‘Arigato, gozaimasu,’ Jamie muttered.
Later, looking back on this night, Jamie would marvel that he’d believed his worst trouble was the car and the ache in his back from pushing it, that never for a moment did his mind turn in alarm to the little velvet bag in his pocket, which felt like it was full of sand.
Chapter 2
Dream Stalking
THE share-house was a big old Queenslander on top of a hill, stubbornly refusing to crumble to the ground despite the neglect of its inhabitants. The paint was chipped, the back steps wobbled dangerously, rats as big as possums inhabited the space between the downstairs ceiling and upstairs floor, and it was possible the landlord had forgotten the place existed, for a property inspection would condemn them all to hang. Jamie’s room, the only downstairs bedroom, was the cleanest outpost of this bachelor’s wilderness, and when he walked in he’d sigh like someone returning to the safety of his own private bomb shelter.
Not in keeping with the bachelor spirit of his roommates, who seemed not to care for such things, Jamie’s bedroom was decorated with one goal in mind: what Svetlana, the Russian girl who served drinks at Wentworths, would think if she walked in on some imagined evening after Jamie had summoned the nerve to ask her out. The plan: the computer was to give him an air of one who moves with the times. The posters of David Bowie and Trent Reznor in fishnets spoke of his open-mindedness. The CD rack loaded with hundreds of discs, the cardboard box packed to the rim with old vinyls, expressed his broad tastes and cultural depth. The pot plants, his oneness with nature. The mountain-bike in the corner, his athletic prowess. The fake Persian rug, man of the world. The fish tank, his capacity for calm reflection, his kindness to animals. The dream-catcher hanging from the ceiling, his spiritual side. The small keyboard, a suggestion of creativity. Each object was like a feather in a peacock’s tail, to woo and bedazzle.
When he returned that night, as with every night, he anxiously examined each part of the display, making sure all was in order, that no roommates or roaming junkies had stolen any key articles. He peered at the keyboard uneasily, wondered whether to put it in a more visible place, and decided for the hundredth time to leave it where it was. He adjusted the rug so it ran parallel to the floorboards, turned a slow circle critically assessing his nest, then sighed, content all was in order.
He kicked off his pants, the velvet bag still in the pocket, and wondered how much he could sell it for, if indeed it was cocaine — there would be no shortage of buyers hanging around the house. For now he left the bag where it was and went upstairs for a shower. The house was a disgrace — the toilet looked like someone had thrown in a grenade and flushed. Someone had devoured twenty dollars worth of Jamie’s groceries since he’d left for work, and not had the grace to throw away the empty wrappers. In the living room, a pale junkie lay comatose on the couch, presumably a friend of one of Jamie’s roommates — probably Marshall. Jamie retreated down the back steps, feeling suddenly depressed. This was not the life American television had prepared him for. There were no romantic comedy weddings, no sorority houses filled with crazy pranks and girls in wet T-shirts. Just bills to be paid and dishes in the sink.
Back in his room, David Bowie gazed down from his poster like an androgynous father figure, bell-bottoms puffing around his ankles. Jamie threw himself onto the bed, set his alarm, then paused; he had to have a look at that velvet bag first, didn’t he? He dug it out of his slacks. It felt a little too heavy for its size. He juggled it between his hands and could hear a very faint noise, like marbles clinking together. He undid the white string and held the bag beneath his lamp. Inside were lots of little beads glinting in the lamplight like powdered glass. He gave the bag a squeeze. Now that it was open the sound was loud, like a small wind chime. He touched the powder tentatively with his finger; it felt soft as ash.
He put the bag on his bedside table, turned off the lamp and lay back. The floorboards above him creaked as someone upstairs made their way to the kitchen to polish off what remained of his groceries. Jamie idly wondered what would happen on the day he snapped for good, and on that not atypical note, he slept.
The dream comes with such clarity that Jamie feels fully awake, still crouched behind the industrial bin in its cloud of stink. It seems to him that pushing his car to the service station was the dream out of which he has just snapped.
A voice is yelling: ‘Where are you, fucker? Goddamn, this dream stalking is a con job. How many bags did that scag charge us for this? DOOPS! Step lively, you shit. We ain’t on safari.’
‘Sorry Gonko, I just, I …’ answers a whiny voice Jamie recognises. The first voice is Gonko’s, the thin clown, and Jamie sees him as he pokes his head over the top of the industrial bin. Gonko prowls around the car park, somehow able to walk with an assassin’s stealth despite his ridiculous large red shoes. His face seems split into vicious creases and hard as stone; it is a face that looks to have been used as sandpaper and soaked in whisky. His eyes disappear into thin slits, gleaming coldly and touching all they fall on like the point of an icy finger.
Behind the bin, Jamie understands Gonko is seeking two things: the little velvet bag of powder, and the person who stole it. And his belly sinks, for the bag is not safe at home, but here in his pocket. He considers tossing it across the car park and running, but one quick glance at Gonko kills that idea. Moving like a brightly dressed scarecrow, the stalking clown seems to say with his stride alone: Oh no. I’ll catch you, feller. Stay hidden. Doctor’s orders. There is no doubt that Gonko will kill him if he finds him.
Crawling on his hands and knees to the other side of the bin, Jamie spots the other two clowns. He knows their names, too. The first, of course, is Goshy, and the one with black bristles for hair is Doopy. Jamie somehow knows the two are brothers. Gonko pauses in his stalking, turns to them and says: ‘Don’t just stand there, you ugly pair of tits. Find him. He’s here.’
His head poking around the side of the bin, Jamie sees Goshy about-face and stare straight at him. The alien eyes lock onto his and the grip of that gaze holds him still. Goshy’s mouth flaps twice without sound. The other clowns are facing away from Goshy at the moment, and it’s a good thing, for Goshy raises a stiff arm and points right at the bin, right at Jamie. Goshy’s mute mouth flaps again and a thrill of terror flashes up Jamie’s spine.
‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ Gonko shouts in a singsong voice. ‘Tag, you’re it. Marco Polo, sweet cheeks. Red rover, I call over …’
In frustration Gonko flays his boot at a parked BMW so hard the panel gives in and the driver side door falls off its hinges with a metal squeal. Goshy is still staring at Jamie, predatory coldness in one eye, bewilderment in the other. There is something obscene in the face’s ability to pair these two attitudes, as though the clown’s mind is shared equally between a moron and a reptile. Goshy takes some stiff-legged steps towards the industrial bin, and Jamie cowers behind it. Right above him Goshy’s eyes light up, his hand stretches into the bin, and Jamie almost screams … But all Goshy does is pull out an empty beer can and peer at it, as though it is a puzzle he means to solve. His mouth flaps again and Doopy looks over. ‘Goshy, put that down. Down, Goshy, it’s not funny!’
Goshy contemplates the can for a moment longer, then drops it to the ground next to Jamie’s foot and wanders back to the other two clowns. But he trips on something and falls hard into the concrete. ‘Goshy!’ Doopy cries, rushing over. Goshy rolls around on the concrete, arms locked stiff at his sides, making that noise like a squealing kettle: ‘Hmmmmm! Hmmmmm!’
And Jamie wakes, just as the kettle in the kitchen above reaches boiling point, its noise piercing the floorboards and finding its way down to him, squealing like a clown.
Jamie had the ominous feeling of being too well rested when he woke. The little alarm clock verified his fears: 3pm. Without sparing a thought for the night’s dream, he sprinted around the room on a mad hunt for work clothes, towels, socks, wallet, all of which h
ad hidden themselves during the night. Up the back steps, through the back door, and of course someone else was already in the shower. He thumped on the door.
‘Fuck off,’ came the barked reply. It sounded like his roommate Steve, grocery thief extraordinaire.
‘C’mon, man, I’m late!’ Jamie yelled, thumping on the door again. Shower still running, it opened, spilling steam out the doorway. A round boyish face appeared, soaking wet and bearing a contemplative expression, one eyebrow raised ponderously. A big wet arm shot out and shoved Jamie hard in the chest, knocking him to the floor, then the door closed gently.
‘That’s assault,’ Jamie said to the ceiling. He got to his feet and stood staring at the door, mouth open, shaking his head. Are you just going to take that? part of him demanded. Stand up for yourself! Jesus, for once in your life, stand up for yourself …
Not today. Instead he went to the kitchen for coffee and a sandwich. He yanked the fridge open and hissed through clenched teeth — his bread was gone, as was most of his milk. ‘God, am I asking for too much in life?’ he whispered. He looked around for food, a vain hope in the cluttered bachelor’s trough of a kitchen; he saw only instant noodle packets spilling their remains over the counter like frozen maggots. ‘Fuck!’ he yelled and kicked the fridge door as a wave of white hot anger rippled through him. He ran back downstairs for his shoes, at a loss for how to evoke some kind, any kind, of respect in his roommates.
His eyes fell on the velvet bag on his bedside table. Hesitating only for a second, he grabbed it, causing it to tinkle like a tiny bell. If it were a drug, perhaps now was the time to find out its effects — better yet, side effects. Back up the steps into the kitchen, where he opened his near-empty bottle of milk and carefully tipped just a pinch of the powder into it, before shaking the bottle and replacing it in the fridge. If Steve was true to form, he’d be high as a kite before long, maybe psychotic by dinner time. Jamie splashed his armpits over the kitchen sink, patted himself dry with a tea towel, dressed, and left for work.
His shift passed without incident. Unbeknown to him, these were the last eight hours of peace he would have for quite some time.
Chapter 3
Awake Stalking
HE sensed something amiss when he stepped out of the cab. It was twenty past midnight. The street was silent and there was no visible evidence to support his feeling, but it was there: Something’s going down here … Something’s wrong.
As he watched, the curtain in Steve’s bedroom shifted slightly as though someone had just withdrawn from the window. The light went out.
At his own bedroom door, Jamie paused for just a moment with his finger on the light switch, listening for he knew not what. Everything suddenly seemed too quiet.
He flicked the switch, then dropped his bag to the ground and made a noise like he was being choked; it looked like a cyclone had been through his room. His television had been smashed, with a fissure in the screen roughly the shape of a boot’s sole. His computer monitor was similarly wounded, and had been toppled to the floor like a severed head. The window was broken, and through the jagged hole he could see pairs of his underwear hanging on the neighbour’s fence. His fish were floating dead, and the letters RIP had been drawn on the tank in crayon, along with a hieroglyph of a penis. His keyboards, $1400 worth, were scattered over the floor in small pieces. On his pillow was what looked to be a giant pile of human shit, curled up like a fat dead snake. His bedside table drawer lay on the floor, its contents spread far and wide. The little velvet bag was nowhere in sight.
But what did it all mean? This had been done by someone. At that dizzy moment it seemed the most absurd thing of all, as though an earthquake were a more rational explanation. Why, for God’s sake? Who would do this?
Backing out of his room, he hoped he could just repeat his entrance, and the whole scene would blink away like a mirage. Shoulders slumped, head shaking, he staggered up the back steps and into the kitchen. He turned on the kettle, then the smell of puke hit him; bright red vomit clogged the sink and was sprayed over the floor. His shoes were in a drying puddle of it. He stared at the puke in a trance until the kettle squealed, waking him with a start.
Goshy. The thought passed across his mind like background noise. He dazedly poured the water into his cup, pulled the milk from the fridge, and noted that someone had put a dead bat on the middle shelf, next to a container of potato salad. Its white fangs were locked in a scowl. Jamie stared at it blankly, sipped his coffee, and let the door swing shut.
Out of the kitchen, into the living room. His eyes roamed across more carnage and settled on the wall, where someone had written the words POLITICAL PIGGIES in chocolate ice cream. The words rang a bell, and after a moment he recalled it was the message written by the Manson family in their victims’ blood after the massacre. Dangling from the ceiling fan was a thin rope tied in a hangman’s noose, from which a small teddy bear hung by the neck. There was a scrap of paper stuffed into a ripped hole in its backside. Jamie took it out and read the block crayon message: GOOB BYE CRULE WORLD. On the floor were pieces of plastic and wire arranged in the shapes of letters, and he recognised the smashed pieces as the remains of the telephone. The letters spelled the words HES NOT HOME. Jamie somewhat abstractly noted that this piece of vandalism took a degree of patience and care, as though intended to contrast with the random violence around it; there was an almost artistic attention paid to each attack.
He sipped his coffee with a slow steady hand. Next to the smashed television a small red object caught his eye. He leaned over to pick it up, thinking at first it was a rubber ball. It was attached to a white plastic band — a fake nose. He dangled it by its string on his forefinger for a moment, then dropped it back onto the rubble.
Around then he became aware of the sound of sobbing from one of the bedrooms. Slowly he walked towards it, the scattered debris in the hallway breaking and crunching under his shoes. Past Marshall’s door, he who befriended junkies. Past Nathaniel’s door, he who embezzled bill money. Silence from both bedrooms — the crying came from Steve’s. The door was open, the light switched off. Jamie stood waiting in the doorway, sipping his coffee. The sobbing stopped. He could hear Steve breathing in huffing gulps, his nose loud and runny. Finally he whispered, ‘Jamie?’
‘Steve,’ Jamie said in a voice from far away, ‘what’s going on? Why is the house … Why is the house fucking ruined, Steve?’
Somewhere outside a police siren wailed then faded into the distance. Jamie could see Steve’s dark silhouette shifting on the bed. ‘I don’t know,’ Steve answered eventually. ‘These guys came around … and I don’t remember exactly … some of it … I did some of it, because if I didn’t …’
Jamie blinked. ‘Some guys came around, huh, Steve? You’re sure, now? Which guys, exactly?’ In the back of Jamie’s mind, he knew — the clown nose had not been a subtle clue. It was almost a deliberate game to clutch at a saner reason: that Steve had done it.
Steve broke down again. Jamie supposed he’d sensed some of the menace rapidly growing in his doorway … Political piggies all fucking right, only it wasn’t meant to be written in ice cream. Jamie took a step into the dark bedroom. Steve writhed around on the mattress, the bed springs creaking. Jamie reached out to turn on the light. ‘No, don’t —’ Steve began.
The room lit up. Steve’s round face was smeared in a greasy rainbow of face paint. Around his lips a huge red smile was plastered on in lipstick. His head and hair were completely coated in oily white. Tears ran through the ghoulish mask, digging rivulets in his cheeks. Around his neck hung a red plastic clown nose, and he wore a shirt with frilly white cuffs and a loud garish flower pattern. The bedroom had copped the treatment along with the rest of the house. Steve’s lava lamp was no more. His stereo was disemboweled. Half the floor had black scorch marks, like scars from a whip.
Jamie dropped his cup. It broke and splashed his shoes with hot coffee. ‘Steve?’ he whispered.
‘Those guys,�
�� Steve said between sobs. ‘They came in and just … held me down here, and put this … stuff on me. I think they must be Marshall’s friends, druggies. Maybe he owes them money or something, and they came here to get even. They were dressed like … clowns.’
Of course they were. Jamie crouched down on his haunches with a sudden headache. ‘How many?’ he said.
‘Three, I think. They started downstairs. I heard all this banging, glass breaking … I thought it was you, so I went down there to tell you to shut up, you know? The skinny one grabbed me, and …’ Steve made a fluttering gesture at his face. ‘There were two others. One of them kept saying, It’s not funny, it’s not funny. The other one just kept making some … some weird noise …’
‘Like a kettle boiling,’ Jamie murmured.
Steve didn’t seem to hear. ‘The skinny one had a knife. He told me if I didn’t help them trash the place, he’d slice me up. So I helped them.’
‘You helped them,’ Jamie echoed.
Steve gave him a look of reproach. ‘What was I meant to do? It was three to one. The guy was gonna cut me, you should’ve seen him. He wanted to do it, he really did. I had to do what they said. They broke the TV …’
‘That writing on the wall, in ice cream. Who did that?’
‘The skinny clown,’ Steve said. ‘I don’t know why. I don’t even know what it means.’
‘And the puke in the kitchen?’
‘Mine,’ Steve whispered, wiping his nose with his sleeve. ‘But that was before they got here. Had a drink, came straight back up. Been happening all day.’
A drink. Jamie’s eyes settled on a cold half-empty cup of coffee on Steve’s bedside table. Then he looked to the broken mug at his feet, where cooling coffee was spreading out over the floor. A nasty memory surfaced: he saw himself tipping a little of that mystery powder into the milk, revenge for Steve being in the shower, revenge for the stolen food. Jamie had just enough time to smile mirthlessly before it hit. Nausea clutched his belly as though he’d been punched. It hit the back of his throat and gushed into his cheeks. He sprinted through the hallway, tripping over smashed bits and pieces, and made it to the kitchen sink with barely a second to spare.
The Pilo Family Circus Page 2
