Beyond Carousel

by Ritchie, Brendan

  She swept past me and moved behind the counter. I poured myself some wine from the bottle that was open on her table.

  ‘It’s shiraz from the great southern,’ said Cara.

  I nodded and took a sniff even though I had already gulped some down. Cara looked at me expectantly.

  ‘It’s good,’ I said.

  ‘Western Australia has such stunning wine. It’s more than terroir. It’s … personality,’ said Cara. ‘But you’re from here. So you know this already.’

  ‘To be honest we mostly drink cask wine where I live,’ I replied.

  Cara boomed with laughter.

  ‘What am I saying. You’re a young Artist. It’s your right of passage, no?’ she said.

  I smiled and nodded. Her transformation from earlier was crazy. She was still intense, but now in a magnetic, life-of-the-party kind of way. Her hair swept theatrically from one side of her face to the other. When she spoke her eyes locked in and dazzled as if each sentence was a gemstone of gossip for my ears only. The room was big and there were just the two of us, yet Cara radiated into every corner.

  ‘Actually, I was wondering if you could do me a giant favour and head out to the garden for a couple of ingredients?’ she asked.

  ‘Will the air be okay out there?’ I asked.

  ‘You know, I was up in the cafe earlier and the wind has dropped right down. It looks like we’ll have one of those calm and gorgeous winter nights,’ said Cara.

  ‘What do you need?’ I asked, still not keen on the idea.

  ‘Just a bit of everything,’ she said.

  She handed me a large basket and flashed another red-carpet smile. I headed upstairs and out through the cafe. It was night and the garden radiated with the soft hum of insects. There was a faint waft of gas in the air, but nothing like the morning. The garden paths were lit by a series of solar lights rising up out of the ground. I followed these around, filling the basket with whatever I could make out in the murky light. The plants were heavy with produce and it wasn’t long before I had run out of room.

  Back at the cafe I felt a sudden urge to grab my bike and get the hell out of there. It seemed irrational and would be dangerous given the gas and darkness. But something wasn’t right about Cara down in that basement. I shrugged off the feeling and headed back inside. There was no way I was leaving without my writing anyway.

  Cara gasped theatrically at the selection in the basket as I returned.

  ‘Wonderful, Nox! There is a plate on the table to get us started,’ she said.

  I wandered over to find an awesome selection of preserved vegetables on offer in all kinds of kooky jars. I found my appetite and crammed a bunch of it into my mouth while Cara started unpacking the basket. When I glanced across, the fresh food had disappeared and she was busy picking out another bottle of wine from the shelves.

  ‘Now … You and I are going to drink this pinot noir and you’re going to tell me what it was like to grow up in this wondrous city,’ she said.

  ‘Sure,’ I replied, trying to sound enthused.

  Cara catwalked over and sat down opposite me. She poured wine for both of us and took a long and lingering taste.

  ‘So tell me,’ she said. ‘Was it all … Christmas at the beach. Children dancing in the shore break. Summer nights camped in backyards with stolen beers and truth or dare. Fooling around in cinemas with girls from other schools. Never during my movies of course!’ she added, with a devilish smile.

  I swallowed my food and tried hard not to choke.

  ‘Or maybe you’re a winter soul,’ said Cara, leaning back to look at me from another angle.

  ‘Reading fantasy late into the night while the rain lashed your window. Trips to the country with friends to find bookstores and brew mulled wine over the fire. Maybe there was just one girl. But a special one,’ she winked and whispered.

  I had no idea how to respond to any of this.

  ‘Kind of both, I guess,’ I replied.

  ‘Really?’ asked Cara, seemingly intrigued.

  ‘We moved to the hills when I was in high school. It’s a long way from the beach. But the bush up there is cool,’ I replied.

  ‘Isn’t it! And the lights! You know, at night, it’s a match for anywhere in LA up there,’ said Cara.

  I nodded and downed the rest of my glass.

  ‘And when did you know that you just had to be a writer?’ she asked.

  ‘Wow, that’s tough,’ I replied.

  Cara hovered, theatrically.

  ‘I studied some literature at uni. I actually wasn’t really that good at it. But I remember after I graduated, I still found myself doing the readings, even though I didn’t have to anymore. I guess that was when I knew I had a connection to it,’ I said. ‘Does that make sense?’

  ‘It makes beautiful sense, Nox,’ said Cara. ‘Our callings can be aloof and mysterious, but they always call.’

  I nodded and pretended to look around the room. It was super intense and weird sitting there opposite such a giant celebrity.

  ‘And here you are now. One of the chosen Artists. In the running for the new Prix de Rome,’ she purred.

  ‘Do you think there will be an actual winner?’ I asked.

  ‘Why not?’ she replied wistfully. ‘Ed would never agree. But what an accolade to take back to the world.’

  ‘Don’t you already have like two Oscars and a Golden Globe,’ I said.

  Cara stopped and her eyes froze onto mine. She stood up and leaned slowly toward me.

  ‘I. Want. Everything,’ she whispered, just inches from my nose.

  Then she broke into laugher and sauntered into the kitchen area. I sat back and exhaled.

  ‘You have attitude, Nox. That’s a good thing,’ said Cara. ‘Now for some real food.’

  We ate our way through a stack of amazing produce from the basket I had gathered. Cara was liberal with the supplies. She seemed ravenous and was convinced beyond any doubt that the Residencies were ending soon. What is left here should be enjoyed. It should nurture us in our final stages of our journey. I wasn’t arguing.

  I grilled her for gossip on big Hollywood stars, and found out a few things, but Cara’s stories were whimsical and often morphed into morality tales before they could deliver anything juicy. I also tried to eke out more information on Taylor and Lizzy. Knowing for certain that they had been here made me even more confused and angry as to why they hadn’t come back to the casino. That Taylor had arrived here first made some sense to me. Maybe she was still looking for Lizzy, and instead she found her painter. And if Lizzy arrived later to find them here together, it would have been ugly. I had seen how those two could fight. But to separate in this world was so definitive. There was every chance it would mean forever.

  Cara wasn’t the type to soak up a great deal of information on others. On Taylor she had almost nothing. Just that she and the painter were inseparable. I felt happy hearing this, despite everything. Taylor had taken such a lonely journey in Carousel. She deserved love as much as anyone left in this world.

  From what I could gather, Lizzy had stayed a lot longer. Cara said she was a regular on the tented stage. One of the bigger names left playing during the final weeks of the Collective. I asked Cara if she left for the airport alone, or whether there were others for the journey. She wasn’t certain. The population of the Collective had always fluctuated and the exodus had been chaotic. I hoped she had been with some others. My memories of the Bulls were still vivid and I had to chase away images of her running for her life with a rabid pack behind her.

  I did find out that Chess was still with her. Cara mentioned the conjecture on his arrival. There was an unspoken ‘no dogs’ rule in the Collective due to the overall fear of their presence in the suburbs. Lizzy had been staunch and protective and Chess had eventually found his way into the hearts of the other Artists. In the end he was fed well all about the Collective and patted for luck when many Artists left for the coast. Chess wasn’t the bravest of dogs, but it st
ill made me feel better knowing Lizzy had him by her side.

  Of Georgia and Tommy, Cara had nothing to tell. She was maybe the biggest Artist of any still in Perth. A real-life gossip-mag celebrity. Even in a small crowd the faces of others were inclined to blur.

  Later we sat by candlelight with tea and some fancy artisanal chocolates. Cara twirled one around in her fingers, placed it on her tongue and sighed.

  ‘So Nox. Tell me. In the morning, when the sun rises and the wind turns to the east, where will you go? North to the airport? Or west to the beaches?’ asked Cara, as if she were some evil queen spinning a riddle.

  ‘The airport,’ I replied without hesitation.

  ‘To find Lizzy Finn,’ said Cara.

  I nodded pensively and immediately felt myself sobering.

  ‘It will be dangerous. Bulls roam the tarmacs these days,’ said Cara.

  ‘Do you know where the Artists are living?’ I asked.

  Cara shook her head solemnly.

  ‘Only whispers and gossip. Nothing that will guide your search,’ she replied.

  Great, I thought.

  ‘Look for somewhere bright. If there are painters there they will need the light and air to work,’ said Cara.

  It made as much sense as anything she had said. I slid my tea aside and felt increasingly edgy. Backtracking to the airport would take time. Then I would need to dodge the Bulls and find Lizzy amid hundreds of potential lodgings. It was daunting, but finding Taylor could take even longer. The beaches of Perth stretched north and south for miles and I had nothing to go on. It could take Lizzy and I more than a month just to search the obvious houses.

  Then there was Georgia somewhere down in Fremantle. The face I couldn’t shake from my mind. My thoughts of her were full of regret, but she also spoke to me of the future more than anything in this world. For some reason Georgia made it possible to think of the world continuing as it once was. I could see us together in this place. And suddenly it felt like there might be a path back there. Georgia hadn’t mentioned the Prix de Rome. It’s possible she knew nothing about it. But meeting her made me believe in it more than Ed or Cara or anybody. I needed to find Georgia just as much as I needed to find the Finns.

  25

  The air was clear in the morning as Cara had promised. I awoke in an empty basement and walked cautiously upstairs to find the cafe awash with sunlight. Outside the air was fresh and freezing. I shivered across to my bike and checked over the brakes and tyres. Cara was nowhere to be seen.

  I returned to the basement, packed up my things and double-checked that I had the writing pad. Cara had been awake when I crashed the night before, but there was no sign of her now. I lingered around for a few minutes and considered checking the other studios, but thought better of it. I was about to leave when I noticed the basket was sitting back up on the counter. It was empty but for a note inside. In big, extravagant handwriting it read: Nox, would you be a doll and fill this again before you leave? I am swamped with work as always. CW.

  I read it over and felt like an idiot for not realising sooner. Cara couldn’t leave the cafe. The world’s greatest actress still hadn’t completed her Residency.

  The whole thing made me feel weird and jittery. I grabbed the basket and raced back up to the cafe. The door opened for me without issue. I stood outside and stared back at it. How could a creaky old door have control over somebody like Cara Winters? Sometimes this place was truly messed up.

  I filled the basket until I could barely lift it off the ground, then hauled it back inside. Cara still hadn’t surfaced. I wanted to wish her luck or something, but felt too edgy to wait around much longer. Eventually, I loaded up and rode out of there.

  The airport was north of the Collective, but also on the other side of the river. Rather than backtrack all the way through the city and cross over the bird bridge, I decided to stick to the west side until I was further north. This meant riding through some inner-city suburbs before eventually crossing the river on a highway that I remembered being up that way somewhere.

  I had passed through Mount Lawley and most of Maylands when a cold front came through. Initially I just kept riding. It was blustery, but the rain was still spitting and broken. The streets and sidewalks were scattered with debris from last winter and the new front was adding to this. A few times I had to abandon a street altogether for fear of popping my tyres on the sticks and branches. The highway would be clearer – if I could just reach it before the weather got any worse.

  A flurry of wind and small hailstones sent me scampering for cover under the porch of a house by the river. I sat out there for a while to see if it would pass and I could keep on riding. The sky was dripping with swampy grey clouds and the rain kept coming. I started shivering and reluctantly broke into the house for shelter.

  It was cold inside, and close to pitch-black. I changed out of the wet clothes under torchlight and eventually found the linen cupboard. Moths bombed out of the darkness and slapped into my face and neck. I jumped and swore and fought hard not to freak out completely. Being in other peoples’ houses was the worst.

  There were couches in a living room down the back of the house. I dumped my stuff on one and wrapped myself in a blanket on the other. Whistles of wind circled about the house and the rain outside became even heavier. It was frustrating, but I was travelling during the heart of winter. If I kept going in this weather I risked crashing the bike or getting sick, and neither was worth it. Instead I lit some candles and continued on with the writing from the night before. Cara’s imprisonment was still fresh in my mind.

  The storm ran right through the night and kept on for most of the following morning. During that time I had written, slept, eaten, repacked my bag; even found an old street directory to check that I hadn’t invented the highway ahead of me. At the smallest hint of blue sky I loaded up and continued north. The barman’s watch reminded me that I had already chewed through almost a week since meeting Ed in the hotel. Soon there would be just seven left to get us back to Carousel.

  After a few hours riding I spotted the highway. The houses had thinned and the streets widened. Tracking east–west was a four-lane path through the suburbs. I detoured to an entrance-ramp and climbed up onto the debris-free bitumen. It was exposed and windy out there, but other than a couple of stalled freight trucks it was clear and empty. I picked up some speed and crossed back over the river as the sun sank fast behind me. Airport signs popped up almost immediately. Domestic. International. Long Term. Short Term. Qantas Club. The domestic terminal was nearest to where I was entering so I decided to head that way first.

  Before I got too close I stopped and took some insect spray out of my backpack. This entrance was much more built up than the Bull-infested bushland the Finns and I had stumbled across in the summer. It was reassuring to a point but, really, the Bulls could be anywhere now and I wouldn’t be outrunning them with all of the gear I was carrying.

  There were more cars at the airport than I had seen anywhere since the Disappearance. Bay upon bay of dirty, abandoned vehicles. Fuel gone bad in their tanks. Batteries deader than dead. Parking debits spiralling into the thousands. Like casinos, airports could be populated at any time of the day or night. This was particularly the case in Perth, where flocks of miners flew in and out on weekly rosters to sites in the desert. As the sun had peaked that morning two long years ago, the airport had been frozen mid-stride.

  I slowed down and rolled quietly under the cover of the terminal. A curved glass awning ran the length of the building. Beneath this was a walkway and scatterings of lonely, abandoned luggage. I weaved past them, looking for a way inside. Further along I found an electronic door that was propped open on a suitcase, which had been passing through with its owner at the time of the Disappearance. The doors must have triggered shut when the power cut. I leaned over the suitcase and peered inside.

  The long and static spread of an empty check-in foyer. Blank departure screens. Vacant help desks. The flutter of s
ome birds nesting in the ceiling. It didn’t look inhabited, but this was just the entrance and I knew a much larger area existed at the rear of the building.

  I lifted my bike and bag awkwardly in over the suitcase, then squeezed through myself.

  ‘Hello?’ I said in a half shout.

  Nothing came in reply. The space felt giant and imposing. Luggage was strewn everywhere. Carry-on bags toppled forward where their owners once walked. Suitcases upright and ready at check-in counters.

  A cluster of matching bags in a semicircle where a family had gathered.

  I walked the bike along the length of the terminal until I reached the sparser arrivals area. There was nothing to be found. I needed to head up to the shops and lounges on the second level, but this meant leaving my bike behind. I wheeled it over to a Hertz island and hid it behind the counter.

  Backtracking, I found a security check at the end of the departures area. I stepped over some queuing ropes and trudged up the escalators that led to the departure gates. I surfaced into a hall of tourist stores and bathrooms. There weren’t any windows, but it was definitely lighter up there.

  I passed some more stores, resisting the urge to detour in for some fresh shoes and clothes. Eventually I reached an intersection and the source of the light. An atrium connected the hallway to others heading off to departure gates and eateries. It had a frosted glass ceiling that was pulling in the last of the afternoon sun and radiating it outward. The place had a lot of food outlets and it didn’t smell so great. I circled around and headed for the departure gates, keen for a look at the tarmac.

  It was almost dusk outside. A Virgin jet stood ready and waiting by a gangway. I stepped up to the window and looked at it closely. The tops of the wings had a slightly brown tinge that, from a distance, looked like dirt or dust. Otherwise it still looked ready to board.

  At gates five and six I found a jet in the process of refuelling, and another that had begun to taxi away for take-off when the pilots and passengers disappeared. Now it hovered nervously, neither part of the city, nor gone from it. Past this, the empty tarmac spread away into the murky daylight.