Beyond Carousel

by Ritchie, Brendan

  This wasn’t somewhere flash Rachel was crashing before moving onto the next place. This was her home now.

  ‘Do you want to drink that?’ asked Rachel from the hotplate.

  ‘Not really,’ I replied, looking at the wine.

  ‘There’s beer in the bar,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Cool. Thanks,’ I replied.

  I put the wine aside and took a beer from one of the many fridges in the outdoor bar. It was cold and sharp and tasted amazing. I shuffled back over and stood awkwardly by the barbeque.

  ‘Is this fish from the kitchen downstairs?’ I asked.

  Rachel shook her head and looked at me cagily.

  ‘You guys didn’t take any food with you when you left Carousel?’ she asked.

  ‘No. We left kind of suddenly,’ I replied.

  ‘Is that skater kid still stuck in there?’ she asked.

  I nodded and took another swig. My eyes filled with fizz.

  ‘He died last year,’ I replied.

  Rachel looked at me.

  ‘Fucking shithole place,’ she said.

  I nodded and stared silently at the fish. Rachel took a long pull on her rum-and-Coke.

  ‘How long have you been living here?’ I asked.

  ‘Ten months,’ she replied. ‘Best room in the city.’

  Rachel looked at me, fishing for an argument.

  ‘Did you meet many people on the way here?’ I asked.

  ‘Enough,’ she said.

  ‘Were they all Artists?’ I asked.

  Rachel shrugged. ‘Probably. They were all pretty useless,’ she replied.

  She flipped the fish. It was charred to high hell and getting worse by the second.

  ‘Plates behind the bar,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry?’ I asked.

  ‘To eat off, Nox. Go get us a couple,’ replied Rachel.

  I hesitated for a moment, surprised that she actually remembered my name.

  ‘Right. Sure,’ I said.

  Under the bar I found a thinning stockpile of plastic dinnerware. I took enough for the two of us and made up one of the tables.

  As the sun finally dropped, Rachel and I sat for an awkward, but kind of lovely, barbeque dinner. It reminded me of Sunday lunch at my aunty Linda’s, with her drab salads and droning chitchat. Danni and I used to hate those visits. Dad too, probably. But lately I would kill for that type of thing. To be stuck talking crap with my family on the weekend, cocooned deep down in sleepy suburbia, daydreaming of something big happening one day.

  Few things have tasted better to me than Rachel’s overcooked fish and weird gherkin and sweet corn salad. I stuffed my skinny, anaemic body with protein and buzzed off icy bottles of imported beer. Rachel tipped, inevitably, into slushy territory and told me some more about her kids, Kelly and Chad, and her ex, Steve. It seemed as though her bitterness towards Steve had faded. She still thought he was a ‘useless loser’ but she said this with a flicker of nostalgia and sounded proud of his ability to do nothing at his job with the council, yet still get paid.

  The sun set and I realised that Rachel had all of the tables positioned to face the city lightshow. We talked throughout the display but twice I caught her gaze wandering up to the lights as if they were the nightly news or something. When they finished we were basically in darkness. Rachel disappeared inside while I stared across at the blocky and pensive city. Giant grey towers etched out of the dark. I traced their shapes and tried to remember which was which.

  Rachel returned with a bucket of Ferrero Rocher. I had been gorging on chocolate for days but didn’t let on. Instead I thanked her and forced down a couple more.

  It was quiet but for a soft sea breeze and the hum of insects by the river.

  ‘How long are you staying for?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘I guess until Taylor and Lizzy come back,’ I replied.

  ‘What if they don’t?’ she asked.

  I shivered and didn’t answer.

  ‘What are your plans?’ I asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Plans?’ cackled Rachel. ‘Nothing. Live here. Relax. That Curator can fuck himself.’

  I sat up.

  ‘You’ve heard about the Curator?’ I asked.

  ‘Who hasn’t,’ replied Rachel.

  ‘Have you seen him anywhere?’ I asked.

  ‘Ha,’ she snorted. ‘He wouldn’t want to run into me.’

  I smiled, but Rachel looked deadly serious. Fair enough, I thought. Here she was, no kids, no ex. Alone in the world but for the odd encounter with some Artist she probably couldn’t stand. Why should she feel anything but animosity towards the Curator. Why should anyone.

  I stayed there late, drinking and bitching and trying my best to offer some common-people solidarity as Rachel and I hovered between decadence and poverty in the post-apocalyptic wonderland that was Perth.

  16

  I kept up my visits to the foyer as the summer meandered on. In the mornings I dressed in exercise gear and used my time waiting there to stretch, before heading back up to work out in a gym on level five. At night I took down a beer and a magazine and hung around until one or the other was finished. The same thing, day after day. My note still central on the desk. The colour fading and the corners curling up.

  My routine ignored a reality that I wasn’t yet ready to face. With each day that passed it became less and less likely that Taylor and Lizzy would return. I ran through different trajectories of events in my mind. The start made sense to me: Chess is spooked by the alarms and runs. Lizzy chases after him, her calls are lost in the wailing. They become disorientated, can’t hear us yelling after them and take shelter. Taylor fails to find them and returns to discover the foyer is empty. She looks for me. She waits. She feels a deep guilt for the loss of her twin. She has to leave.

  But then what? She finds Lizzy and Chess. They come back and see my note. She doesn’t find Lizzy and Chess. She comes back and sees my note. Lizzy and Chess surface without her. They head to the casino and find my note. In none of my projections was I left alone in the casino with Rachel. When I lingered on this thought I felt great rumbles of emotion. Guilt. Anger. Grief. A vast and profound loneliness. Things that were dark and enveloping.

  So I held fast to routine and to numbness. I worked out. I sunbaked. I went room to room and built a wardrobe and a library. I watched the lightshow and barbequed with Rachel. My writing petered, then stopped completely. I settled back into the life of a Patron. No rules. No pressure. Just the day and the night and whatever it took to fill them.

  Every second Tuesday Rachel took a battery-powered golf cart to a shopping centre in Victoria Park for underwear, batteries and whatever else she couldn’t find in the resort. I sat out the first couple, worried about the Finns returning while I was away. But eventually I grew bored and restless and asked her if I could come along.

  We set off around one pm. This was effectively midmorning for Rachel and she seemed tired and grumpy. The golf cart was one of hundreds housed on the adjacent country club. Rachel kept it tucked away by a taxi rank on the east side of the building with a stack of spare batteries. We slid aboard and she rolled us out through the sweeping casino gardens and onto the highway.

  ‘Are there pit bulls in Vic Park?’ I ask her.

  ‘Yeah. A few,’ said Rachel.

  I glanced at her. She didn’t seem concerned.

  We turned from the highway and climbed through some streets to the east. Before long the hills came dramatically into view. Great swathes of barren, grey hillside spread out as far as I could see. Within the mass of dotted tree stumps were small patches of bare earth where a house or shed had once stood. It was bushfire on a scale I had never seen. Like a giant firefront had charged across the deserts from the cities of the east and crashed like a wave into the hills.

  Rachel ripped through side streets, parks and stationary traffic as if she was running late to pick her kids up from school. I held on for my life and couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her. Bling
ed-up designer sunnies. Cigarette wedged between chunky diamonds on her fingers. Head to toe in Nike gear, ready for a workout that rarely eventuated. Before long she screeched to a stop outside the local IGA.

  ‘My rule is ten minutes and two bags,’ she said. ‘Any longer and people start sniffing around.’

  ‘People?’ I asked.

  ‘Loots,’ she replied.

  I looked around warily. It was quiet and suburban. Trolleys had drifted like leaves to all corners of the car park. There was a long delivery truck backed up to a loading bay at the side. Rachel stepped out of the cart and headed in that direction. I followed her as she tracked alongside the vehicle. It had been frozen mid-delivery. The boxes and crates that were still aboard had been ransacked and scattered. A small forklift held up another stack of boxes. These were emptied too. Just a lonely crate of Chum dog food remained untouched.

  Inside was pretty ghetto. It was shadowy and dank and the floor felt crunchy with dirt beneath our shoes. Fat insects circled about the roof space above. Rachel grabbed a couple of shopping bags from behind a register and headed off alone into the aisles. I took some bags of my own and looked around snobbishly. This wasn’t the type of shopping to which I had become accustomed. People had gone to town on the shelves. Spilling and grabbing greedily as if the earth was about to be struck by a meteor. I picked my way through and eventually found some of the razors I liked. Also some sports socks, Minties and Vitamin C tablets. Otherwise the selection was dismal. It wasn’t the biggest store, but I was still surprised at the extent to which it had been cleared out.

  When I finished Rachel was already waiting impatiently at the front of the store. Her bags were stuffed full of who knows what.

  ‘Did you get paper plates?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Sorry,’ I replied.

  Rachel sighed. ‘Aisle six,’ she said.

  I turned back obediently to get the plates. Arguing with Rachel was never really an option. The stocks of plates were diminishing but I grabbed a few packets and jammed them into my bag. Abruptly Rachel’s voice boomed out through the aisles.

  ‘Don’t fucking touch me, arsehole.’

  I stood up.

  ‘Get a move on, Nox,’ she yelled.

  I freaked out, but ran back to her regardless.

  Rachel was in stand-off with a filthy looking bearded guy by the checkouts. He glanced at me. Then back to Rachel. He looked super cracky and reminded me of a dexie fiend we had to fire from work.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘Give me the keys, hag,’ said the guy.

  ‘Get your own fucking car,’ replied Rachel.

  The guy stepped forward. Rachel pulled a can of something out of her pocket.

  ‘Do you want to get sprayed in the face again?’ she asked.

  ‘I need a car,’ he replied.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  The guy turned and looked at me closely.

  ‘He’s in the hills,’ he whispered.

  ‘Who? The Curator?’ I asked.

  Before he could answer Rachel sent a shower of spray into his eyes. He shrieked and keeled over. She turned to me and nodded to the door. The guy started groaning.

  ‘It’s just Impulse, you big baby,’ said Rachel.

  We circled around him to the exit.

  ‘I need a car!’ cried the guy.

  ‘It’s a golf cart, idiot! You won’t get past Cannington,’ said Rachel.

  She swung back outside without waiting for a reply. I glanced back at the crumpled, jittery dude on the floor, then followed. We threw our bags in the back and Rachel ripped a savage turn back out onto the street.

  ‘I told you. Ten minutes. Two bags,’ she said.

  ‘Who was that dude?’ I asked.

  ‘A poet or some crap,’ she replied.

  ‘Do you know his name?’ I asked.

  ‘His name?’ asked Rachel. ‘His name is loser poet guy. Friend of skanky dancer girl and pervert photographer.’

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  17

  For a week in autumn I hooked up with an actress named Georgia from Ohio. She was sitting in the foyer one night, waiting to see if anyone would make good on the note that was still stuck to the counter. I wandered inside in my track pants and froze.

  Georgia kind of looked me up and down.

  ‘Sorry. I’m not T,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘T. From the note. It’s not me,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, okay,’ I said.

  ‘But you’re Nox, right?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied.

  She stood up and moved over to shake my hand.

  ‘Georgia,’ she said.

  ‘Hi,’ I replied.

  Georgia was pretty. She had a classic look. Her face was lightly tanned, proportionate and highlighted by magnetic green eyes and ringlets of dark-blonde hair that bounced around her shoulders like she’d just teleported in from a Hitchcock film.

  ‘Is T your girlfriend?’ she asked.

  ‘No. She’s Taylor. And Lizzy. They’re sisters. Twins,’ I replied, confusingly.

  ‘Oh cool, Taylor & Lizzy,’ said Georgia.

  I nodded and tried to loosen the dorky white t-shirt that was swallowing my neck.

  ‘Have they been gone long?’ asked Georgia.

  ‘Since the fire,’ I replied.

  She eyed me cautiously as if to weigh up whether I had lost my mind like the rest of the city.

  ‘Well, that sucks,’ she said. ‘Are you a musician too?’

  ‘No. A writer, I guess,’ I replied. ‘You?’

  ‘I’m an actress. I’m trying to be an actress. I was trying to be an actress. Before all this,’ she replied and swung an arm out theatrically.

  ‘You’re from the States?’ I asked.

  ‘Ohio. Go Buckeyes,’ replied Georgia.

  I nodded as Georgia wandered the space.

  ‘Sorry. How come you’re in Perth?’ I asked, confused.

  ‘Acting school,’ she replied.

  ‘You’re at WAAPA?’ I asked.

  ‘The one and only,’ said Georgia.

  WAAPA was the performing arts school famous for ex-student Hugh Jackman. I had met a couple of WAAPA students before. Friends of my old housemate. They were chatty and brash twenty-four-seven.

  ‘So you’re living here in the casino?’ asked Georgia.

  ‘Yeah, at the moment,’ I replied.

  ‘That’s cool. Are you here on your own?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s a lady in one of the penthouses. Rachel. She’s been here for a while,’ I replied.

  Georgia nodded. She seemed restless.

  ‘Well, I need a place to crash for a few nights. Do you wanna show me around?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah. Sure. What kind of room do you want?’ I asked.

  ‘Just something small and humble,’ replied Georgia.

  She stared at me for a second, wide-eyed, then shoved me like I was an idiot.

  ‘I want a palace, Nox. I haven’t slept for like a week.’

  I didn’t want to piss off Rachel so I stopped a few levels short of the penthouses and ushered Georgia into a corner suite with a view of the river. She unpacked some of her stuff while I brought her up some food, water and candles from the kitchen below. I also grabbed a pot and one of the portable gas burners that Rachel and I used for hot water. Georgia thanked me and asked if I could come back later when she wasn’t so ‘gross’.

  I went back upstairs, changed out of my track pants and paced around like a teenager wondering what this meant.

  When I eventually went back down Georgia was yawny and doe-eyed at the door.

  ‘Were you sleeping?’ I asked.

  ‘No. No. Come in,’ she replied.

  I moved past her into the dim, candlelit space inside.

  ‘I just thought you might come back sooner,’ said Georgia.

  ‘Sorry,’ I replied.

  ‘You’re fine. How m
uch does it suck without Facebook or a phone?’ she replied. ‘I’m constantly like cool I’ll see you around and then realising I will probably never see that person again.’

  ‘Yeah. Totally,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh my god. Sorry. I’m such a dick. I’m sure you will see Taylor and Lizzy again. I just mean like, random people,’ said Georgia.

  ‘It’s cool,’ I replied.

  The darkness made things awkward. Georgia moved around when she spoke and her face was slipping in and out of the candlelight. She looked at me and smiled, then yawned again.

  ‘God. Sorry,’ she said.

  We stood quietly for a moment and I considered leaving her to sleep.

  ‘Oh hey, the mini-bar is loaded. Do you want to take a shot with me?’ asked Georgia.

  ‘Yeah. Definitely,’ I replied.

  She grabbed a handful of single-serve bottles from the fridge and scattered them across the counter. We picked out a couple of vodkas, clinked them and drank.

  ‘Wow,’ said Georgia with a hand on her chest. ‘I’m so lightweight these days.’

  I smiled, feeling the exact opposite.

  ‘Should we try a gin?’ she said.

  ‘Sure,’ I replied.

  We looked through the bottles and found some Bombay Sapphire. The drinking felt mechanical. A high school regression. The necessary precursor to making out with somebody where you could avoid mentioning what you both wanted to do before somebody plunged in and it was suddenly, thankfully already happening.

  We coughed and laughed and Georgia’s arm brushed mine as we looked through the other bottles. Our eyes met and held for a second or two, then we started making out. With Molly this had felt foreign, part of the fabric of the strange new world. Kissing with Georgia was different. It was how I remembered it before the Disappearance. Where the world would blur out to just smell, texture and a sudden abyss of thoughts and feelings.