She knew exactly how she sounded. The anxious mother. The fun-killer.
When she ventured to look at Marcelo, he was nodding at her. ‘You are wise, Pow-la. A good mother.’
He turned to Catie and Lachie. ‘What do you think we should do, if something isn’t working? If you hate my guitar-playing and singing and you say, “Stop, Marcelo! Your voice is hurting our eardrums,” but I don’t stop. What then?’
Catie giggled. ‘Maybe we could try and talk about it?’
‘Good,’ said Marcelo. ‘And I would listen to you carefully, because that is how to solve problems. But what if I didn’t listen, and your mother or your grandfather said, “The Brazilian has to go!” What then?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Then Marcelo would go, right?’
They nodded again.
‘Your mama makes all the decisions.’
The children looked dubious.
‘Well . . .’ Caitlin pushed her hair back over her shoulder.
‘No.’ Marcelo waggled a finger at Caitlin. ‘That is not good.’ He tossed his head and flicked a hand at imaginary tresses. Paula stifled a laugh. ‘We do not question your mother’s judgment. She is the centre of the family.’
If this kind of philosophy was common among the children of Brazil, Paula thought, it might warrant a new entry in her adventure scrapbook.
‘Go on, Mum,’ said Lachie, adding his voice to the lobbying.
Marcelo turned back to her. ‘What do you think, Pow-la?’
‘Alright,’ she said, finally. ‘We can give it a week and see how it goes. We’re leaving Adelaide next Tuesday, though. That mightn’t be soon enough for you, Marcelo.’
Her father and Barry had already created a timetable of fishing trips for the coming week that simply couldn’t be cancelled.
Marcelo shook his head. ‘I am in no hurry, I don’t want to see Australia from a bus. I will stay at the youth hostel and come back next Tuesday.’ He paused. ‘Do you have room for a guitar and a surfboard?’
A cowboy, a musician and a surfer too?
‘The ute’s got roof racks, mate,’ said Sid. ‘You can have ‘em.’
‘And you don’t have to stay in the youth hostel,’ added Barry. ‘You’re welcome to stay here in the spare room, ain’t he, Shirl?’
Shirl smiled indulgently, a grin born of her third shandy.
‘This is too much to ask,’ objected Marcelo, obviously touched by their generosity.
‘My arse it’s too much,’ said Barry, lifting his beer glass again.
‘Well, saúde to that,’ said Paula, waving her champagne flute at Sid, angling for a refill. She’d had three already, but heck, it was Melbourne Cup Day. And they’d just invited a handsome stranger to travel to Darwin with them.
Marcelo flashed her a winning smile. ‘Thank you, Pow-la. You’re the boss, we follow your orders.’
7
‘Told you, mate.’ Doggo looked apologetic, scuffing his work boots on the front doormat. ‘No one’s home, like when I came round Saturday.’
Hamish hauled himself up using the banister, leaning heavily on his good leg, trying not to trip over the walking stick.
Where the hell is my phone? he wondered. Paula had disappeared with it in her handbag after her last visit to the hospital, ten days earlier. Before the operation, before the infection had taken hold.
He needed to call her now.
‘Could be some keys under there.’ Hamish pointed at a potted cactus near the front door.
He closed his eyes, trying to remember Catie’s exact words when she’d visited him with Lachie and Sid the week before. Had it been Tuesday or Wednesday? He couldn’t be sure, he’d been in a postoperative haze. Old Sid had nicked off to the hospital cafeteria as soon as they’d arrived, on the pretext of finding Hamish a newspaper. But Hamish could tell from the set of his face that Sid now knew about Lisel too.
What had Catie said, again?
Mum’s ropeable, we’re going away.
Where to? Hamish had asked idly.
Around the country in the caravan, Catie had said.
That old chestnut, Hamish thought. The fantasy Paula had been trotting out for years, whenever she felt bored or upset. Whenever she wanted to run from her life. Which wasn’t all that bad, as he kept trying to remind her.
Catie had climbed up onto the bed and tucked herself next to Hamish, while Lachie stood shuffling from foot to foot, like he’d rather be somewhere else.
Really, Hamish had replied.
He’d patted Catie’s back, figuring Paula couldn’t possibly be serious. It was the middle of the school term, for starters, and she’d never let the kids take that much time off school. She wouldn’t evict her father from the caravan, either. And he was fairly confident that, despite what had happened with Lisel, Paula would ultimately forgive him. Because he hadn’t actually done the dirty on her; there was a difference between virtual masturbation and real-world adultery. She’d be pissed off, for sure, probably stonewall him for a month, maybe longer. But beyond that, it was all bluster. Paula was so embedded in her domestic routine, there’d be no way she’d set off around Australia by herself. Hamish knew her too well.
So what the hell was going on?
Doggo groped under the cactus pot and found the spare key.
Hamish hobbled to the front door and unlocked it.
The door swung open to unnatural silence.
Doggo tried to take some of Hamish’s weight as he struggled through the doorway. Even so, a sharp pain blasted through Hamish’s knee, making him moan. The splint he was wearing, secured from calf to groin with six velcro straps, was designed to prevent him from bending his knee. But the pain was so acute he felt like lying down right there in the vestibule. Instead, he limped up the hallway, grimacing.
Everything looked exactly as it always did, minus his family.
He headed to the kitchen, the heart of their home, and stared at the bare benches. Everything was in order, as usual; spotlessly clean, free of clutter.
And then he saw the crisp white square, propped up against an empty ceramic vase. His name penned in Paula’s neat cursive writing. Doggo hung back, looking increasingly morose, as Hamish unfolded the note.
Dear Hamish,
I can’t be in the same house as you for a while.
I’m taking the kids on a road trip for the summer.
I thought about leaving them here with you, but I guess it’ll be hard enough recovering from the surgery. We won’t be away longer than three months. I still love you, Hamish. But I’m absolutely furious with you.
You may not understand, but I need some time to think.
Don’t try to contact me. The kids will be in touch and Jamie will pop in too, in case you need anything.
Paula
PS: Your computer is in the bedroom, your phone is in the bathroom.
Hamish crushed the note in his fist. ‘I didn’t think she’d have the balls.’ ‘Maaate.’
Hamish felt a callused hand on his arm.
‘She’ll be back in February.’
‘That’s rough.’
Hamish brushed Doggo’s hand away. He wanted to be alone.
‘I’ll make tracks,’ said Doggo. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, mate. Oh, and here . . .’
Doggo slipped the wristwatch off his left hand. ‘Yours was smashed in the accident. I’ve got another one at home.’
Hamish looked down at the timepiece. Nothing fancy, but exactly what he needed. ‘Thanks, Doggo.’
‘No worries.’
Doggo flicked two thumbs up at Hamish, then disappeared down the hallway.
The front door closed behind him.
Now what the hell do I do?
Hamish took a two-litre carton of long-life milk from the fridge, prising open the lid and guzzling half its contents. He scanned the supplies on the shelves: packaged pasta, soup, risotto, a ready-made pizza, several tubs of yoghurt, a packet of mint slices.
He slammed the fridge door shut. T
he silence in the house was unnerving. Was this what life would feel like without Paula? Without the kids, too?
Closing his eyes, Hamish sucked in the air through flared nostrils. His gut felt queasy, like he was trapped on a tinny in high seas.
He pushed his small brown suitcase on its rollers across the kitchen floor, then tried to lift it into the hall. Even with the walking stick, it was too difficult. So he shunted it instead with his right leg, bit by bit, down the carpeted hallway.
By the time he reached the bedroom, he was sweating. He limped a few paces further before falling sideways onto the bed. When the pain receded, he rolled onto his back and grabbed a pillow to prop under his left knee. As he lifted the pillow, he caught sight of something metallic: the shiny silver lid of his laptop.
At least I can do some work now, he thought.
He wanted to stay across the business at Crossroads, even if Nick-the-Dick was making the decisions for the time being.
He wedged the pillow under his knee and, grunting with exertion, reached for the laptop.
The lid lifted easily in his hand. He turned it over and stared, stupefied, at its underside. The keyboard was completely missing: he was holding half a laptop.
The screen had been severed with a sharp instrument; there were indentations along the attachment points that suggested a hacksaw or metal file.
Hamish sat up, shocked.
Then, warily, he lifted the other pillow.
And there it was: the keyboard, cleaved from its screen like a headless chook.
He held the two halves of his laptop, just junk now. Paula had completely flipped her lid. How would he explain this to Gary? How could he explain it to himself?
Doggo’s wristwatch told him it was only three-forty on a Tuesday afternoon.
Who bloody cares? Hamish needed a drink.
He hauled himself off the bed and staggered down the hallway, dragging his left foot. In the dining room, he opened the drinks cabinet and reached for the whisky bottle, but found nothing in it.
He shook the tequila bottle: empty too. Picking up the limited-edition cognac he reserved for special occasions, Hamish tested its weight in his hands. Then he peered down its neck, just to be sure. His hands moved across the vodka, the sherry, the gin, the brandy. All of them had been drained. Hundreds of dollars, if not thousands, down the gurgler.
Rage surged through his body. He grabbed two bottles and, growling, hurled them against the wall. He stood gazing at the glass strewn across the carpet, his chest heaving. Touching a hand to his jaw, he found blood on his fingers; he’d been nicked by a flying shard.
He limped to the kitchen and paused at the top of the staircase leading down to the laundry. A box of cleanskins, a good South Australian red, was stored in the cupboard downstairs. With a bit of luck, Paula might have forgotten about it. Holding on to the banister, he half lurched, half slid down the stairs. He tripped at the bottom and almost fell, his knee throbbing. But, beneath the laundry tubs, he struck gold: two dozen unopened bottles, still in the box. He could only carry two bottles at a time, and practically had to crawl back up the stairs. By the time he reached the lounge room again, his left leg was leaden.
He fell across Lachie’s purple beanbag, panting.
Pulling himself up onto his elbows, he fumbled around in the pocket of his shorts for the extra-strength paracetamol Jan had given him on discharge. Unscrewing the top of one of the wine bottles, he popped several pills into his mouth and washed them down with a swig of cabernet sauvignon.
Thank God corks weren’t common anymore.
He looked at the drinks cabinet, judging the effort required to haul himself up to fetch a wineglass.
Bugger it, he thought. No one’s looking.
He drank again, direct from the bottle.
The remote was on the top of the television: also too far away.
He lay back across the beanbag, bottle in hand, staring at three framed photos above the mantelpiece. One of them was of Hamish and Paula on their wedding day, laughing together at their reception, Paula’s smile as wide and white as he’d ever seen it. In the second shot, Sid and his wife Jeanette—a posher, broader-hipped version of Paula—stood in front of a Christmas tree with Caitlin and Lachie, back when they still believed in Santa Claus. Finally, there was a snap of Paula nursing baby Caitlin in her bunny rug, her maternal beam glowing through her exhaustion.
The faces of his family blurred before his eyes.
‘I love you,’ he murmured aloud.
They stared back at him as if from another lifetime.
When he woke, he desperately needed a piss.
He heaved himself upright, then felt along the wall for the light switch. Flicking it on, he saw two empty wine bottles and an unholy red stain in the middle of the ivory shagpile.
‘Paula will be pissed,’ he muttered.
But Paula’s not here. Should’ve put a big antimacassar across the lounge-room floor, hon.
He reeled down the hallway to the bathroom, noticing the relaxed feeling in his limbs. While he wasn’t exactly balanced, at least he wasn’t in pain anymore.
The landline began to ring, all the way from the kitchen.
Could be the kids, he thought. But the need to urinate was overwhelming. Ignoring the telephone, Hamish lifted the toilet seat and groaned as he relieved himself. By the time he was done, the phone had stopped ringing.
Leaning forward to flush, he detected a glint of silver in the toilet.
He crouched as low as his knee would allow. Something was definitely in there, but it was difficult to see in the semi-darkness. He lurched towards the door, clicked on the bathroom light, then turned back to inspect the bowl.
His iPhone lay at the bottom, submerged in his own rank piss.
He stared, horrified, remembering Paula’s note.
PS: Your computer is in the bedroom, your phone is in the bathroom.
Who was this banshee, hell-bent on vengeance?
He leaned heavily against the wall, feeling suddenly nauseous.
In hospital, he’d somehow convinced himself that it was all going to be okay, but he’d clearly underestimated how badly he’d hurt Paula. Now the realisation slammed into him: things might not be okay. And he only had himself to blame.
His left leg buckled beneath him and he slumped onto the cold tiles.
The phone began ringing again in the kitchen, but he wasn’t sure he could stand up.
Leaning against the S-bend, Hamish couldn’t hold it back any longer.
The tears just hammered down.
The banging had been going on for hours.
What is this, a building site?
Hamish pulled the pillow over his head, where Paula’s scent still lingered.
‘Hamo?’
A voice he knew, close by.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows and forced his eyes open. The room was visible, so it couldn’t be night-time. But everything was fuzzy and churning, enough to make him puke.
He closed his eyes against the rising nausea.
‘I know you’re in there, Hamo. Open up, mate.’
Doggo’s voice.
Hamish looked around the room. The sound was coming from the direction of the window.
He untangled himself from the doona and lurched out of bed. Then he hobbled over to the window and pulled up the blind.
Doggo’s anxious face was pressed up against the glass.
It took Hamish several seconds to register that this was unusual; the bedroom was on the first floor.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Hamish opened the window and gawked at Doggo, clinging to a garden trellis and straddling a drainpipe.
‘What the fuck am I doing? Rescuing you, ya dumb fuck.’ Doggo sounded genuinely offended. ‘Give me a hand.’
Hamish leaned out and grabbed Doggo under his left shoulder, helping him through the window. Doggo landed on his hands and knees on the carpet.
‘What died in here?’ Doggo asked, st
anding up. ‘What’ve you been doing the last ten days, mate?’
‘Ten days?’
Doggo looked him up and down. ‘Your mobile’s disconnected. You never pick up the landline, you don’t answer the door. There’s a bunch of groceries stacked up on your doorstep with a note from your sister-in-law. You didn’t even surface for Melbourne Cup. Tina thought you’d topped y’self, dead set. Kept tellin’ me to ring the coppers. I kept telling her to settle down. But when it got to ten days, mate, I got antsy too.’
Hamish watched Doggo as he paced around the room, kicking at the items strewn across the floor. Wine bottles, dirty washing, muesli-bar wrappers, and countless silver pill packets.
‘Ten days?’ Hamish repeated. He’d been on a bender for three, max. Doggo walked over and stood in front of him. ‘Mate, you stink like a pig’s arse. You haven’t had a shower, have you?’
Hamish’s last memory of showering was in hospital, being sponge-bathed by the pretty Asian nurse. It could have been erotic if he hadn’t been hurting so badly.
‘What did you have for lunch, mate?’
Hamish scowled. ‘Is this the Spanish Inquisition?’
‘Right, that’s it.’ Doggo looked resolute. ‘You’re coming home with me. Can’t be trusted to look after yourself.’
‘I’m fine, Doggo.’
‘Tina told me not to leave without you.’
They stood there, eyeballing each other.
After a minute, Hamish looked away. He didn’t have the energy to take on Doggo. Or Tina, for that matter, who was like a bitch with a bone at the best of times.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But you’ll have to pack my suitcase, Mum.’
He’d been at Doggo’s for less than a week when he began plotting his escape.
Tina was infinitely hospitable, bustling about in her matronly way; feeding Hamish hearty home cooking, administering his painkillers, even shuttling him to medical appointments. More than three weeks had passed since the bike accident; the swelling had settled down, the pain was more manageable, and the X-ray showed that his knee was healing nicely. The splint had helped his stability and he’d stopped using the walking stick. Good riddance, too: it made him feel like Quasi-fucking-modo.
Wife on the Run Page 14
