May inspected the living room. ‘It’s a nice fireplace,’ she said.
‘You won’t need that,’ Stanley answered. ‘The stove’s enough. I’m not gonna spend all day chopping wood.’
‘Would you like me to cook?’
‘You ever cooked on a wood-burner before?’
‘No.’
‘Think you better just stay out of my way then.’
He took the food out to his dogs. May looked at me mutely. I picked up one of the wine bottles and went to work with the corkscrew. There was nothing I could do about Emily now anyway. I wanted to stop even thinking about her, and beer wasn’t going to be enough. May found some glasses and held them out for me to fill. When Stanley came back from his dogs we were deep into the first bottle. He eyed us both for a moment, me in particular. Then he got to work on dinner.
May and I huddled in the armchairs. Despite the stove and the extra clothes, we couldn’t get warm. Stanley didn’t help. He banged about angrily in the kitchen and wouldn’t talk to us. We said little ourselves. There was no television, no radio, nothing to do. Outside, the wind began to dip down from the upper slopes and whoop around the house. Candle flames quivered as errant drafts slid under the doors, and shadows jumped on the walls. Despite the cold May and I went out into the night to inspect the wind, and to escape Stanley’s silence. We cradled glasses of wine in our hands and stared skywards. There was a deeper iciness to the air now. A front must have been moving up from the south, some last vestige of a winter already gone, straying north. The sky was still clear, but there was no moon, and the land was shapeless.
‘This won’t work,’ May said. ‘Stanley isn’t going to forgive us. No matter how long we stay.’
I drained my glass. ‘We’ll go somewhere else if we have to.’
‘Or maybe it should just be me that goes.’
I shook my head in the darkness, not even certain if she saw. Back inside we poured more wine and Stanley served dinner. We ate and retreated again to the armchairs. Air rushed around the house. The minutes ticked by and occasionally from outside a dog would yelp or whine. Stanley would cock his head and listen for a moment, then relax again. ‘They don’t like the wind.’
Finally he took out a worn leather pouch and rolled himself a joint. He offered it to us wordlessly, but we both refused. I stayed with alcohol, even though the wine didn’t seem to be working. There was no comforting cloud seeping into my mind, only a creeping unease, and thoughts about Emily. I opened another bottle of wine. Stanley watched, wreathed in marijuana smoke, a grim presence in the room.
‘Would you like a glass?’ I asked him.
‘No.’
May was right. Stanley wasn’t going to accept us. Maybe I’d been wrong all along, thinking we could survive here. But if we went somewhere else, left the state altogether perhaps, May and me together, what did that mean? And what about Emily, waiting alone in Highwood? Was I going to make a choice that final? I didn’t know. It was too big a question, and the wine felt like a weight on my tongue.
May broke the silence, pointing to the joint in Stanley’s hand. ‘Is that how you make money now? Growing that?’
‘It helps.’
‘You’re not worried about breaking the law?’
‘Not that law.’
I said to him, ‘You should visit Brisbane now. It’s changed. Everything that we got in trouble for is legal. The bars never shut, there’re casinos, lap-dancing . . .’
He looked at me. ‘You call that better?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘You can drink all night, lose your money and watch naked women? Who ever cared about any of that?’
May sounded sad. ‘Everyone did. In the old days.’
Stanley shook his head impatiently. ‘If I’d thought any of those things mattered back then I would have been out there protesting against them. But why bother? Of course the licensing laws were ridiculous, of course they were there to be broken, of course there’d be an underworld. I didn’t have any problem with that. It was the bigger things.’
I said, ‘You don’t think the Inquiry improved anything then?’
‘The small things, maybe. The obvious things. Maybe not even them. In another generation the Inquiry will be a memory and it’ll all be like it used to be. Nothing else ever changed. It’s entrenched in this state. It’s the people themselves.’
May nodded. ‘And it’s worse here. Always worse than the rest of the country. It’s like there’s something in the air.’
Stanley blew out smoke. ‘It’s always been that way. Queensland was appallingly governed, right from the start. Go back a century—the big pastoralists owned the government then, and sheep were all they cared about. Meanwhile we were falling behind the southern states in everything else—industry, infrastructure, education. People were starting to wonder why. So the parliament said to the voters, it doesn’t matter if you’re poor. You’re tougher than those southern states, you don’t need good roads or good schools, you’re harder than that, you’re different. Ignore anyone from the south who laughs at us, ignore anyone who suggests things could be better. In fact, be suspicious of anyone who says things could be better. They don’t understand the Queensland way.’
The wind rose and fell, and sheet iron moaned on the roof. Stanley studied the ceiling until if fell quiet.
‘That’s where it started,’ he went on, ‘this thing about Queensland being different. You’re rough and ready, they said. You don’t need sophistication. You’ll get by because you’re simple, decent, hard-working folk. Be satisfied with less, be satisfied with backwardness. No, be proud of it. Because you’re unique here in Queensland.’
He flicked the stub of his joint into the empty fireplace.
‘The worship of ignorance. It’s an excuse, that’s all it is. It’s the excuse of rednecks and backwaters and corrupt governments the world over. The saddest thing is that people believe it. They get used to it. They accept whatever leftovers they’re given. And meanwhile the bastards at the top keep scooping the heart out of the place.’
He stared at the cold grating.
‘What insufferable shit we were all taught.’
May was silent, gazing into her glass, and I thought of Marvin and his campaign slogans and the way the old premier had beat the Queensland drum whenever his popularity sagged.
‘It was years ago,’ I said. ‘It’s not that way any more.’
The marijuana burned in Stanley’s eyes. ‘You’re a fucking idiot, George. Who are you hiding from here? You think people like Clarke would have survived this long anywhere else?’
May was staring deep into her wine. ‘He used to laugh about it. Poor old Queensland, and all its idiot voters.’
‘Everyone laughs at Queensland,’ Stanley brooded. ‘That’s why it’ll never change. The rest of the country loves having us to laugh at. It’s the only attention we ever get. So of course we oblige. We perform on cue.’
May wasn’t listening. ‘He’s not laughing any more.’
Stanley glared at her. ‘Don’t expect any sympathy from me. For him, or for you two either. This is my home, you know. You two have come smashing in here just like the police used to, and you expect me to . . . Christ, I don’t know. I don’t even know who’s worse, you or him.’
I said, ‘We haven’t killed anyone.’
‘I don’t think you could, George, even if you needed to.’
‘You think that’s a bad thing?’
‘It’s a weak thing. I don’t get you, George. Gerry said you had something, but I could never see it. And then I thought— well, he gave up drinking. That must show some sort of character. And I thought, well, he’s with Emily. She’s got some strength to her so he must be worthwhile somehow, if she’s with him. But here you are, back where you started. Back on the drink and back with your old drinking partner and back fucking things up for everyone else.’
He was furious, the skin of his face taut with a lifetime of injustice.
&n
bsp; ‘You’re the worst of them all. You don’t think, you don’t question, you just drift along with any sort of viciousness like the old days, and then you act surprised when it turns on you, never mind all the people it crushed in the meantime. At least the real pricks like Marvin and your friend out there—they’re arrogant and greedy and dead wrong, but at least they run their own lives, at least they take some responsibility, as least they act. You, George, I don’t know what you do.’
I stared at him, my face burning, and I could think of nothing to say.
‘Leave him alone,’ May said softly.
For a moment Stanley turned on her, then he slumped, and the anger in him died.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You two are welcome to each other.’
Outside the wind rose like an ocean rolling over the hills, and sank away again. I looked at my wine glass and drained it.
‘We’ll leave if you want,’ I said.
‘Forget it,’ he answered. ‘You’re here now.’
No one said anything. I refilled my glass. My skin was still prickling. It was suddenly too hot in the room. I rose and went to the door, stepped out into the night. The wind cut against me and in the darkness my face cooled, but the wine remained, a fog over my thoughts. I didn’t want it there any more. It didn’t matter what I wanted. Alcohol would always move at its own pace, a matter of flowing blood and the liver. Will had nothing to do with it. I took another mouthful.
Above me material billowed. There were still only the tarpaulins stretched to the tree trunks in place of a verandah. Filled with air, they strained towards the sky. The door opened, and I sensed May behind me.
‘He’s got plenty of reasons to be bitter,’ she said.
‘He’s right, though. Look at us, May. All those years.’
‘We didn’t mean it to turn out the way it did.’
‘We never even wondered how it might turn out.’
‘No . . .’
‘And you and me . . . and Charlie. Look how we treated Charlie.’
‘Look how everyone treated Charlie.’
‘But us—he didn’t deserve that from us.’
She didn’t answer for a time. ‘This is about Emily, isn’t it?’
It was. I could see her face again. I thought of her away back in town, sitting in her empty house. What sort of future had been there for us, what was I abandoning? What sort of future was there now, for me and for May? And what were the consequences? Think for once, I told myself. Think! But only the fog remained.
I said, ‘What are we going to do?’
‘You and me, George? I don’t know. When it’s the two of us, I’ve never known.’
We stared into the night.
I said, ‘I have to at least go and see her.’
She nodded. ‘I understand. I remember what it was like.’
‘I mean, the thought of her alone, wondering what’s happened, not knowing . . . I can’t leave it like that.’
‘No. You have to talk to her. I never could with Charlie, but I should have.’
‘It’s not even that late yet. She’d probably still be awake.’
She stiffened. ‘You’re going now?’
‘It’s better now. This late no one will notice me driving around town. It’s better than going during the day. And I don’t want her to . . . to have to try and sleep, without knowing.’
‘But you’ve been drinking. Won’t that bother her?’
I drank again, the wine tasting tart and dry, without any pleasure in it at all. ‘She may as well see me for what I am.’
May pulled away. Her arms wrapped around her chest, and she sounded a thousand miles distant. ‘All right, George. If you have to do it, then do it now. But I still don’t like it here.’
‘There’s Stanley. He mightn’t want us, but you won’t be alone.’
‘It isn’t Stanley. It’s this place. It’s so dark. It’s so deserted.’
And I heard a sadness in her voice, deeper and more final than ever before.
‘It’ll be better tomorrow,’ I said. I couldn’t think of anything else.
We went back inside and I told Stanley I wanted to borrow his vehicle.
He shook his head in disbelief. ‘What on earth for?’
‘I’m taking your advice,’ I said. ‘I won’t be long.’
They came out to see me off, Stanley carrying a kerosene lamp, the flame flaring in the wind. He handed over the keys. ‘Just take it nice and slow, okay? And don’t forget to close the gate behind you. But don’t worry, I won’t let the dogs out until you get back.’
May leaned in through the window and kissed me. ‘I hope you can work something out with her,’ she said. She was smiling, but I saw the effort in it, the loneliness.
‘Wait for me,’ I said. Then I was rolling down the hill, and in the rear view mirror they were just flickering figures in a tiny pool of light. Then they were gone altogether.
FORTY-SIX
The town was deserted.
I drove down the main street, the footpaths empty, the stores and the cafes all shut down, their display windows gone black. Wind whipped along the gutters. I came to the park where the memorial to Emily’s dead husband stood motionless amidst trees that bowed and shook. On past the courthouse, its clock showing close to midnight, and then beyond to the police station. A light glowed above the door, but there was no one there, not tonight. No crime stirred in Highwood. There was only me, and I wasn’t so certain now. The wine was leaching from my body and my head ached dimly, and I was afraid of what I had to say.
I drove on. Beyond the school and up towards the national park, past dark houses and sleeping families. And there was Emily’s place. Her car was parked outside, and behind the blinds of her bedroom window, a lamp still burned. She was awake.
I climbed out, looked up and down the street. There was no one to see me, no lights suddenly switched on, no faces peering from behind curtains. I walked up the footpath and knocked on the door.
Even though I had a key.
I waited. Noise came from inside and Emily opened the door. She must have come from bed. She was in pyjama pants and a T-shirt, her hair was tousled, and her eyes were red.
‘George,’ she said, and she tottered slightly, leaning against the doorpost. A small note of hopelessness sounded inside me. She was drunk.
‘Emily? Can I come in?’
‘Sure,’ she said, and walked back inside. I followed her. There were no lights on in the living room, but a small oil heater was set up in front of the couch, a blanket pooled on the cushions. She hadn’t been in bed, she’d been sitting there in the dark. There was an empty bottle of wine on the coffee table, and another three-quarters gone. And a single glass.
‘Do you want some wine?’ she said. She had never asked me that question before. And her voice was frightening, colder than the air outside.
‘No,’ I said.
‘So you haven’t taken up all your old habits?’
She was curling herself in the blanket again, lifting the glass and drinking.
I didn’t answer. She would never notice the alcohol on my breath now. And to accept a glass, actually drink in front of her . . . I couldn’t do it, for all that I had intended to hide nothing. The balance between us seemed so precarious as it was.
Emily considered the wine.
‘I like drinking, George,’ she said. ‘All those years of staying sober, just for your sake. Tiptoeing around it every time someone so much as mentioned alcohol. You know what? It was boring.’
‘I never wanted to stop you.’
‘But you did, all the same. It’s no fun drinking alone, George. And I should know.’
‘Emily . . . May needed my help. You don’t know what’s been happening.’
She was gazing at the little flames in the heater. ‘You wouldn’t ever tell me.’
‘I thought it was over, I thought it would never come back. I didn’t want you to know about those times.’
‘And now it’s come
back anyway.’
‘Some of it has. I don’t know why, not really. But Charlie is gone. And Marvin. Jeremy is dying. There’s only May and me left.’
‘I don’t even know those people. You barely talked about them. You talked about May, though. In your sleep. I heard it. I always knew.’
‘You don’t know it all . . . but the thing is, May and I have to stay out of sight for a while. There’s someone . . . it’s a long story. But I couldn’t tell you I was coming up here, or that I was with May. I’m sorry you had to find out the way you did.’
‘And how long is it going to be this way?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And when it’s all over? What then? What about you and her?’
I forced myself to tell her the truth. ‘There’s so much that was never finished between her and me . . . I don’t know.’ And I didn’t know, but from Emily’s point of view, that was as good as making my choice.
She shook her head. ‘Why here? Why did you have to come back here?’
‘It’s the safest place.’
‘Only for you.’
I tried to reach her. ‘Emily, nothing has been decided. Nothing can be, until this is over. But I’m not just going to disappear. I’m not forgetting everything. The last ten years, I wouldn’t have got through them without you.’
‘Not now, George, not that.’
‘No, listen. I had nothing when I came here. I would have just gone back to the old ways if it wasn’t for you. You were so good to me.’
She look at me, sickened. ‘Good? I don’t want to be good. I’m not a fucking saint. It’s all I get from this town, ever since that damned fire, but Christ, George, do you think that’s what I wanted from you?’
And it occurred to me that both May and Emily could look back to a fire that forever changed their lives. One lighting the flame, and the other fighting it.
‘I know it isn’t,’ I said, ‘but compared to the way I used to live . . . ’
‘The way you used to live? You missed that life, George. You shut it all away, but you missed it. And I only got what was left over. You didn’t think I could even understand what you were like back then, let alone that maybe I could be that way myself. Only your precious May could be like that, no one else.’
Last Drinks Page 36
