by Omar Musa
They hug, then Aleks’ shoulders slacken and he yells, ‘Another drink for Jimmy!’
‘Hold on. Needa piss.’
Jimmy heads to the bathroom, bloated. The line is long but moves quickly. He takes a long slash and sees vomit in the urinal already. On top of the trough are half-finished beers and mixed drinks – some of the glasses are filled with piss. There’s a bloke stripped to the waist resting on his elbows over the basin, hair hanging in sour, black bourbon-and-coke vomit.
‘You all right, mate?’
He waves Jimmy away with a limp hand.
Jimmy lurches down a hallway and into the stairwell. A door closes behind him. The music is momentarily muted and he is by himself. It’s dank and humid and he feels very alone. There’s a door at the bottom of the stairs, and flaring behind it are lights and strafing strobes. He spits against the wall and a bit gets on his shirt so he wipes at it and pushes the door open. The music hits him hard and he immediately puts a hand in the air. It’s auto-tuned bullshit but he doesn’t care and torpedoes into the crowd, dancing and bobbing his head. He bumps into a big black dude who spills Coke on his shoes. Sorry, mate. He says nothing but pushes Jimmy forward and he stumbles further into the furrow of bodies. A Tongan bloke his brother knows appears in front of him, leering, and pushes another drink into his hand and starts talking in his ear. He can’t hear a word and the voice over the speakers is saying ‘MOVE, MOTHERFUCKER, MOVE,’ but instead he rests an elbow on the bar, looking again for Hailee. He turns back and sees the Tongan’s waiting for an answer and he doesn’t really know what to say so he yells, ‘For sure’, which seems to satisfy him. He grabs a half-finished drink from a table and drains it. There’s dry ice now and people’s faces appear out of the smoke, like triangular masks, inebriated phantoms. He dances by himself near the DJ booth and ends up in a circle of lads who put their arms around his shoulders, jump up and down to the music like they’ve won a championship game. He tries to catch a pretty blonde’s eye. She turns away. He can’t quite hit the beat with his hips and knees so he stands still and bobs his head. With one hand he types a text to Hailee: where u? Smoke is dissipating and he thinks he sees Solomon dancing with a brunette. He cannonballs through the crowd and hears a domino of expletives as he bounces off people. He snatches a glance of Hailee through waving arms and pushes through, but nah it’s not even her so he steadies himself against the bar and grabs some ice from a glass and presses it to his forehead. Aleks appears by his side, hands him another drink and says, ‘One for the road buddy, we gotta go soon.’ Jimmy shoots down the liquor, gags, calms himself, and then texts again. Where u? im at bar. He feels queasy in the bathroom and glass crunches underfoot. He throws up in the sink and it’s full now. There’s a used condom in there. He feels a bit better, but. Aleks is waiting for him and he must be stumbling because Aleks catches Jimmy under the arm and begins to guide him through the crowd. He’s about to go up the stairs when he sees Hailee, sitting with a group on a couch. It’s a bit dark but when his eyes adjust he sees that she’s with that smarmy cunt from the cafe. ‘Nah, Aleks, that’s her, bra. I gotta go talk to her.’ ‘You’re too . . . Ah, okay. I’ll be having a ciggie outside. Come up ASAP. We gotta go.’ Jimmy buys another shot and a bourbon and everything is tilting. He sits on the couch opposite Hailee and smiles. Her friends go silent, looking at him expectantly, ammo and gossip in their bleached teeth. ‘Hey.’ ‘Hey.’ She looks confused and scratches the back of her head. ‘This is Greg.’ ‘Hey, man.’ Jimmy feels confused. ‘Big night?’ ‘Not really. I’m driving.’ ‘Aw, sweet.’ ‘You?’ ‘Nah not driving . . . Oh, big night? Yer. Yer, I’m, um, I’m here with mates.’ ‘Oh, cool. Where are they?’ Greg sniggers. ‘What? So . . . big night then?’ ‘No . . . I’m driving.’ Fuck. ‘Yeh, of course. Sorry.’ Music too loud in here. The others turn back to their conversations. Big screen playing the latest Lil’ Wayne and Drake song. Diamond teeth, palm trees and cars. When did Drake get so big? ‘Hey, I’ve got big plans you know!’ Greg and Hailee look at each other and then back at Jimmy, grinning. ‘Yeh, I wanna —’ His mouth not forming the vowels. Hailee’s hand on Greg’s knee. ‘Cool . . . Have a good one then, guys. Good to meet you, bro.’ Jimmy stands up and looks back at her and she’s smiling in a way he can’t quite pin down and he’s furious but glad to be walking up the stairs away away away. He’s outside in the alley sharing a cigarette and someone tells a joke and then he’s inhaling sweet weed smoke, the tip of the joint glowing like a cat’s eye in the dark and he stares back at it and blows the smoke. He’s back in the club. Bar chick looking at him dubiously but pouring another one and a chaser. Hailee. He’ll find her again and do better this time. Pissing and then sick again. He falls against the wall and somebody has him by the collar and is helping him up, left foot, right foot, dragging him and he’s saying thanks mate sorry but his feet aren’t working and he throws up again next to the bouncers and stumbles forward, slipping in the sick, gets balance and then falls again and wishes for nothing else but to sleep. The club line upside down. Then baubles of lights above and a certain type of darkness and he can hear himself breathing but it’s from afar, maybe down a long hallway. ‘This guy is fucked! He your mate?’ And someone is pulling him up again and pushing him forward on his unwilling feet and he gains lucidity for a second to see blonde hair go by and he says Hailee but he’s not sure cos it could be anyone. Where’s Aleks? ‘I’m not taking him in this state. No way. He’ll throw up in the cab. Ah, for fuck’s sake.’
* * *
Sitting.
Oh.
So.
Still.
Still fucked up but everything’s silent now.
He’s at his mum’s place somehow,
in Solomon’s room.
Solomon’s not there.
Jimmy listens to himself breathing
as he looks out the window.
The carpark is lit by lamplight.
It is never dark.
He sits watching, feeling as if he is on the rim of the world.
The carpark was once a paddock,
dark and calm.
There were apple trees
and a broken wall the boys scrawled
their first tags on.
The night reels back and forth
in his mind,
on repeat.
Gonna try to stay up till dawn.
16
Her skin is frost –
like we’ve never met,
like this is the first time.
She bites my bottom lip gently
and soon there’s warmth.
We are trying to get a hold with our eyes,
but each of us is slippery with shadow.
The Manuka honey moisturiser
she wears is overpowering.
I’ve ended up at Jimmy’s house somehow,
but he’s not here.
She moves her hands upwards
and bunches her hair with them,
then bites me,
almost to collarbone.
She says ‘Solomon’
and I say ‘Scarlett’,
at exactly the same time.
We turn to steam.
My breathing rights
and I turn away,
like I always do,
always have,
waiting for something
that this time,
I don’t hear.
The moon outside
the size of a bullethole.
We have sex again
and this time our skin stays cold,
and after several minutes,
she pushes me away.
She leaves soon after,
silently,
but I can still feel her eyes on me,
as if she is watching me
through a bullet hole moon.
* * *
I head fake an imaginary defender,
spin down the sideline
and launch the ball from deep.
> I didn’t judge the angle properly,
so the ball hits the side of the backboard
and comes straight back to me.
The whole backboard shudders.
Who is Scarlett?
What is this?
Mercury is chasing something
down near the train tracks.
More noise complaints Mum reckons.
I think of the greyhound killer in Wollongong
with the bolt gun.
The kid’s there again,
back against the fence.
He’s not smiling this time,
just watching,
eyes full of longing.
I ignore him,
and practise a Dirk Nowitzki fadeaway,
one-footed,
kicking out with the other for better balance,
narrating my moves in my head.
‘There’s ten seconds left on the clock.
Amosa’s got the ball,
the crowd is on its feet.
He’s sizing up Jarryd Hooper,
biding his time,
fakes left, spins right,
he shoots . . .’
A train clacks past
and I make sure to put on
a little show for the passengers,
launching the ball from deep.
Splash.
‘HE SCORES! AMOSA WINS THE GAME!’
I reach down and pinch my ankle.
The scar tissue is still thick.
I grimace,
remembering the gruesome surgery,
not being able to walk,
the constant pain.
A text from Georgie –
I see you moved on pretty fucken quickly.
Delete.
Bounce, bounce.
Flick.
Forty minutes later,
the boy is still there.
I sigh,
pass the ball to him
and he jumps up.
He starts shooting,
sometimes hitting the backboard,
sometimes airballing it.
His shot is flat and has no arc.
He’s clumsy but springylean –
a bit of strength
for someone his age.
I take the ball and wordlessly show him
how to hold it,
the straight extension of the arm,
the flick of wrist.
He nods and I pass the ball back.
He nails the next shot.
Finally I talk to him.
His name is Toby.
17
Aleks is early. He likes to be early.
He’s in the carpark of Macca’s, eating chicken nuggets, waving at little bush flies with his spare hand. He dips the nuggets in barbecue sauce and feeds them into the side of his mouth, chewing slowly. Then a cheeseburger and large fries. On the radio, a man with a nasal voice is talking about a new pop song. Why do Aussie radio DJs always have the most bogan names? he wonders. ‘G’day, listeners! It’s Midday Madness with Kelly and Simmo on 103.7.’ Aleks changes station and finds himself nodding along to a shock jock. He sips his Coke down to the ice. In front of him is a hedge blooming with wrappers and crushed cups. Beyond that, shimmering in the heat, is outer suburbia, that great maze of hidden monsters and freaks.
Some petrolheads are hanging out on the bonnet of a Supra, incongruously eating soft-serve cones, their biceps weighty but ineffective machinery. They all wear black singlets, snap-pants and gold chains, a baseline bleeding from the boot. One throws French Fries to pigeons. Another throws rocks to frighten them away.
Aleks rolls the blue bead between forefinger and thumb.
Wil turns up and climbs into Aleks’ passenger seat. He’s a well-built Fijian lad with a red kiss tattooed on his neck, just above his ex-girlfriend’s name. Dumb cunt. He’s got a new tattoo on the other side, the postcode of the Town, crusty and flaking. He’s a big boy, obsessed with MMA, but Aleks knows that he lacks balls. If it came down to it, this motherfucker would wilt like baby spinach in hot butter. Between mouthfuls of a burger, he talks about his newborn, also called Will, but the extra ‘L’ is crucial. Wil’s real name is Wilfred – something he is deeply embarrassed about and tries to keep a secret. Aleks only knows cos he once saw his passport. He wonders if Wil can speak Fijian and why he didn’t call his baby something completely different if he hates his own name so much. He concludes that people are mysteries.
‘She’s driving me crazy, bro, seriously. Wants this, wants that. New clothes, perfumes. You’re farkin kidding me! Sending me bankrupt.’ Wilfred spits out a pickle in disgust.
‘Ah, you gotta give it to em sometimes, brother. Show em you care, you know? Love is one and the same as loyalty,’ says Aleks. The unspoken corollary is that it must be proved, again and again, through gifts, vocal affirmation, extreme violence.
‘Yeah, but I’ve got this new place now, ay? Landlord is a cocksucker, bro, I’m telling ya. Nice bloke, but a cocksucker. Puts the rent up all the time, bro. You’re farkin kidding me.’ He keeps talking and Aleks fades out. He’s thinking about Sonya, at home, catatonic from Xanax. He wishes he could tell the boys, but has too much pride for that. Her problem had started long ago, when she had given birth to Mila. She suffered from severe post-natal depression, and hadn’t been the same since. Maybe he should ask a woman what to do. But who? He doesn’t know that many, besides the ones in his family, and he doesn’t want them to know either. No, a long holiday would give her time to recover, get back to how she used to be.
Wil is now talking about a new video game. Aleks has never liked video games or computers. For nerds and fat cunts, he reckons. Better to be outdoors. And violence on a screen could never equate to the real thing. Wil is gesticulating expansively and is wearing a childish grin. Aleks decides that he might be soft, but he is good-hearted. Dumb and good-hearted – a terrible combo.
A white guy, Dave, pulls up next to them in a Holden driven by another man. Dave has the lean look of a starving mongrel, and when he smiles, it’s sardonic and without kindness. Yellow teeth, oily skin, no sense of loyalty, no honour, no culture – Aleks can’t stand him, thinks he is trash. Aleks can tell that Dave is thinking exactly the same about Aleks, that he is unworthy of Australia, a stain that can’t be removed, a necessary evil. At least the cunt fears me, thinks Aleks.
Aleks and Wil climb into Dave’s car. The driver is Dave’s brother, a good-looking white boy, who says nothing. Wil talks the whole time, still munching a burger, spraying flecks of cheese and meat patty everywhere. Aleks cringes when Kelly and Simmo introduce a new song on the radio. In the song, a man sings about meeting the woman of his dreams, then losing her in unexplained circumstances. He sings of searching the earth for her but never finding her, only signs of her presence: in shopfronts, in clouds, in trees.
The men arrive at the house. It has a simple facade, paint peeling, fibreglass roof. There’s a tyre swing, an oleander bush, some broken gnomes and an old hose in the front yard. The door is unlocked and they enter without knocking.
It’s filthy inside. The floor is hard to see beneath the food wrappers and pizza boxes, bottles and chicken bones. A half-dismantled Harley Davidson sits in one corner, surrounded by parts. Two small children are sitting on the floor, stupefied. They barely look up when the door opens, and Aleks can smell them from the doorway. A man is lying on the couch and starts when he sees the men enter. He has long black hair and a sweaty singlet.
Aleks speaks in a low voice. ‘Mark?’
The man nods. Aleks gestures to the kitchen table. On it is a CB radio tuned to the police channel, and a photo of a handsome, suited man in front of Big Ben. It looks out of place. ‘Come here, brother. Sit down.’
The man stands up but doesn’t walk straight to the table. He goes to the sink and takes a long drink of water from the tap. It goes all over his unshaven chin. He wipes his mouth and then sits down. Wil and Dave stand behind him. From the CB radio they hea
r a low and steady stream of male voices. Aleks switches it off and the only sound now is a weak fan and cicadas outside. He picks up the photo and realises the well-dressed man is Mark. ‘You know who I am, brother?’
The man nods. Aleks continues. ‘Look, I don’t know what you done. But I got two jobs to do. Number one. The man who sent me wants his cash, understand?’
‘. . .’
‘Speak up, brother.’
Mark is unseasonably pale and the sweat shines on his Adam’s apple. He clears his throat and when he speaks again sounds surprisingly posh. ‘I told him last time. I don’t have it right now.’
Aleks shakes his head. ‘I’m not messing around this time, brother.’
Mark looks away, then mumbles, ‘In the laundry. Linen closet.’
Dave leaves the room. Aleks leans close and there’s sweat on his forehead too. He smiles, ignoring the stench of the man’s breath. ‘Number two. How do I say this? The man who sent me can’t have scoundrels like you running around saying they played him for a fool, understand? So there’s a couple ways of doing this. Either you can carry on, make a scene, and there’ll be a lot of blood – it’ll be messy. Or you comply, all right? We’ll bandage you up nice and tight, cut off the blood flow. It won’t hurt a bit. You can take it to emergency and they’ll sew it right back on. No problems.’
