The Whip Hand

by Nadine Browne

  She sat on the suitcase and considered what she really wanted in life. What would it all look like in five years time? Often she tried to imagine a toddler, but she found anything to do with raising children tedious and draining. Her mind went to the other women in town; some of them had lived in the same place for twenty, thirty, sixty–odd years. The thought of staying in one place for that long sickened her. What if she made the decision to stay here for three years? It felt like death, or a death of something.

  The sun started to come up and she began unpacking everything again. She was busy folding her clothes and putting them back in the drawer when she noticed Bruce at the door, his face still puffed up with sleep.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered. He wore chequered pyjamas that were too big for him.

  ‘Just tidying up,’ she smiled.

  ***

  She talked to Marianne at the bookstore the next day.

  ‘I don’t think it’s going to work out,’ she blurted out, ‘with Bruce.’

  ‘Do you love him?’ Marianne asked, rearranging the crystals on the front counter.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Those kind of pie-in-the-sky questions always annoyed her. ‘I can’t pin down emotions like that. I just wanted a place to think about my next move. That’s all.’ She didn’t want to tell Marianne that she thought Bruce was crazy with the whole Jesus thing. She wondered if Marianne already knew that, and, if she did, why she hadn’t warned her. ‘I just needed something to look forward to, I guess. I’ve read about that type of condition. The reward centre of your brain has been overstimulated in some way and it never quite calms down, always looking for something to hope for, some incentive, some prize, some promise of reward. Maybe I took too much ecstasy when I was younger, I don’t know. Maybe I should be on antidepressants or something.’

  ‘Maybe it’s just being human,’ Marianne said.

  It felt like Bruce was some kind of reward. When she first met him, straight away her brain had started hatching little plots and devising schemes to get him to notice her. The two weeks before she moved in were really the peak of the relationship – those two days a week when he came in to do spiritual healing and sell his guidebook. Those two days, she had dressed differently, she became a different person, a better person, someone she liked a whole lot more.

  ‘Somewhere along the line, though,’ she said to Marianne, ‘I got the idea that my purpose is to keep moving. I don’t like to get bored,’ she adjusted the letters on the label-maker, ‘but, I suppose, more than that, I don’t want to be boring. I want to be the interesting one at parties.’

  ‘Don’t we all,’ Marianne said. Then she stopped what she was doing and smiled. ‘Sometimes you have to just trust that things will unfold as they should. Don’t try to think, or do – just be, just sit with it all a while.’

  Carrie felt tears well up. She swallowed hard and focused on the labelling of the incense sticks.

  Carrie had never had a long-term relationship. Some of her dalliances had definitely had potential but she had never stayed long enough to find out. The first argument or sign of trouble and she was out the door. She always left first, like it was some kind of competition, a running race. She’d always beat them, getting out while they were at work or asleep.

  At the end of the fourth week, he hired the town hall and put an ad up in the shop window: The Coming Apocalypse and What to Expect. He stuck it in between an advert for a combine harvester and a handwritten Hay Bales For Sale sign. Carrie gave him some options for wording it differently. ‘Maybe just invite people for a catch-up and a coffee,’ she said. ‘Have something a little friendlier, less Doomsday.’ But Bruce said people needed the truth and there was no need for diluting it.

  Nobody showed up, of course. The inside of the town hall looked like it had been untouched since 1963. It smelt like wheat and dust and her modern jeans and sneakers seemed to juxtapose its very being. Carrie tried to busy herself making a cup of tea and looking at the old photos on the walls, of the town’s celebrated farmers and football players. One of them she recognised as Bruce’s brother.

  ‘I met him,’ she pointed to the photo. ‘Your brother, I met him at the saleyards last week.’

  Bruce was silent.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you had a brother.’ Carrie took a sip from her too-hot tea.

  ‘He’s not my brother.’

  ‘What do you mean? You’re obviously related. You look alike.’

  ‘He’s no brother. He tried to silence me; man’s a heretic. They have ears but they do not hear.’

  Carrie could hear the shudder in his voice but she was tired of the charade.

  ‘Well, I have eyes and I can see. Something isn’t right here.’

  ‘Something isn’t right with me?’

  ‘I don’t know, all I see is a lot of people …’ He looked hurt and she wanted to backtrack, but she felt she’d talked herself into a corner. ‘A lot of people think you’re crazy.’

  This wasn’t the conversation she wanted to be having. She felt bad – there was something so genuine and shy about his mannerisms, the way he scratched his arm thoughtfully with his index finger and pursed his lips coyly.

  ‘I’m no false prophet. I want them to see the truth, that’s all. I’m not interested in making friends.’

  Carrie nodded.

  ‘You believe my brother?’

  ‘No … sometimes I just wonder why you don’t have any followers besides me.’

  He put his pamphlets on the table, then went over and put both hands on her shoulders.

  ‘You’re the only follower I need,’ he said.

  After an hour of waiting she left. Starving, she was intent on going past the town shop and pigging out on potato chips. Stepping out into the blazing afternoon sun, she glimpsed back to see him slumped in the plastic chair, one man in a giant hall, a big man made small. Pity was what she probably felt and she immediately regretted it. It was never good to pity someone – not good for them, not good for her. She wondered if that was one of the reasons she felt compelled to stay.

  She hadn’t been home for five minutes when there was a knock at the flyscreen door.

  From the silhouette she thought it was Bruce back already, but as she walked closer she saw his brother.

  He gave a loud sigh. ‘I’ve been talking to the mental health nurses from Meckering. Bruce hasn’t taken his medication for three months now.’ He put his fist on the handle of the door. ‘Can you let me in or what?’

  Carrie hesitated. Her illegal immigrant status has been on her mind the past few days, plus it didn’t really feel like her house to let people into. But she wanted to find out more about Bruce, and the brother – with his self-assured swagger – was hard to say no to. She flicked the latch.

  ‘They’re all worried he’s gonna do something,’ the brother continued. ‘Thing is, you mighta cottoned on by now, Bruce is a paranoid schizophrenic. These are his pills.’ He shook them up near his ear in a gesture that was patronising, then slapped the box of tablets on the kitchen bench. He took a distracted breath at the kitchen then headed back to the front door, shouting, ‘Now if he wants to go crucify himself to a light pole I don’t give a shit, but I promised the nurse I’d give ’em to him, because I’m meant to be his designated carer.’

  Once again, Carrie felt speechless and before she had time to respond he was out the door.

  It was the tenth of December, which meant there were two days until Ascension Day. Carrie took the box of pills from the bench. It had a bright orange design and various warning stickers. She opened the lower cupboard and carefully hid the box behind an old crockpot at the back. She noticed again the beat in the distance, coming from the pub. It was Friday night.

  She didn’t hear Bruce enter the house; he was so quiet, padding in slowly like he was sneaking up on her. When she looked up from the book she was reading in the lounge room, she jumped at the sight of him. It was dark and the only light came from the small floor lamp next t
o her.

  He looked like a cardboard cutout of himself – no buoyancy or life, just a representation of a man. In the low light his face was shadowy and sunken, full of dips and curves, like all the skin was clinging hard to his face.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Carrie asked.

  He stared at a point in the kitchen, wide-eyed, trans-fixed. He couldn’t seem to hear her. Carrie got up from the armchair. Not until she was only a few steps from him did he register her presence. He flinched like he’d just noticed a projectile approaching his face.

  ‘I need to take a shower.’ He turned and went towards the bathroom.

  Carrie wanted to follow him, but instead she said, ‘I’ll make you some food.’ For once he didn’t protest.

  She made the coleslaw that he had made her on the first night she stayed with him. Listening as the shower turned on, she opened the cupboard and reached behind the crockpot. She broke one of the capsules then sprinkled its contents over his bowl.

  The next day she hid another pill in the green juice that he always drank in the mornings.

  Usually he slept only a few hours, staying up all night poring over his Bible, scanning religious magazines and taking notes. Sometimes he prayed in supplicating, head-shaking murmurs. But on the evening of the eleventh, at half past ten, Bruce fell asleep, on the couch, under a pile of Prophecy Watch magazines. He looked so peaceful that Carrie put a blanket over him and went to bed herself.

  Just after midnight, light flooded her bedroom. There was shouting – so loud – like someone was in the room with her, like their face was rested on the pillow next to hers and they were shouting into her face.

  She jumped out of bed with her hands to her ears.

  ‘Bruce! Bruce!’ a booming loudspeaker voice shouted.

  Then she realised it was coming from outside.

  ‘We’re still here, mate!’ There was laughing and a car horn beeping. ‘The blue men haven’t taken us away!’ More over-the-top drunken laughter came rising, kookaburra-like, through the window. An engine revved and wheels spun in the gravel of the driveway. ‘We’re still fuckin’ here, Bruce!’

  She recognised one of the drunken deep-throat laughs as belonging to Bruce’s brother. Carrie ran to the window but couldn’t see out for the blinding spotlights. She ran down the hallway and saw that Bruce was standing in the middle of the lounge room in his boxer shorts. She rushed past him to the window to see a ute pull away, all its spotlights shining across the paddocks like daylight. Swaying men, some holding stubbies, were silhouetted on the tray at the back of the ute. One of them held a loudspeaker.

  Nothing was said the next day. Bruce only came out of his room to get a glass of water around seven a.m., his brows furrowed. He was chewing his bottom lip. She watched him from her bed as he went down the hallway back to his room. At about nine a.m. she got up and knocked on his door. There was no sound and she turned the doorknob to find him lying on his back on the bed, completely still, his eyes wide open. She had to watch his chest intently to see the rise of his breath and decide he wasn’t dead. Slowly she tiptoed into the room and climbed across the bed. She lay down next to him and hugged him tight and he didn’t try to stop her.

  Mihaela Nicolescu

  Mihaela Nicolescu was born in Romania, brought up in Sweden, and then spent thirteen years in London, where she completed her MA in Creative Writing at Birkbeck College, University of London. She now lives in Perth, Western Australia. Mihaela’s short stories have been published in Mslexia, The Mechanics’ Institute Review, Aesthetica Magazine and The New Writer, and her plays have been produced by Parrabbola and Total Beast Theatre, and as part of London’s Off Cut Festival. She was guest editor for three issues of the World Arts Platform publication Write from the Heart, celebrating the work of writers who use English as a second language. The stories that appear in this volume were shortlisted in the 2014 City of Fremantle T.A.G. Hungerford Award.

  Acknowledgements

  Firstly, all my gratitude and love to the two main characters of my life: Muţu and Tuţu. Mulţumesc pentru încredere şi dragoste. Secondly, thanks to VP, for bringing me to the sunshine and for helping me find my voice. Thirdly, thank you to the friends who have been there, through thick and thin. And finally, Linkwest: thank you ladies (past and present) for providing kindness, lively debate, and insight. I would also like to acknowledge Fremantle Press for giving a gal a break, and for being that most elusive type of animal: a truly professional, considerate, and broadminded publisher.

  The following stories have appeared elsewhere: ‘Drop’, Petrichor – Visible Ink 27 (RMIT University, Melbourne 2015); ‘Frozen’, Eunoia Review (eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2013/03/14/frozen/); ‘Love’, Eunoia Review (eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2013/03/13/love-3/), Aesthetica Creative Works Annual 2011 (Aesthetica Magazine, London 2010); ‘Fig’, JotSpeak recording (jotspeak.com, 2010); ‘Frozen’, The Mechanics’ Institute Review 7 (Birkbeck University, London, 2010); and ‘Strays’ (titled ‘Coiled’), The Mechanics’ Institute Review 2 (Birkbeck College, London, 2005).

  Nadine Browne

  Nadine Browne was raised as a born-again Christian and wound up an agnostic studying theology at Monash University. Her writing has appeared in numerous publications including Westerly and Antipodes. She has also been featured on the ABC’s Conversations with Richard Fidler, The Moth (Los Angeles) and Porchlight (San Francisco). In her spare time she attends and facilitates a group at the Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers’ Centre in the Perth hills. She lives in Perth with her partner Krzysztof and a Pomeranian named Bob.

  Acknowledgements

  Big thanks to my fellow writers at KSP’s Thursday Night Group who have given valuable critique and feedback on all of my stories in this collection. Special thanks to Chris Oakeley for his on-call Grammar Nazi services and general enthusiasm for my writing. Thanks also to Rachel Bailey for being a comrade-in-arms in the battle against creative angst. And thanks especially to my partner Krzysztof Piotrowicz for his patience, kindness and humour.

  The following stories have appeared elsewhere: ‘Strange Fruit’, Westerly, July 2012, vol. 57 (UWA Press, WA); ‘The Jerry Can’, PiF Magazine, September 2015 (online edition, Washington, USA); ‘The Spiral’, SALA: Short Stories From around Australia, September 2015 (Extempore Press, Victoria); ‘Drowning’, FourW Twenty Six: New Writing, November 2015 (Active Print, NSW).

  Also from Fremantle Press

  available from fremantlepress.com.au and all good bookstores