"Done what?" I said. I leaned over and kissed him. "That?" and I bit him on the palm. "Or this?" I said. He closed his eyes; his conscience needed to be seduced.
He shivered as I played him, shivered, his eyes shut like he was dreaming. When I stopped he squinted at me. I leant and breathed in his ear, "Come on, Adrian," and he growled, he kissed me, the back of my throat, and now I meant it, I shuffled my jeans off and he touched me, his hands gentle, his body shaking with the effort, and I rolled his jeans down for him. I pushed him back into his place and a knee on either side of his thighs.
"You're gorgeous, Stevie," he said. "Gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous." He said it faster and faster. I didn't want to escape; I wanted him as my own.
He winked at me afterwards, casually, thinking it had meant the same to us. I wondered how he would clean up but I didn't care; I shoved him out at the end of the street, and sung ad lib to Ode to Joy all the way home.
I'd had a shower, I was in my pyjamas, and Peter called.
"I fucking hate you sometimes. Where did you go? And what happened to Adrian?" he said.
"What do you mean? What's wrong with him?"
He whispered, "He's pissed off. Someone asked him if he wanted some cheese and biscuits and he just started shouting."
"Don't tell me you're still there. I thought you would have left hours ago."
"Kidding. The girls are acting up and Maria's in her element, 'But what is it, Adrian? Please, darling, what is it?' Like he's going to tell her."
"Maybe he just doesn't like cheese and he can't hide it any more."
"Ha ha. What did you do to him, Steve? I've never seen anything like it."
"I know you think it's funny. Don't try to pretend you're shocked."
He laughed. "You're terrible, Steve. Tell me what you said to him. In case I can use it myself."
"Think of your own mean things to say," I said.
Actually I didn't want to confess just how awful I had been. When I pushed Adrian out of the car I'd said, "By the way, I bet your daughter an ice cream I could suck your cock before I went home. She said, no way, he only likes kids my age."
I could hear shouting.
"Oh, fuck," Peter said. I could tell he was smiling. I hoped he wasn't hysterical; the girls needed one sane parent to keep them steady. "The mother's into it now. I can't quite see, but I think she just chucked a bowl of jelly at the father."
"Where are you?" I said.
"I've got the phone in the hall cupboard. It's too bloody dangerous out there. There's punching in the backyard and the women keep accidentally scratching each other with their nails."
"And Adrian won't stop shouting."
"Waah! Waah! Gotta go," and he hung up.
Peter told me later that Maria was silent all the way back, and went to bed wordlessly. Kelly went out without asking and Maria left it up to Peter to deal with.
"What, it's your fault, is it?" I said when he described the scene to me.
"I'm responsible for you. People blame me for you."
"People? What people?"
And he was fucking silent.
"What people are you talking about?"
"Maria. Just Maria."
I wanted to believe that was true.
at thirty-three
Dougie Page said, "Stevie, you need to move away from your house. It's a bad influence on you." I let him take me out for dinner, but I wouldn't spend a night away. What would happen to the place if I wasn't there? Anybody could come in. Anybody could dig, if I wasn't there to stop them.
He told me terrible things, whispered them to me, showed me proof.
He took me home and showed me this wall, that picture, that crack, all of it meaning things about my family I didn't want to know. He said, "You need to get away, Stevie. Don't you know anywhere you could go? Somewhere to make you feel better?"
My old neighbour Melissa had a boyfriend with a place in the country. She'd told me about it often enough, to make me jealous or something, I don't know. The walls were different to me now, the smell of my home, all the memories I thought were happy now sickened me. It was all wrong. Dad's chair, Mum's stove, Peter's bed, all of it different and with a whole new story.
I don't often drive in the country. I like to get somewhere, find things on my journey, not just seeing the lovelies of nature. Melissa's boyfriend's place sounded good, though; secluded, atop a rise so I could stare out over a kingdom I could claim. My car rattled and farted. It was used to smooth, tax-payer roads and I was asking too much of it. I arrived in the early afternoon and found a large tin shed. It had windows, and the windows had curtains, it had a door. This was it. I carried my food, books, magazines in. The place was warm but dark; someone had built it so the sun didn't come in but that tin heated up. Useless design. It made me sleepy; I sat on the couch, ate a bag of chips and woke freezing. Really freezing, and it was dark, and all I missed was the smell of shit, because I could smell mothballs, all right, fucking mothballs. I had not even noticed where the light switch was. I was too scared to move around in the dark, touch walls, anything sensible like that, in case I touched a face, pointed teeth. So I lay on the couch all night and when I slept I dreamt of snow and snowing and very very cold.
Ho, ho, and in the morning everything was lovely. I found all the light switches and the heater, I closed all the curtains and created an artificial world. I found the mothballs; old coats in a cupboard, each pocket holding two of the koolmint stinkers. I threw the coats onto the back porch. The smell of them upset me.
It was all right, in that place. I made it warm and light and I didn't go outside until it was time to leave.
I hate staying in strange places.
When I handed the keys back to Melissa, she said, "Thanks for that," and asked me for the rent. I couldn't believe it. I was only a business thing to her. She was no friend at all. I could imagine how many people she had slighted.
I told her she had to come to my place to collect it. She had plenty of people waiting in her dark room. I wanted to see some of them.
This was enjoyable. So many years I waited to hurt that girl. This was the first time I enjoyed the journey, the pain she felt. Why did she stay loyal to me? That deserved punishment in herself.
It took her a while to realise what I was doing. I stalked her around the house, a knife behind my back, and she laughed at first, thinking we were playing a game. She never was my speed. Then I backed her into the bathroom, and she began to feel nervous.
"I don't need to go, Steve," she said.
"Why did you charge me to stay at that place?"
"Because it's a place you pay for! Everyone pays! It's no big deal. If you can't afford it, owe me the money. I don't care."
"I care. You're supposed to be a friend, but you treat me like a business associate."
She looked confused. God, she was annoying. I pulled the knife from behind my back.
"Steve?" she said.
"Have you never had any hint about what I am?" I said. "Never, in all our dealings, have you had the sense to be frightened of me."
I jumped forward at her and she screamed, fell backwards into the bath. So helpful. I bent down and slit her throat before she could even blink. That's how fast I was. The blood came thick and fast. I held her head to keep her still in the bath, and I watched her eyes as they flickered. She gurgled at me, and I realised I'd made a terrible mistake. I'd cut her throat so she couldn't talk. How could she tell me what she saw?
In fury, I slapped her. "Useless to the last," I said to her.
As soon as it was over, I realised what I'd done. I was slighted by her, and now she was dead. I would be in her dark room. I shivered. They call for me. They are terrified at the prospect of dying without a priest there to wave an arm, toss some magic dust, save the soul. There is no time for that. Or for confessions, explanations, last words. I'm not interested in their needs; I have my own to look after.
I think my actions are beyond my control. It is habit. My father had it too and pe
rhaps his father. So what can I do? It's my birthright.
My Granny card said:
"Here's a card
For a birthday girl
One who doesn't
Mind a burl"
There was a poor cartoon of someone gambling. Most unlikely.
Dougie Page wouldn't leave me alone. "Be careful, Steve," he said, like he knew. Be careful of who you talk to. He said he understood my Dad, he said, "It's the ones who are guilty, but who figure they did it for a reason. That it was justified – they only killed those who deserved it, wife-killers, baby-killers. Those who would have escaped justice otherwise."
Anyone who thinks they can justify murder is dishonest. It's a self-serving thing; you do it for yourself. Anything else is a lie.
"You should go away, Steve," he said.
"I did. It didn't work out."
"Try again. Find a lover. Go with someone who loves you," he said, as if that was an easy thing to find.
Adrian acted like a man having an affair, and organised a weekend away for us in the mountains. I pretended we were married; he liked the idea we weren't.
We lay in bed with candles burning and he told me how wonderful I was.
"Do you take after your father or your mother?" he said.
"My father," I said. It was true. A moment of realisation and acceptance that I was my father's daughter.
"I wish I'd known him," Adrian said.
"So do I. So do I," I said.
At dinner all he could talk about was his wife. I drank a lot so I couldn't hear him. I fell asleep in a chair in our room. I woke up to find him watching me.
"This isn't going to work, is it, Steve?"
I looked hard at him for a sign of regret. None.
A journalist came sniffing around, looking for Peter's back story. They like him. They're all looking for his story. I told him about my job, and how I dealt with the patients, and that got me the sack, didn't it. Bastard printed it, and everybody saw it, and they sacked me.
Fuckem.
at thirty-four
When Samantha, my high-school friend, arrived at my doorstep, I wasn't happy to see her.
"I've been thinking about how much fun we had when I lived here," she said. I could see her knapsack around the corner. "Thought I'd drop in, say hello."
"I've just had the place fumigated. Won't be able to go in for another week. I was going to stay at the Hyatt, but maybe I could crash at your place instead," I said.
She had no idea what she'd done wrong, why I wasn't all over her. I knew how little she thought of me.
"Well, actually, I've left Murray again."
"For good this time," I said, in her voice.
"Well, I think so."
"So, coming to the Hyatt then?"
"Oh, it's not the money or anything, but I might drop in and see Peter. It's been ages."
"Good idea," I said. Peter and Samantha flirted an awful lot for friends; Maria would hate it. Then I relented. "Actually, it should be okay, if we leave the windows open." And so I had a housemate again. I felt differently about her this time. Hers hadn't been the face near mine, either in the room or when they saved me again.
"God, it's dark in here," she said, throwing open the curtains in the lounge room. "I didn't want to go home to Mum, she's all weepy still about bloody Perry."
Samantha's brother was dead after lying on his bed getting fat for fifteen years, then he drank a bottle of scotch and killed himself. It was totally hushed up. Their mum put it about his heart had always been weak, and that he had lasted as long as he did through pure bravery.
Then one night, after she'd been with me for three weeks, I was all set to watch TV, eat a hamburger, but she came home with a bottle of vodka. She wasn't paying any rent, because I couldn't ask my oldest friend to pay. She brought home booze, shit to eat, to make up for it.
"What are we celebrating?" I said.
"Just being friends, I suppose. Sticking together. Old piss-heads sticking together."
The smell of vodka was like a fist to my stomach.
"Come on, girl, let's get pissed," she said.
I had been drinking too much lately. The smell of any booze frightened me; the fist was a reminder. Don't talk, don't say it all. I said it all to my friend, Bess, old pink tracksuit, and I scared her off. She was a good friend even though she was old. I could remember that night very clearly, although it was out of my control. Like those first moments, when I'm leaving my body, it's all so clear but I can do nothing.
I'm not in control.
"Let's go out," Samantha said. "Come on. We'll have fun, like last time."
Last time we went out, this guy comes up and says, "What're you girls drinking?" and I made a joke no one got. Samantha ended up going home and fucking the guy and I was left to get a taxi on my own. They always know, too, if you've been dumped.
She didn't meet anyone this time.
She hitched her tight black dress up around her thighs to piss on the front lawn when we got home, too needy to wait until I regained my night vision and opened the door, and she did not tug it back down again.
We drank Dad's whisky and the vodka and she says, "So are you going to tell me?"
"What?"
"You never told me. You can tell me. What happened with your Mum. What happened with the accident?'
She looked at me like a lady. She was a friend of mine, o'mine, she took me out to celebrate and no one else. Now she stared down at me, she wanted to know.
I lay, my shoulders propped against the couch. I had borrowed clothes of Samantha's to wear out, so there was a stranger's body attached to my head. Yellow sandals, with heels, torn brown pantyhose. My legs stretched out before me.
Samantha stood over me. Her hands were on her hips. Her hair fell forward.
I could see the crotch of her black pantyhose, and she had folds around her ankles. Her eye-liner was in drips down her cheeks.
"Tell me. Tell me what happened." I don't know where her need came from Whether she needed to be better than me, after all these years. Or if she was looking for a reason to hate me.
I told her anyway. Blah blah blah, out it came.
I didn't cry, though. I never cry.
"I wasn't drunk. But she was shitting me, really shitting me, and I couldn't bear to look at her. She was a pain in the arse. I was driving, fantasising I was thirty-five and Mum was dead, only just. Peter shared the house. People kept thinking we were married and we laughed at them. Mum gasped. Opened my eyes. Kid on road. Not a kid; coloured box off a truck. Swerve. Wall. Not my fault. What if it had been a kid? Mum would rather die than let a kid die. Mum screamed, screamed, going somewhere she didn't want to go. Going away. Take it back, I thought. I still had the smile on my face from pretending to laugh. Take me instead, I said. But all I got was a scar. Oh, God. Did Mum go to a dark room? Is that why she was screaming? Has she been there ever since? Please let her be safe. She must have known what was going to happen. It must be what she wanted."
We drank vodka. More vodka. I can't remember how much.
Now I'm writing I'm finished writing the vodka fuckin Samantha on vodka mad she kills me I should kill her she said what she said fuckin cunt she's a fucken cunt.
In the morning, my head was full of pin balls which rolled and crashed each time I moved.
Samantha was in the shower. I stood at the door and said, "I thought vodka didn't give you a headache." No response. I opened the door enough to put my lips through, said it again.
Samantha appeared, towel wrapped loosely, wet, shower still on behind her. "You want the shower? It's yours." She walked, wet feet slapping like a seal's, to her room.
"No, I don't. I just wanted to say about MY HANGOVER." I shouted the last words because she slammed the door in my face. Peter loved doing that, too, when he lived here. I can trace cracks across the door with my finger.
The shout hurt my throat.
"Did we sing last night? My throat is killing me."
&nb
sp; "You were talking in your sleep," she said through the door.
"Did I say anything interesting?"
She didn't answer. She was putting things together smash crash. A wash of cold came over me.
"What're you doing?"
"Nothing. Go put the kettle on."
"Are you cleaning up?"
"Make some coffee, Stevie."
Slights Page 30
