by Sean Rabin
18.
By his fourth day in Hobart Carl was thinking he might have to resort to Grindr. Wasn’t anyone in this town interested in a little lunchtime action? Back in Jozi the hour between 1pm and 2pm had been so much fun that Carl had almost preferred it to going out at night. Almost. But so far every Hobart cruising spot he had read about online had turned up either nothing, or nothing worth his time. Carl wondered if all the men in Hobart wore fleece, or just the ones who had families to go back to. Curious had never interested him. Carl was more inclined to play that role. Maybe he’d find someone in the Botanical Gardens. With a name like Queen’s Domain it certainly sounded promising.
As he followed the paths to the Japanese Garden, the Epacrid Garden, the Historic Walls and the Fuchsia House, Carl told himself that he had always preferred the old school ways. That unlike finding someone with his phone, cruising involved more risk, more adventure, and satisfaction when something eventuated. But after he had removed his jacket to better show off his arms Carl began to reassess such thinking. He had not expected Hobart to be this cold. Chilly yes, it was autumn after all, but that wind felt like it had ice behind it.
Until a few weeks ago Carl had been unaware that Tasmania even existed. Of course he had seen the small triangular island when he had looked at a map of Australia. But he must have assumed it was part of New Zealand or a Pacific island, because he had never given it a moment’s thought in his plans to make a getaway to Australia. Why would he? His sights were set on Queensland, or maybe Adelaide. Sydney was too obvious. Anyone from Johannesburg looking for their money would almost certainly go to Sydney first. And probably Melbourne next. And Perth already had enough South Africans. The last thing Carl needed was to accidentally run into someone from home. He knew he had to find a place where he could disappear, make a fresh start, even do a little business, and maybe begin a new life for himself while he waited for the old one to blow over. If he was going to avoid being caught Carl knew he had to think beyond the obvious, so when a guy he met in a Sydney bar had told him how the scene in Hobart was small but fun, it sounded like the perfect place. Carl had never heard of Tasmania before, so no one would think to look for him there.
They had found each other in a section of the Botanical Gardens where the trees were so tall and wide and cast such dark shadows that once they left the path no one would have any idea where they were, or what they were doing. Being in the open in the middle of the day was thrilling. It made their skin tight – nipples painfully hard. Not a word had passed between them. Just looks. Embraces. Kisses. Carl felt whiskers rub against his face and inhaled deeply. The other man was younger, fitter, prettier, but Carl knew he was the stronger of the two. He blew inside his fist to warm his fingers before thrusting them down the front of his new friend’s tight fitting jeans. The disappointments of the previous days seemed to heighten his anticipation, because suddenly Carl would no longer be satisfied with anything less than a hot fuck. He perhaps used too much strength as he pushed his companion against the tree, but Carl’s desire was too urgent to care about crybabies. He unbuckled his belt, found the condom in his shirt pocket, but could not get it on. In the few seconds he had exposed himself to the cold wind, he had shrivelled to an embarrassing size. He didn’t know what to do. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. His new friend tried to help but his hands were freezing and only made matters worse. This was a nightmare, he thought. How did anyone in this place ever manage to have sex?
19.
Maureen eased open the kitchen door and hurried into the dark of her backyard with no intention of abiding by the rules of separation laid down by Lucian. She wanted to feel his whiskers against her face, tongue in her mouth.
Maureen tasted anchovies and garlic and guided Lucian’s hand below the small of her back. But when nothing firm appeared at the front of his trousers the pair awkwardly stepped apart.
Sorry.
I told you before, it doesn’t matter. I just like being with you.
I wanted to say thank you for the dinner. He doesn’t make it as well as you do though.
Of course he doesn’t, but the poor kid couldn’t think of anything to cook, and I know it’s one of your favourites.
The conversation suddenly faltered, allowing the nocturnal movements of the mountainside to grow louder.
How is everything? How’s the book coming along?
Lucian shook his head. Don’t ask. What’s been happening around here?
Nothing much. More of the same. What are you reading?
The Good Soldier.
Again?
You know the rules.
Has it been two years already?
Probably not, but I felt the need to go back one final time.
What do you mean by that? Is something the matter? Are you sick? Is that why you’re having trouble…
Everything is fine. It was just an expression. No need to jump to conclusions. I’m probably not thinking or speaking straight. Too much pot after dinner.
Sorry. I didn’t mean to annoy you.
You didn’t. I worry about you too, you know.
Really? Because that makes it even more confusing as to why we’re no longer together.
Lucian pointed to the upstairs window with a light on. You have a husband in there, remember?
It was never enough of a reason before.
I should be getting back.
If there was something wrong you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t try to hide it from me?
Lucian kissed Maureen goodnight and smelled roast chicken and coffee on her skin. Nothing is wrong. And yes, I would hide it from you. I don’t want you to ever think of me as anything other than a healthy, dirty old man with his hand up your skirt. Now please go back inside where it’s warm.
Just over three months had passed since Lucian had ended his affair with Maureen, and as he trudged through the dark scrub that led back to Brenan Street he could not deny a certain thrill at still being able to excite her. He recalled their afternoons together in hotel rooms all over Hobart: his fascination with the wrinkled skin between her breasts; the elegance of her shoulders as she stood in the shower; the way she wore her underpants to bed so he could enjoy taking them off. Maureen was considerate like that. So charming she could diffuse any bad mood Lucian found himself caught up in, and calm enough to lie beside him in bed reading for hours without saying a single word. She was uninhibited, fundamentally sensual, with a face of such atypical beauty that there were moments when it appeared rather plain, even unattractive. Her intellect was steady and pointed, and the times she outwitted him – of which there were many – made Lucian feel unworthy. Maureen was a prize, and always would be. Whereas he was difficult and intense, with a greedy, ungentlemanly imagination. And hardly in his physical prime. Short – five-ten. Hair more grey than black, with a deep line down the centre of his brow. His teeth were okay, and Maureen said he had the hands of a prince, but he smoked too much pot and at times imagined things that weren’t real, leading to jealous outbursts. Even a simple love message, such as the dinner he had eaten that night, could still trigger a sharp pain in his chest. Heart attack, heartache or heartburn, either way it forced Lucian to sit down in the middle of a dark country road and rub his sternum, fretfully awaiting the discomfort to subside.
20.
Only when he was halfway down the Blackmans Bay blowhole did Michael finally concede he was doing something stupid. His intention to recreate an experience from Lucian’s childhood in the hope of better understanding the author and his books was proving much more difficult than anticipated, especially with the unforecast rain making the ten-metre vertical rock face slippery beneath his fingers and shoes. There was no shortage of reliable footholds, and plenty of vines to grab hold of, but Michael lacked the upper-body strength to control his descent, and was burdened with a low-pain threshold that made every graze on his knees and elbows sting to distraction. At the top of the cliff, attached to a fence waist high
and partially collapsing, had been a sign warning of potential danger. And now Michael regretfully realised it applied to adults as well as children.
As his bus passed the Blackmans Bay Primary School Michael had seen the clear cool day begin to disappear behind a sky of grey clouds. The fourteen-kilometre ride from Hobart had taken thirty minutes and ended on a suburban street that despite its two-storey bright veneer, tidy lawns, double garages and tightly closed curtains, still felt like the frontline of the development belt. The beach ten minutes’ walk away boasted sands white enough to rival a tropical island, with seaweed and driftwood strewn along the high-tide mark to confirm inhospitable swimming conditions once the afternoon wind picked up. All the local businesses faced the ocean, and the butcher was only too happy to step out the front door of his shop to give Michael directions to the northern headland with its famous blowhole.
Michael jumped the last few feet of his descent and landed on a beach of dark grey rocks that had been pummelled smooth. Everywhere about him he saw evidence that water frequently covered where he now stood. Technically it was more of a sea arch than blowhole, though Michael doubted the differentiation would matter much if he did not get out of there soon. The tide had changed and the rain heralded the approach of a storm. Unfortunately his body was exhausted. The energy Lucian had possessed as an over-adventurous child was not something Michael could replicate, and his lack of preparation – no food or water – sparked a measure of panic. He checked his mobile phone for reception in case the situation turned desperate, and scolded himself the moment he confirmed there was no signal. The grinding rumble of the stone beach turning under the encroaching waves grew louder, echoing back and forth up the walls of the blowhole. For a moment Michael considered swimming out into the ocean and around the headland back to the beach. But his arms were already aching, and the prospect of icy water, avoiding jagged rocks, fighting the tide and suffering the humiliation of riding the bus home in wet clothes, confirmed he had no other option than to climb up again with the hope his body contained an as yet untapped reserve of strength.
Michael was two metres off the ground when he lost his footing and fell. He landed on his bottom, on rocks, sending a searing pain up his coccyx, followed by a terror that he had broken his back. The chill of seawater filling his shoes confirmed he was not a paraplegic, and the sense that he had narrowly escaped serious injury offered valuable perspective when Michael realised his phone had been crushed in the fall. Now he did not even know what time is was. He wiped rain from his eyes and tried to identify the path that Lucian might have taken while piggybacking Ursula up to safety. When their father learned of how much danger the two children had put themselves in he gave them both the belt. Lucian had mentioned the incident in a letter to a friend about the counter-productive effects of corporal punishment, and as Michael recalled reading the correspondence a scene from Lady Cadaver suddenly appeared in his head – of a brothel madam being brutally flogged by the women working under her protection. Each one of them lining up to thrash the proprietor with the leather straps and buckled belts that had been made available to the clientele. Perhaps Ursula’s influence upon the book was not such a stretch after all? Michael certainly intended to check the novel the moment he returned to his room. If only he could get out of this bloody hole. He looked up for a new course. Safer, with more footholds and vines. It was time to stop being so weak. What would Lucian do in such a situation? The same as he had done with his sister on his back. Climb, damn it. Climb.
21.
The bell above the shop door rang and Maureen coughed across the kitchen table at the front page of The Mercury.
Mmm?
Your turn.
Tim held his gaze to the woman modelling S&M-styled footwear in a feature article about how tall boots were set to be the fashion for the approaching winter. What?
Maureen refused to acknowledge her husband’s feigned obliviousness and returned to the scene in John Williams’ Butcher’s Crossing where a cowboy was being shown the technique for skinning a buffalo. The action was so well drawn that she could almost hear the flesh being torn off the dead animal’s back, and so did not notice Tim sighing, draining his teacup, walking along the hall, past the stairs and into the shop.
The longer she read about eating buffalo over an open fire the stronger Maureen felt dissatisfied with her breakfast of toast and jam. A meal of rare beef now preoccupied her mind, and with it the certainty that a fresh cut from one of Hobart’s butchers would be superior to anything she had stocked in the shop freezer.
That was Paul, said Tim as he returned to the kitchen and lit the gas burner beneath the kettle. Says he’s going to the doctor so he’ll be opening up the pub late today. Reckons his feet are too swollen to stand.
Maureen thought she might look for a new dress at the same time, then swing by Fullers in case any of the books she had ordered had come in.
I told him to put a stool behind the counter months ago, but he seems to think people don’t like to see a bartender sitting down. The kettle spluttered a shrill whistle and Tim realised there was no water in it.
Maureen knew that Fullers would have called if anything had arrived, but the pleasure of wandering around the bookstore was too great to resist. Everyone knew her there. It felt like home.
Oww! Tim dropped the kettle and shook his fingers. He always forgot that the wooden handle grew hot and needed to be gripped with a tea towel.
Maureen rolled her eyes and marked her page with a scrap of paper. I’m going to need the car this morning.
Coward.
Sorry?
Come on, you know what Wobbly Bob and the others are like when their routine is interrupted. They’ll be in here all morning complaining about how the pub was better before Paul took it over.
Nope. Still have no idea what you’re talking about.
Paul’s swollen feet?
He hasn’t put a stool behind the counter?
Tim set about filling the kettle to hide his anger and frustration at Maureen not listening to a word he had said.
Uninterested in playing her husband’s silent game, Maureen walked into the small office below the stairs where the car keys were kept. The room lacked a window, and she could smell the remains of yesterday’s porn date on the tissues in the wastepaper basket. Maureen sprayed air freshener directly on top of them and sat down to check her email. In times past Tim had made an effort to cover his tracks by deleting his search history or using a different browser. But he had either forgotten, grown too lazy or simply stopped caring, because there it was, yesterday’s midday entertainment, XXX blah blah blah. Out of curiosity Maureen opened the page and watched the two naked bodies bump against each other in an unimpressively mechanical fashion. The camera had cut off the man’s head, leaving visible only his gym body – customised with the same tattoos she saw on most young men these days – against the peroxide blonde who was obviously more concerned with preserving her long fingernails through the experience than appreciating its ecstatic eroticism. Her silicon lips and breasts were as convincing as her acting, and Maureen despaired at how sad and moronic it all was. She closed the page and loaded her emails in the hope of flushing the images from her mind.
