safe on the island, forever. Her heart races, and sweat beads on her skin. She seeks comfort from Matt’s body: she squirms against him, tries to ‘accidentally’ wake him, and kisses his mouth softly, but he’s sound asleep, his lips slightly parted. Streetlight spills under the blind, creating a silver mist on his hair, illuminating the scars on his chest, catching the fragile beauty of his face.

  A tightness grips her chest; she’s scared that it means she loves him. Or else she’s taken too many anti-inflamms, and is having a heart attack. If she loves him, she shouldn’t drag him into her fucked-up life. If she really loves him, she should just leave him alone. He won’t stay around when he finds out the truth about her anyway. Nothing this sublime could ever be more than fleeting. It will end badly, one way or another. She should push him away before it comes to that, like she did to Ryan. But she can’t. She holds one of his hands, listening to him sleep for a long time, with the words I don’t deserve you repeating over and over in her head. Night thoughts.

  She wakes midmorning, and slinks out of the bedroom towards the aroma of coffee. Matt’s sitting outside on the couch, writing in an exercise book. He pulls at his hair when he’s writing, and it’s all messy. She carries out her coffee, and sits next to him. She yawns, and stretches her legs in front of her to soak up some of the delicious sunlight streaming across the porch. ‘What are you writing?’

  He lifts his gaze from her legs, and kisses her. ‘A new chapter.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Lucy’s about to murder her husband so she can be with Henry. They’ve had it planned for a long time — how they’re going to do it, how they’re going to cover it up — but something has to go wrong.’

  ‘Ooh, sounds like The Postman Always Rings Twice.’

  ‘Have you read that book?’

  ‘No, but I love the movie. Do Lucy and Henry get away with it in the end?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Can I see your notes?’

  She snuggles up next to him, and he explains the colour system he uses to write scenes in his exercise book. In blue, he writes what happens. In red, his research. And in green, a summary of his characters.

  ‘There’s lots of red,’ she says.

  ‘I’ve finally found a cop who’s happy to help me with research.’

  She reads through his main points: violence, marks and evidence, cause of death, dental evidence, gunshot residue, fingerprints …

  ‘What’s spatter pattern?’

  ‘Bloodstain spray. It can explain where an attacker stood, how tall they were, how many times they hit the victim with a weapon …’

  ‘Gross.’ She sips her coffee.

  ‘But kind of interesting. I can’t believe blood is so aero-dynamic.’

  She wrinkles her nose.

  ‘What are you writing?’ he says.

  ‘I’ve got an idea for something non-fiction. Might submit it to magazines.’ She feels sorry for the possums in the gardens since the introduction of tree banding. A piece in a magazine about it might help their plight.

  ‘Try the local papers first. Can’t wait to read it.’

  ‘Know what I can’t wait for?’ She takes his exercise book and their coffee cups, places them on the porch, and climbs astride his hips.

  ‘Brig, I’m trying to work.’ He laughs.

  ‘Promise I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the day.’ She pushes the hair off his face, kisses him, and closes her eyes. I don’t deserve you.

  Matt writes for most of the day. She keeps her promise — tries not to distract him. She goes for walks around the island, reads the papers, takes the car across, and refills the gas bottle.

  In the afternoon, she has a nap on Nana and Papa’s bed. She dreams she’s clearing the kitchen table. As she leans forward for the last of the dishes, Matt presses against her back, and the heat of his body is unbearably exquisite. She arches against him. A wave of warmth rises inside her. She turns and pulls him down onto the table, sweeping to the floor the last of the cutlery and plates behind her. She writhes beneath him, then climbs on top. As she comes, Matt presses a shell to her ear. You can hear forever in here, he says. She closes her eyes and listens, but she can’t hear anything.

  The mattress dips and the springs squeak as Matt sits on the edge.

  She uncurls her body, and relaxes her hands — they were balled into fists, leaving fingernail marks on her palms. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly five-thirty. You’ve been asleep for a couple of hours.’ He places two glasses of white wine on the bedside table.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep last night.’

  ‘We went to bed too early.’ He grins. ‘And forgot to drink any of the wine.’

  She cringes at the unearthly grunt-screech of a koala. ‘Why do they have to do that?’

  ‘It’s the sound they make when they’re mating.’ He smirks.

  She can’t stand him being so close without touching. He reads her thoughts, pushes up her T-shirt, and kisses her stomach, breasts, neck, mouth. She giggles and squirms underneath him as she peels off her pants and undoes his jeans. She reaches back to grip the bedhead, wraps her legs around his hips, and pulls him into her. I don’t deserve you.

  Brigitte sits on the porch couch
with a glass of wine in her hand while Matt tosses the baby octopus on the barbeque. He turns down the gas, and goes to the car to get his camera from the glove box.

  ‘Let me take your photo.’

  ‘No. I’ve got no make-up on.’ She covers her face with her free hand.

  ‘Come on. Please.’ He points the camera at her. She pulls the tie from her hair, tussles it, and flashes an exaggerated, sexy model-pout.

  She places her glass on the table and pulls her hair back into a ponytail. When she looks up, he takes another shot, and captures her forever young, natural, unguarded — as naked as she has ever been, and as free as she ever will be. She frowns, and says she wasn’t ready; he’d better tear that one up when he has them printed.

  She tries not to screw up her face when he serves the charred, alien-like creatures for dinner. She hides them in the salad, wraps some in a serviette, and puts them in her pocket when Matt’s not looking.

  After they’ve drunk their entire alcohol supply, a koala scuttles across the porch, right in front of their feet — its eyes glowing incandescently in the dark. Matt stands to watch it lope across the yard and climb the gum tree at the back. Brigitte and Matt look at each other, for reassurance that they really saw it, and then laugh.

  Brigitte is sitting cross-legged on the couch, smoking a joint, when Matt suggests they go for a walk.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Dunno. Round the island.’

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s dark.’

  ‘We’ll take a torch. Let’s see if we can spot some more koalas.’

  ‘OK.’ She stands, walks over, passes him the joint, and trips off the porch. He laughs.

  ‘Not funny, Kurt. My knee.’

  But it is funny, funnier than the koala running across the porch — they’re wasted, and everything is hilarious.

  ‘Come on, Courtney.’ He holds out a hand and helps her up. She’s got dirt all over her white coat. ‘Is that a baby octopus in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?’ He finishes the joint, crushes it out on the gravel, and wraps an arm around her shoulders as they walk up the driveway.

  They stumble along the boardwalk, laughing, kissing. She complains about her knee, and he piggy-backs her. The ferry is moored at the landing: still, lifeless in the water until morning.

  ‘How do you get across if you have to?’ he says.

  ‘You can’t. Unless you swim.’

  ‘Want to?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Swim.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ She follows him along the jetty beside the ferry landing.

  He puts down the torch and strips off — hopping on one leg — down to his boxer shorts. He’s singing that R.E.M song, ‘Nightswimming’.

  ‘Thought you were sane and now — ’

  ‘Come on.’ He laughs and jumps into the water. ‘It feels great.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘If you love me, you’ll come in.’

  She undresses to her lacy, white underwear, sits on the edge of the jetty, and dangles her feet in the water. Matt pulls at her legs.

  ‘Stop it.’ She kicks at him, too hard, splits his lip.

  ‘Fuck.’ He touches a hand to his mouth and comes away with blood.

  ‘Sorry.’

  He grabs her legs again, she slips, and she splashes into his arms. She didn’t just say she loved him, did she? No, but her head is spinning, and she can’t be sure. She tastes blood in his kiss, leans back, and looks up at the sky: the stars are blurry, and there seems to be two moons. The whole world spins, and she closes her eyes. She pulls at his shorts, wanting him so much, right now. But he pushes her hands away. ‘Not yet. First I’ll race you to the other side.’

  ‘I’m not a very good swimmer, Matt.’

  He swims out a bit and calls to her.

  Her stomach tightens. She doesn’t like this, but she follows, in a slow breaststroke. Her pulse pounds in her temples. It’s too dark: there’s just the torch light, the glow of the public phone box on the island, a couple of lights across in Paynesville, and a milky spill of moonlight on the black water.

  They swim out further. He dives under, but doesn’t come up. This was such a bad idea. She rolls her body around in the water, and suddenly can’t tell which is the island and which is the mainland. He still hasn’t come up. Where is he? She feels something touch her leg — Matt, being silly, thank God. But it’s not Matt. It’s a log or something floating in the water. Where the fuck is he? She calls his name, twists to kick the floating thing away, and her head goes under. She comes up coughing, and calls him again. He’s gone. This can’t be happening. She tries to scream, but salty water rushes into her mouth and down her throat. She thrashes her arms, kicks her legs. The water burns her nose, her lungs. He can’t leave her. This can’t be happening. She knew it would end badly.

  She hears a splash, maybe a few metres in front of her, but it’s too dark to see. ‘Come on,’ he calls. ‘We’re almost halfway across.’

  She can’t speak, can’t breathe. And she can’t make her body swim, can’t move at all — it’s as if her limbs are filled with cement, paralysed.

  It sounds like he’s swimming back to her. But it’s too late — she’s drowning. She feels faint, and sinks into blackness and bubbles. He pulls her up, and she paws and clings to him, almost dragging him under as well.

  He tells her over and over that she’s OK as he swims back slowly to the island with her floundering under his arm.

  He lifts her onto the jetty. She stumbles, coughs up water, and lies on the parched wooden boards. Cold air rushes up through the cracks.

  He climbs out after her, and covers her with his sweater and her dirty coat.

  ‘I almost drowned,’ she splutters as she sits up.

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ He kneels behind her, and rubs his hands over her back. ‘You just panicked. I was right there. I wouldn’t let you drown.’

  She coughs up more water, and hugs her knees to her chest. ‘You weren’t there. I told you I wasn’t a good swimmer. You left me.’ Her voice croaks. ‘I hate you.’

  ‘No you don’t.’ He wraps his arms around her.

  ‘Yes I do.’ She tries to push him away.

  He holds her tighter. ‘No you don’t. You love me.’

  ‘No I don’t!’

  ‘I love you.’

  Even after having a hot shower and drinking two glasses of sherry from a dusty bottle that Matt found in a cupboard, Brigitte can’t stop shaking. He tells her she should write a short story about what happened — it might be cathartic — and she hits him. He laughs, calls her Courtney, and says it turns him on when she’s angry. Hitting him again, harder, is cathartic.

  ‘Look what I found on the way back.’ He produces a shell from his jeans pocket, and tosses it into the bowl full of other shells on the table. ‘Coming to bed?’ He puts a hand on her shoulder and sings, ‘Night swimming, remember that night …’ She pushes his hand away and doesn’t follow him, for a while.

  She wants him to know how angry she is with him for leaving her when she was scared, so she puts up a wall — her back to him in bed. She tries to resist when he moves against her. But she can’t.

  ***

  They drive back to the city on Melbourne Cup day, listening to the race on the radio. Duene wins the Cup.

  ‘I thought it was pronounced Dune — like the David Lynch film, with Sting,’ Matt says.

  ‘I think it’s French — Ju-ane. My Nana would know. She’s crazy about horse racing.’

  ‘Want to come home with me? Or shall I drop you at your place? Wherever that is.’

  ‘Home. With you.’

  ‘You’re not still angry with me?’

  A bit. But she sh
akes her head.

  ‘When are you going to invite me over to your place, anyway?’

  She looks out the window as they drive through Richmond, pretending she didn’t hear.

  38

  How she came to be naked in the black-marble spa with Jennifer/Ember, Doctor Dave, and Vince the lawyer is a bit of a blur. It started when she was getting ready to go to Matt’s dinner party and she heard somebody yelling from the street. She opened a window to see Jennifer standing up on the back seat of a silver convertible — a horse emblem on the grille — parked in front of the apartment complex. Dave was in the driver’s seat, and Vince in the passenger’s.

  They yelled at her to come down.

  ‘Can’t. I’m going out,’ Brigitte called back.

  ‘You’ve gotta check out this car. Just one spin around the block,’ Jennifer said.

  Dave revved the engine.

  ‘OK. Just one spin.’ It was a cool-looking car. And she was still a bit angry about Raymond Island when she grabbed her phone and bag.

  Just one spin around the block became a drive to the casino, where she agreed to just one cocktail, which became far too many cocktails, and somehow led to a duet of ‘When Doves Cry’ with Vince at a karaoke bar, followed by a failed attempt by him to feed her sashimi and grilled prawn heads at Tokyo Teppanyaki. She saw two missed calls from Matt on her phone screen — she’d meant to call him back and tell him she was on her way, but now it’s late, and she’s here. Somehow.

  She climbs out of the spa, wraps herself in a fluffy hotel towel, and takes her glass of champagne with her.

  ‘Hurry back,’ says Vince.

  In the bathroom, she pours her drink down the sink. She’s been doing this since they got here and the vibe changed. She’s sitting on the toilet when Jennifer staggers in. She finishes, washes, and dries her hands. Under the down-lighting, she notices the harsh shadows and the fine lines around Jennifer’s eyes. She’s only 23, but she’s already starting to look way older. Men are not going to pay her for much longer. Twenty-five is about the use-by age for a dancer. What’s she going to do then? Matt was right, of course: you can’t stay young and gorgeous forever. Matt — she was supposed to meet his friends tonight. She’s not angry with him anymore. Sober now, she needs to get out of here.