by Sean Rabin
About as interesting as it gets on this fucking mountain.
How do you know they’re the right ones?
Don’t they look right to you?
Couldn’t say. Never had them before.
Really? My goodness, well that’s even more of a reason to take them.
So what do we do? Cook them up in a stew or something?
Raw, my boy. Fresh and raw.
Now? Up here? But what if we get lost?
How can you get lost on a mountain? Just walk downhill and you’ll either hit Wood Green or Hobart.
Michael winced.
All right how about this? We take them now and start walking back straight away. That way we’ll almost be home before they kick in.
It was an invitation Michael felt obliged to accept. As he broke through the edge of the forest and saw the faint outline of Lucian’s house he almost wept with thanks. They had been wandering the forest in the dark for what seemed like hours, completely lost, laughing and screaming in equal measure, remembering their predicament then forgetting it again the moment a fresh distraction appeared. The bottle of water had run out hours ago, and the lingering taste of vomit in Michael’s mouth was the first thing he attended to upon re-entering the house. His new boots were caked with mud, and as he carried them to the front door he heard Lucian break open ice trays and rummage the freezer for vodka. Booze was the last thing Michael thought he wanted, though he soon found himself gulping down the spectacularly refreshing drink as both men sat on opposite couches, grinning.
Fucking strong ones, insisted Lucian. Must have come up just today.
Now safely home Michael realised the experience had not been all bad. Once the nausea and stomach cramps had died down a deeper appreciation for the forest and its role in the world had definitely manifested. There were patterns in the trees that he had never noticed before. And he could not deny the emergence of a palpable, textural connection between himself and all living creatures. Michael wanted to write down his revelations, yet strangely lacked the energy to stand up and find a piece of paper. He convinced himself that he would remember everything in the morning. How could anyone forget such revelatory concepts and ideas? Michael then noticed Lucian staring at him with a quizzical expression.
Jesus you’re pulsating at the moment, said the author as he stood up and leaned across the coffee table.
Michael offered a weak smile in reply just as Lucian raised a hand and struck the side of his head with an open palm.
What the hell are you doing? shouted Michael as he fell to one side and watched Lucian prepare for a second attack.
There’s something in your hair. I was trying to kill it for you.
You’re hallucinating, you idiot. There’s nothing in my hair. Go back to your seat. That fucking hurt.
Oh. Did it? Sorry.
Michael’s face was throbbing, and he scowled at Lucian while telling himself that there was nothing in his hair, there was nothing in his hair. But the more he tried to convince himself, the more concrete the idea became. He rushed to the bathroom and spent the next twenty-five minutes checking and rechecking his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. Only the appearance of music could distract him from his panic. On returning to the sunroom he found Lucian lying along a couch, smoking a spliff, and tapping his foot to the kaleidoscopic rhythms of a low-toned organ music that immediately commandeered Michael’s attention. He picked up the record sleeve from the coffee table – Terry Riley’s Persian Surgery Dervishes – and accepted the joint without a second thought as to what had happened. He then noticed that Lucian had changed his shirt to one of the exact same green as his own.
31.
Despite having the internet café to himself, Carl selected the computer in the farthest corner of the room so his screen would be hidden from the street as well as the somnolent attendant who had taken his money. It was obviously a popular position as there were crumbs all over the keyboard, and the desk felt sticky with what Carl hoped was only spilled soft drink. He considered changing to another terminal, but decided not to draw attention to himself. If the attendant thought he was just another office worker enjoying an early lunch of hard-core porn then that was fine by Carl. He wanted to be nondescript. A quick check of the browser’s search history confirmed his suspicions regarding the computer’s usage, and augmented his growing appreciation that just because Hobart was a quiet city did not mean its residents were.
Carl, however, was not interested in exposing himself to the lusts of lonely men…well not the straight ones at least. He instead typed in the URLs for Johannesburg’s major newspapers and began searching for reports about himself or the money he had stolen. When he found no mention of either, he typed in the name of the bank he had worked for, and began a search of regional publications for stories about pending investigations into account irregularities, or customers complaining about missing funds. When he still found no mention of the crime he had committed, Carl wondered if it had even been discovered yet. Had he covered his tracks so effectively that no one had detected the missing money? Carl knew it was too early to make that assumption. It had only been a couple of months since he had flown out of Jozi. Maybe his theft would show up in the September quarterly reports. Or maybe he simply hadn’t stolen enough for them even to notice. Carl prided himself on being too smart to be too greedy. He had seen countless people get caught that way. So when he had finally decided to leave South Africa, he had also resolved that he would take only enough to hide comfortably for a few years, and start up a business of his own later down the track. He knew how to invest. And once everyone had forgotten about him he could probably move somewhere else and build on his capital to make even more money. All the same, Carl could not deny a certain disappointment that his crime had not yet made the news. He knew how clever he had been, and wanted other people to appreciate it as well. Especially his old boss. And those idiots in Human Resources who were always miscalculating the number of holidays he was due. For a moment he considered typing his former name into a search engine, but then told himself not to be foolish. The last thing he wanted to do was lead the police to Tasmania. If anyone did manage to follow the false bank accounts he had set up – and Carl seriously doubted that was possible – then the trail would turn cold in Sydney where he had withdrawn all his cash in large denominations. He knew how easy it was to track people via credit cards and mobile phones. Which was why he had bought a prepay in the airport giftshop. So there could be no way for anyone to ever find him here in Hobart.
Carl leaned back in his chair and pressed both palms to his eyes to soothe the strain of staring at a screen for too long. When the ache subsided he saw there were four other people in the café, and from his position it was obvious what they were all looking at. He felt a sudden need for fresh air, and to wash his hands. Have something to eat, and a glance through the paper. He might go for a walk along the shoreline, see a movie, do some shopping, look for a restaurant, or a club to go dancing. It seemed like a lot for one afternoon, and he knew that to achieve half of it he would have to get moving. He just wanted to have one final check of his hometown news sites to make sure he had not missed anything.
32.
Paul sat begrudgingly on the stool his doctor had recommended he install behind the bar if he did not want his feet and legs to grow any more swollen. It seemed wrong not to stand, like he wasn’t working, though the delight of taking weight off his feet did much to appease his conscience. The locals on the other side of the bar were still not talking to him. Opening the pub late was a crime they judged deserving of at least two weeks’ silent treatment. The fact he had needed to go to the doctor was irrelevant. Their drinking routine was Paul’s responsibility as much as their own, and any interruption would not be forgiven easily. Paul watched Wobbly Bob open his throat like a snake and gulp down the first half of his ninth beer. It was an impressive spectacle that required a lifetime of drinking to perfect, and could not be bettered by any of the other al
coholics perched upon the stools. Paul scanned the scene. Was it any wonder his efforts to turn his business into an out-of-the-way destination had failed. He could paint the walls, update the jukebox, hang framed movie posters and stock all manner of exotic liquors behind the bar…nothing was going to displace those fourteen old timers who drank here every day. Visitors might see the new furniture, smell the delicious lunches that Penny cooked, even stay for a drink or two, but all they would ever take away would be the memory of stained tracksuit pants stretched over beer bellies, and unbridled farting.
Paul wondered how he could have been naïve enough to expect anything different. Did Tim and Maureen see it as well? The uselessness of his situation? Were they laughing behind his back? No, they understood that change was good for Wood Green. Hadn’t they managed to transform their own business into something new and successful? Before they bought the general store it had been a dump that everyone in the community complained about. Now it was the heart of Wood Green where people lingered and gossiped and…did not throw up in the toilets. Sure their marriage was a little rocky, but it never got in the way of them making good commercial decisions. Tim and Maureen were smart. Both had told him more than a year ago to put a stool behind the bar, and as usual they had been right. It probably came from being a couple. Having a partner to bounce ideas off. Somebody whose opinion you could trust. Paul doubted he would ever find someone to spend the rest of his life with if all he had to offer was a dud pub and a bad case of water retention. Sure there were lots of men who visited Hobart for the weekend. But none of them wanted to stay. It was too slow and cold, and who wanted to live on the side of Mount Wellington? Paul did, that’s who. He loved Wood Green with its cool climate and quiet nights. Buying the pub had been the best mistake he had ever made. But if it did not start to earn more he would have to consider putting it on the market and writing off the past ten years of his life. Wobbly Bob and his crew drank a lot, but not enough to keep open a whole pub. And they would start to die off soon enough. Alcohol consumption at those levels could not be maintained without consequences.
As if on cue, Wobbly Bob slid slowly from his seat, pulling the remainder of his beer with him. Though plenty of heads turned at the sound of the dead weight hitting the floor, followed by the shatter of glass, not a single person moved to help. Paul sighed at the limits of Australian mateship, then gingerly lowered himself from his stool to fetch the mop and raise the old man back to his feet.
33.
Dear Ms Atler
Thank you for your email regarding the whereabouts of Michael Pollard. Although we do have a contact telephone number and postal address for Mr Pollard, it is the policy of this publishing firm not to give out the personal details of its authors. However, if you wish to write a letter to Mr Pollard care of Handel Books we would be happy to forward it to him. I can say that the details we have for Mr Pollard remain unchanged from when we published his book more than four years ago, and were still effective when we last contacted him six months ago in relation to an inquiry similar to your own. As you are an old friend of his, perhaps this will help.
Kind regards
Frank Prescott
Publicist
Dear Mr Prescott
Thank you so much for you prompt reply, and I completely understand your position regarding the privacy of your authors. If, however, it does not contravene the policies of Handel Publishing, would it be possible for you to share the name of the person who sought to make contact with Michael six months ago?
Many thanks
Rachel Atler
Dear Ms Atler
After consulting with the publisher, I can tell you that six months ago we received a letter from the novelist Lucian Clarke, requesting Mr Pollard’s details. As we have received no further communication from either man, our assumption is that they have begun corresponding directly with one another.
Regards
Frank
Dear Frank
Thank you so much for your help. Any leads are greatly appreciated. Could I possibly impose upon your kindness for just one more thing? Would it at all be possible for you to forward a letter from me to Mr Clarke? Of course I could contact his publisher or agent, but I fear how long this process might take. I hope you can help.
Many thanks
Rachel
Dear Rachel
Yes, we have a postal address for Mr Clarke. If you would care to send him a letter via this office, I will ensure it is forwarded to him.
Regards
Frank
34.
As Michael admired the fourteen sheets of paper covered with his handwriting, he shook his head in disbelief at how just hours ago they had been completely blank. No characters, setting, dialogue or narrative had existed, and yet now, miraculously, out of nothing, something had been created. Michael had not expected such a bounty as he put aside his laptop in frustration and picked up a pen. It was more a final resort in his effort to cure a persistent and frightening lack of production. But something about removing the barrier between himself and the page had enabled his ideas to flow more freely, and now he felt an irrefutable sense that a novel was finally underway.
Michael’s only regret was that the story concerned a writer. He had read enough debut fiction to appreciate how typical the subject was for a first time novelist. And had he been given the choice he would never have embarked upon such a topic. But free will, it seemed, played no part in the process. The story had appeared fully formed in Michael’s imagination, and now demanded that the shabby ideas he had been trying to bring to life for the past four years be put to one side.
To a point he knew it was wishful thinking – the idea of an established writer assisting an aspiring one. But that was where the similarities with his trip to Hobart ended. The story he had started to write would be more subtle than his own relationship with Lucian, and he intended on having a woman at the centre of the narrative. Michael wanted to undermine the cliché of an older writer taking advantage of an aspiring one. It had been written too many times, and few had improved upon The Lesson of the Master by Henry James. Although he would allow his readers to believe something sinister existed behind the established author’s encouragement towards marriage and children, Michael’s objective was for the aspiring writer to achieve all his ambitions. Maybe he was missing Rachel more than he realised, but Michael was sick of the idea that closing a heart to life, be it love or the responsibility of children, was conducive to being an artist. It was nothing more than a Hollywood cliché. Most of the authors he admired had either large families or long-term partners, and he wanted to demonstrate that if art was legitimately present it could emerge in a domestic setting as effectively as it could in a cold-water garret.
Michael understood that the writing process would be neither quick nor easy, but also knew the work he had travelled to Hobart for was far from complete. The quantity of papers Lucian had accumulated over his lifetime was daunting, and Michael envisioned at least four or five more months of sorting, filing and making notes. Enough time, hopefully, to have a first draft ready to take back to Sydney. The idea of writing a biography about Lucian now seemed a dreary and obvious pursuit when compared with working on his book. He could not understand why the famous author was bothering to do it. Unless of course his ideas had dried up. Was that even possible with a mind like Lucian Clarke’s? Michael doubted it. The day’s productivity had given him a rush of self-confidence, and with it a belief that he now had a better understanding of his employer and his work. An insight deeper than anything he had gained from writing a PhD or climbing down the blowhole at Blackmans Bay. Michael checked his watch and saw he had less than an hour before he was due back at Wood Green. Continuing his work would have been his preference, however Lucian had asked him to pick up a special type of sausage for their dinner. As Michael descended the stairs of the B&B he met Andrew walking up.
I was just coming to see you.
Sorry, I can’t stop, I’m running
late for work.
Yes, yes, of course. What time do you think you’ll be back? Perhaps we could have a chat later tonight?
I don’t usually get in until after midnight. Why don’t we have breakfast together instead?
The idea instantly appealed to Andrew. All right. That sounds lovely. I’ll see you at eight, shall I?
Michael hurried outside as Andrew continued up the stairs. There was now no reason for him to keep climbing, but the idea of a breakfast date made Andrew feel light on his feet. And more than a little pleased with himself. It was so nice to have friends to stay rather than just guests, he thought. Friends made the place feel less like a business and more like a home. Of course there were still bills to pay. Everyone has to eat. But there was no need to be always so concerned with counting pennies. Andrew suddenly realised that he did not care whether Michael smoked in his room or left a window open so rain wet the carpet. What was a little water damage amongst friends? And really, if Michael had not been renting the room it would have stood empty. At this time of year Andrew usually closed up half the house until spring arrived. So what did it matter if he was giving Michael a discount rate? A little money was better than none, and after all, he was a friend, not just a customer. The prospect of a long chat over breakfast thrilled him. Maybe he would cook something special for the occasion. No, better not. There were still other guests in the house and the last thing he needed were jealous complaints about favouritism. Andrew reached the top of the stairs and stood at a hallway window watching waves being blown across the Derwent River. It was such a pleasure to have a permanent guest at the B&B. It almost felt like family. Just without the noise and mess. Andrew wiped a layer of dust from the windowsill. Well, without the noise at least.
35.
Lucian opened the front door but did not step onto the verandah. He had onions, celery and garlic sweating in a pot on the stove and was unwilling to leave them unattended.
