Because of You

by Pip Harry

  ‘You don’t need to solve all their problems or give them advice. Enjoy their company. Listen.’ Eddie looks down at his mug of tea, swishes the liquid around, and dumps it into a pot plant with a sigh. Sadness wraps around him like a quick-moving fog. He sits with it for a moment, then shakes himself free.

  ‘We better go in for round two,’ he says, forcing a smile.

  As we walk back inside, Eddie hands Drew a plastic bag. ‘Boots,’ he says. ‘They’re your size. Good soles.’

  ‘Like me, I got a good soul,’ says Drew.

  Drew’s worn sneakers are falling off his feet. The tread flapping on the ground. He takes them off and tries on the boots, tying up the laces carefully.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asks me.

  ‘I think they suit you,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Yeah, me too. They fit just right. Thanks Pretty Boy.’

  We take our chairs back inside to pack up. There’s a happy vibe running through the writing group and we’re feeling good. Then the bubble bursts in a messy pop.

  Inside Zak is walking around the room in a daze, talking to himself. When he looks up, I can see he’s bombed. I run to him. Goosebumps coming up on my neck and scalp.

  ‘Zak! Are you using again?’ I ask him. His pinpoint pupils give him up.

  ‘I had a little taste, to remember how it feels,’ he says, his words slurring.

  He leans on me, his limbs floppy and heavy. ‘I need to lie down.’

  ‘Zak you don’t look so good, buddy,’ says Eddie. ‘Tell us what you took and we can get you some help.’

  Eddie helps me get Zak down on the carpet. He crawls into a ball and starts sobbing and babbling about his sons.

  I hold his hand, it’s sweaty, the grip loose.

  ‘It’s okay, Zak. Everything will be okay.’

  But that’s not the truth. The truth is it might not be. Who was I to say that? Before I can stop him, Zak stands up and runs unsteadily for the elevator.

  It’s been broken every day I’ve been here, but today it miraculously opens when Zak presses the button. The doors close behind him.

  I bolt after him down the stairs, Eddie does too, but by the time we get down six flights, he’s gone.

  ‘Forget it, all he cares about now is his next hit,’ says Eddie, anger in his voice.

  ‘Zak cares about me,’ I say, tearing up. ‘He’ll come back.’

  ‘He will, but not the same person,’ says Eddie. ‘Trust me, I know. I wish I didn’t, but I do. Come back inside, Tiny.’

  I let Eddie take my elbow and lead me back inside.

  We sit together in a circle. I love Zak, but he’s dragged something into writing group that’s uninvited and unwelcome. Me, Pee Wee and Drew are left from the residents. They don’t clown around like usual. They’re straight-faced and serious. I feel sick and shaky, wondering where Zak is right now. If I should’ve gone after him right away.

  ‘Zak shouldn’t have turned up off his head. That wasn’t right. Writing group is meant to be safe. We got rules. No drugs,’ says Drew.

  ‘So what do we do?’ asks Eddie. ‘How do we take back our power? Make this room ours again?’

  ‘How about we write about it?’ Nola suggests.

  The room falls silent as we sit in a circle and put our hearts on the page.

  Tiny and I sit on the steps outside Hope Lane. The sides of our feet almost touch. We don’t speak for ages, letting the residents come and go around us like water flowing around rocks in a stream. The street lights blink on and I start to feel cold. I put my arm around Tiny and she leans her head into my shoulder. It’s warmer huddled together.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Nup.’

  ‘Zak’s your good mate, isn’t he? Almost family?’

  ‘He saved me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘On the streets. He found me and protected me. I would’ve been in big trouble without him. He kept me safe, from lots of things.’

  ‘Think he’s going to be okay?’

  ‘Dunno. I should’ve been there for him. Should’ve saved him too. I knew he was struggling. Drinking too much. I should’ve taken better care of him.’

  ‘It would have happened anyway, right? You couldn’t have stopped it.’

  ‘Maybe I could’ve. Right person at the right time. It can change the way things go. I’m going to look for him. Try and get him to come back.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Nah, you won’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you don’t know what it’s like out there. It’s good you don’t.’

  I watch as Tiny pulls herself up and walks away, her hands in her pockets, head down. She’s right. I don’t want to see where Zak has gone. No one does.

  I’m still on the steps, in the place Tiny left me. I can’t call or text her. I have no idea when I’ll see her again. Like Zak, she could slip away from me. The thought scares me. I haven’t been very brave today. I’ve stood back and let everything happen around me.

  ‘Nola?’

  I turn around. Eddie is behind me, zipping up his motorbike jacket. Aimee is behind him. She looks tired.

  ‘That was intense,’ Eddie says, breathing out and running two hands through his hair.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like that.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, trying to seem more together than I am. ‘Tiny went out looking for Zak. Maybe she’ll find him, bring him home.’

  ‘She might find him, but he’s lost right now. How about a pub meal with Aimee and I? I could do with a drink after … oh … I guess you don’t really do pubs.’

  He checks out my school uniform. I wish that I’d thrown jeans and a T-shirt into my schoolbag. I don’t want to be alone tonight.

  ‘Or there’s a Mexican place down the road that makes the best gauc you’ll ever taste. We probably need to debrief.’

  ‘Eddie, I might skip dinner and wait here for Tiny. Make sure she gets back okay,’ says Aimee.

  ‘No worries. I could still eat. Nola?’

  Would it be weird to eat out together, without Aimee acting as buffer? I hesitate for a nanosecond.

  ‘Let’s eat.’

  This is the world’s best guac. Tangy and creamy with sharp red onion and flecks of coriander. Eddie and I dip into it with competing corn chips. It seems strangely normal, us hanging out in this cosy restaurant with its sombrero hats and terracotta walls.

  ‘I have an idea,’ Eddie says. ‘Have you heard of the Fresh Voices Festival?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘It’s a new literary festival for emerging writers. How about we take our group there?’

  ‘To see some authors?’

  ‘No. To perform.’

  ‘Really? Do you think they’re up for that?’

  ‘They will be. I think our group has something important to say. Besides, good words, amazing stories, they can come from anywhere. Even the street. Even the gutter.’

  I nod in agreement, but I’m wondering if it’s a bit ambitious. ‘Isn’t it a bit risky? After what happened today?’

  ‘They’re unpredictable. But all writers are. Do you know Hunter S Thompson?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas?’

  ‘Not on the English reading list.’

  ‘I’ll bring you a copy. So anyway, Hunter ran a stop sign, went off at a US state trooper, was arrested. He was unstable. But his writing, wow.’

  ‘Don’t you have to be invited to a festival?’

  ‘I’m going to write a letter to the organisers. Ask them if we can do a panel. Maybe even sell our work. Are you in? I’m going to need help getting it sorted.’

  ‘You want my help?’

  ‘Of course,
especially when Aimee goes on maternity leave.’

  ‘Alright, I’m in.’

  ‘Maybe I can get my flatties to vacate the premises so we can have a planning meeting.’

  ‘Who do you live with?’ I ask.

  ‘Three Indian students, one bathroom and a shower with insufficient hot water. Our landlord is dodgy. It’s cheap. If I move out I have to get a third job. I already pack shelves at night and work in the kitchen at Hope Lane. The glamorous life of a film student.’

  ‘What are you working on?’

  ‘A movie. Well, it’s trying to be a movie. It’s a pile of not very good words, at the moment. It’ll never get funding because it’s nearly impossible to make a movie in Australia. The screenplay would have to be perfect.’

  ‘What’s the pile of words about?’

  ‘About addiction, actually. Struggles like Zak is going through. Poor bugger.’

  When we finish dinner, Eddie pays, which makes it feel like a date. Which it isn’t. Is it?

  ‘Feel like a walk? I’ll show you the neighbourhood?’ he says.

  I should head home, but something about Eddie makes me want to stay up all night talking.

  ‘Okay, I’d like a walk.’

  I know what it’s like to want to be lost. But if it were me, Zak would come looking. I know his secret haunts, so I start with them first.

  He isn’t at Rough’s dinner service. I ask one of the volunteers if she’s seen him.

  ‘Not since Monday. Is he okay?’ asks the woman.

  ‘If he comes in, can you tell him Tiny wants him to come back to Hope Lane?’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out. Have something to eat,’ she says. ‘You could do with a meal. It’s so cold out.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I lie.

  ‘You can do takeaway.’

  Dinner smells good as usual – stir-fry with vegetables and chicken. I let the woman press a plastic box and fork into my hands. I eat it while I walk into the city, sauce dribbling down my chin.

  I try the bench in Hyde Park where he likes to read, but it’s empty. The skater stairs in Martin Place where we first met. No sign. Underneath the station at Town Hall where it’s sheltered and everything is coated in fine black dust. Nothing. I check the David Jones entrance, a good spot to hit up shoppers for cash. He’s not there. I worry he’s drifted back to The Cross. Back to his dealer.

  George Street is a wind tunnel. I press my back against a building to avoid the cold and the night crowds, leaving the city for the day. Dressed-up office workers running for buses, ferries and trains. Back to warm homes, cats to feed, kids to pick up from day care. I wish I had a phone. Then at least I could call Zak. Leave a message. Something.

  Did anyone come for me when I became a missing person? Mum? Mari? Scott? Was this useless frustration what they felt too? I’m sorry for that. Sorry for so much now my head is clearer.

  After searching the dodgy back streets of the Cross with no sign of Zak, I’m heading back to the shelter via the square. The Street Library is there again, its van strung with fairy lights. Meredith is out front, rugged up in a beanie and thick coat. Hoping for some customers. She stomps her feet and claps her gloved hands to keep warm.

  ‘Hey! Tiny!’ she calls out, waving.

  I slow my pace, my legs in need of a rest. I’m pleased to see Meredith and her books. There’s something bloody-minded about her that reminds me of Mum. The way she kept things going after Dad left. Getting a job. Then two jobs. Working all hours to keep us out of trouble. But always finding time to make it to my recitals. Always making sure I had a full lunchbox, birthday presents and a hot dinner.

  ‘You’re back! I’ve got something for you,’ says Meredith. She pulls out a package, wrapped in paper. Printed on the paper is a map of Rome.

  I spread it out on my arms, looking at the streets and landmarks.

  ‘When I was a traveller we used paper to find our way,’ she says. ‘Not Google maps.’

  ‘You’ve been here?’ I ask. The language on the map is foreign, but I recognise it from a class I once took at school: Year Eight Italian.

  ‘Twice. I fell madly in love with the place and the people. I’d go back tomorrow.’

  ‘Good pizza?’ I ask. In my dreams I’ve tasted pizza in Italy.

  ‘We have better here. But the pasta. So fresh. I ate it every day.’

  In the weeks before Charlie was born, I started nesting like a clucky hen. I got hold of an old pasta-making machine from a garage sale; making endless batches of dough until I perfected it. As Charlie turned and twisted in my stomach I cooked and cooked – dropping the pale strands into salted, boiling water, topping it with passata sauce made from the ripe fruit from our vegie patch. Tomatoes, olive oil, salt and basil. Mum said it was the best pasta she’d ever eaten.

  ‘I’d like to go to Italy one day,’ I say, the words sounding like they come from another person. A person with plans and a future.

  ‘You will,’ says Meredith. I fold the map and put it in my backpack for later.

  Meredith has given me a stack of fantasy books. On the cover of one is the face of a princess warrior, holding a sword between her steely eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, holding the books to my chest. I want them. More than I thought I would.

  ‘Some of my favourites. I hope you like them as much as I do.’

  ‘I have to go,’ I say. I’m already late for curfew and I need to be inside, out of the wind. My fingers and the tip of my nose are numb.

  ‘Come back and tell me what you think of the books. I’ll give you more, if you like.’

  ‘I will. Goodnight.’

  ‘Don’t stay out. It’s too bitter,’ she says.

  ‘Same to you.’

  Aimee opens the door to the shelter, looking relieved to see me. It’s past ten and she’s obviously been waiting for me to come back. I feel bad. She should be home with her husband, resting.

  ‘Did you find Zak?’

  ‘Nup.’

  ‘Come in, I’ll get you a hot drink. Tea?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  In the kitchen, she hands me a hot mug, and we sit at a table in the dining hall.

  ‘Please don’t be late for curfew again. You don’t want to sleep rough in this weather.’

  ‘Sorry, I lost track of time. I’m worried about him, Aimee. He gets sick sometimes. His lungs are stuffed.’

  ‘He’ll come back when he’s ready. You know, Tiny, technically you have a month left here and we have to move you on.’

  ‘A month?’

  I’d forgotten how temporary this place is. Like a crumbling sandcastle. I’ve just started to feel like Hope Lane is home and they’re going to kick me out. ‘Okay, I’ll find something else.’

  ‘I’ll look around, see what other options you have. How’s it going with Dr Robinson?’

  ‘He gave me some meds. They’re helping. He’s different to other doctors. I can talk to him.’

  ‘Good. Keep seeing him.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Zak will turn up.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Eddie and I walk past small bars that serve cocktails in glass jars, a barber, a vegan cafe and a doughnut shop with a line out front.

  ‘This used to be a discount supermarket, a McDonald’s, an injecting room and an all-night chemist,’ says Eddie, pointing to a strip of shops, right in the heart of the Cross. Now there’s a glossy French patisserie, an organic supermarket and a pub filled with people sipping chilled wine and eating olives from white bowls.

  ‘Can you see Drew coming here for an eight-dollar cold-pressed juice?’ laughs Eddie. ‘Hattie ordering a latte and a croissant to go? There’s so much money moving in. Families who want parks and cafes. But the street people, the prossies, the housos are still here. Won’t be long before t
hey’re pushed out too.’

  He points to a shabby terrace house, up against a newly renovated twin.

  ‘That’s public housing. Think the government won’t sell that off to the highest bidder?’

  ‘Will they?’

  ‘Course. They’re already doing it. Down in The Rocks, Redfern, Waterloo. They’re making millions. Trouble is, where do you put the poor people when you sell their homes out from under them?’

  ‘Shove them into overcrowded shelters.’

  ‘Exactly. Although I heard people are being offered free legal advice, so that’s something I guess.’

  We pass a kids’ park with new rubber soft fall and equipment.

  ‘That used to be where the drug deals went down,’ says Eddie. ‘Now it’s Mothers’ Group Headquarters.’ We keep walking, past a long stretch of sandstone wall.

  ‘Know what this is?’ Eddie asks me.

  I put my hand on the cool sandy bricks, towering overhead.

  ‘A wall?’

  ‘The Wall, actually.’

  I’m drawing a blank. I obviously know nothing about my own city.

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this stuff.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ I say, hurt. ‘I’m eighteen soon. How old are you?’

  ‘Nineteen,’ he says. ‘Twenty in October.’

  Two years. That doesn’t feel like a big gap to me. But it’s probably a gulf to him. I’m a schoolgirl. He’s living out of home. He works and goes to university. We are miles apart right now.

  ‘The Wall was built by convicts, but it’s known for a different reason. Since the sixties young men used to come and stand here. Cars would cruise this road, looking to pick them up.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For sex.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, taking my hand away from the stone. The wall feels different now, cruel and oppressive. I can almost feel the desperation of the boys who stood here. Hoping to get picked up. Hoping not to.