Necessary Secrets

by Greg McGee

  The first couple of times, he’d asked her if she wanted to use the shower, but she said no. A few times, she’d not wiped and run. A few times she’d wanted to stay a while, chilled with a trammie, and told him stories. One was about some kind of torture chamber in the CBD in a cellar under one of the towers, where girls were manacled and chained, beaten and force-fed drugs and cock. The way she told the story he never doubted it was true. He wanted to ask her how she knew, but he feared the answer. How could she know in such detail if she hadn’t been there? And why else would she have been there, except as a victim? Once she’d told a story about her and that little shit of a brother, Jackson, being sent out of town to their mother’s mother up north, how she hated the green and the wet. He’d tried to be casual when he asked her where the fuck her brother had disappeared to. She’d said she had no idea, that she hadn’t seen him. He didn’t believe that for a second, he was sure she was lying, but he didn’t want to raise her suspicions – he had to keep her close. What Lila knew, her brother would know, sooner or later, if he didn’t already. The boy was the menace.

  She’d never asked about him in return. Maybe she’d picked up a few things at Den’s seventieth though, because once he’d been complaining about something, and she’d said, ‘Wife, two kids, nice home, new car – you’re right, sounds like shit.’ So he didn’t go there again. She didn’t want to share stories tonight. He pretended nothing had changed, but tried to change it anyway. ‘I was thinking maybe we could go out?’

  ‘Go out?’ She looked gob-smacked. ‘Like, out? Where?’

  ‘Dunno. Tapas. Wine bar.’

  She almost spat her disgust. ‘Tapas?’

  ‘Whatever. A club, if you like.’

  ‘No club I go to would let us in if I turned up with you.’

  ‘Jesus. Somewhere else then.’

  ‘Where else?’

  He was a bit slow, the trammies, but he got there in the end. ‘You don’t want to be seen in public with me.’

  ‘You know what you call this?’ At least she tried to smile to soften it. ‘It is what it is, and that’s all it is.’

  He might wish she wasn’t so hard-arse but that was part of the attraction. She grabbed her bag and made for the door. ‘Text me whenever,’ she said, slammed the door behind her and clomped back down the stairs.

  He’d always thought he knew what the transaction was between them, that it might be morally bankrupt but it was honest: the P, the money, her taste of the product, the first rush, the mutual sexual relief, that’s how it went. And that maybe there were dynamics that went beyond the money: maybe having her own customer kept her father, literally, off her back. But after the ‘Kill me’ last time, he thought there might be another, more unsettling, element connecting them: self-hatred.

  He took the ice out of the ziplock – what a dead fucking give-away those little bags were – and left the pills loose in his trouser pocket. He’d need them tomorrow. He finished his glass of red, poured another one, and used it to wash down another trammy. They were doing their stuff, those little bastards, mellowing him out. Even easier to get than meth, and cheaper, courtesy of ACC. Without an MRI, who knew whether a disc was herniated or not, whether the sciatic pain was real? They would do anything to avoid operating on the spine, it seemed. The tramadol left him floating above his own life, looking down on it like it was something far away and of not much moment. The contours of his anxieties, the crags that threatened to tear his wings, the deep valleys he might crash and drown in, were barely visible. It wasn’t the complete unconsciousness of deep sleep, more a waking peace that gave him a break between rounds. He lay on the sofa, pushed up the sash window at the back, watched the sun go down over the purple Waitākeres and imagined he was someone else somewhere else.

  ***

  MONDAY. The beginning of a week full of possibility. Possibly. He’d stitch up this director he was about to meet, possibly. On the back of that he’d get the electric vehicle TVC for Flame, possibly. On the back of that, he could possibly talk the bank into extending the OD to cash-flow them for another month until the production money for the EV gig began coming in. Or persuade newly lawyered-up Claudia that it was in her interest to put the house on the market . . . Was any of that really within the realms of possibility? A much stronger possibility before the week was out was the IRD slapping Flame with a section 271 for unpaid GST and terminal and the whole shebang turning to shit. Within six weeks Flame would be insolvent, he’d be bankrupt, with the public naming and shaming close behind. Possibly. Maybe it was the dregs of the trammies he’d taken last night, maybe it was the first spark from the 50 mil of crank he’d swallowed with his coffee before hopping in the car this morning, but the bankruptcy option no longer seemed as horrifying. The closer he got to putting his head in that noose, the more of a release it seemed to be. Swinging free. Finished, yes, but free. Off the wheel. Forty-something and fucked. That was still young, he could be anything, it wasn’t too late. Possibly.

  Will had woken to the mobile’s insistent bleeps, still on the sofa where he’d drifted off on tramadol’s soft shoulder. The morning sun was hitting the flanks of the Waitākeres, green and seductive, a beckoning quality to it. He’d pulled off yesterday’s clothes, showered and found that he had no suit pants or shirts in the wardrobe. The suit pants didn’t matter – you wouldn’t turn up to a meeting with Anton in a suit if you wanted any shred of his bullshit cred. The clean shirt was a problem. He pulled on boots, dress jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed his computer bag and drove straight to the dry cleaner. Didn’t have his ticket, but the young guy wanted the money and handed over the three white shirts Will rotated. He paid with the last of his cash, then stood in front of the ATM trying to calculate which card might still have some life in it. He’d need cash to pay for whatever the hell Anton wanted at this breakfast meet – probably fucking bircher and yoghurt, the fastidious fucker – because he couldn’t risk pulling out the wrong card and having it die right there.

  On the way back to Ponsonby he stopped by the park and tried to get his T-shirt off in the front seat of the car, then thought, Fuck it, fuck the leering fucking dog walkers. He got out, stripped the T off and buttoned himself into the newly minted white shirt, then climbed back into the car, checked himself in the mirror – thank God stubble was fashionable. He looked okay. You wouldn’t know just from looking at him how comprehensively fucked he was. That was the key: don’t let Anton smell the fear. He had to look like he was winning, not somersaulting into a high-speed train wreck.

  Anton had refused to come to the Flame office for the meeting. That was a sign, that was a power dynamic right there: I’m not coming to you, you come to me. And Will couldn’t begrudge Anton his moment. He’d paid his dues in the business, had been around long enough for his stocks to have risen and fallen like everyone else’s. He’d begun in TV commercials as a cameraman, and still had a tendency when he was talking to make little box lens with his fingers in front of his eyes when he was describing scenes. He made the jump to director, made a name for being able to create and sustain atmospheric visual realities for one minute, which was all a TVC needed. But of course his deeper ambition was to make movies, and he took the traditional road to his first feature, making an interesting, witty, short film on the back of freebies from his mates in the industry, before, in Will’s opinion, utterly losing his nerve in a dark little arthouse feature with no narrative spine that did no business, but had enough cinematic allusions and obfuscation to interest the critics. Will thought the feature had inadvertently done Anton a huge favour: shown him where his true talents lay. In any event, he never made another feature, and returned to TVCs and a lucrative career filming visual constructs that only had to convince and engage for less than a minute. In his text reply to Will, he had named some new place on the strip, which turned out to be a weird Scandi blond-wood combination of cafe, barber and clothes.

  Predictably, when Will
got there on time, Anton hadn’t shown yet, so he grabbed a seat isolated enough to discourage any rubber-necking ear flappers. There were a few scattered patrons, all men, every last one of them staring into his MacBook, pretending to have pressing business. Will ordered a double-shot short black, pulled out his MacBook Air and joined the club. He had time to swallow the espresso before Anton showed, time also to appreciate how the space might work, how the relaxed cafe atmos might make waiting for the barber a good idea, and how that might engender a browse among the men’s clothes. Diversification. People kept talking about it, but he’d never understood how it might work in his context. He’d done this schtick since he left school, he knew nothing else. Must be something else he could do. It might be worth a thought, he thought, once he’d dealt with this prick, now standing right in front of him, not a hair on his head, squinting at him through designer glasses, the rest of him neat as a pin in black jeans, black linen shirt, black boots. It was always winter in Anton’s wardrobe. ‘Anton!’

  Anton didn’t like Will’s choice of table, offering the excuse that he needed to sit at an angle where his eye-line wasn’t assaulted by the glare of the sun off the white chairs in the courtyard at the back. Delicate eyes, artistic. Whatever, thought Will, you’re holding all the cards, and you know it. Want me to hang upside down from the rafters and fart a sonata? I’ll do it, just sign up, cunt, sign on the dotted line.

  That’s not how it went, of course. There was no dotted line, never much certainty in the game Will played with Anton. Tap-dance, he urged himself, like no one knows you’re a cripple. Anton made it clear he didn’t do small talk, no use asking after the wife and kids. Will had no idea what Anton’s domestic arrangements or proclivities were and that was fine. He didn’t want any examination of his own situation and, besides, Anton could fuck goats for all he cared – he’d be more worried about the goats. So when Anton asked after ‘old Den’, he took Will by surprise. ‘Great,’ he lied. ‘Loving retirement.’

  ‘He gave me my first gig,’ said Anton.

  ‘The thing about Den was,’ said Will, seeing an opportunity to turn it into a gratuitous compliment, ‘he could always spot talent.’ Anton grimaced and for a moment Will thought his ingratiating flattery had been seen for exactly that, before he realised that the grimace was a smile. He remembered Den telling him that sentiment was okay in a script if it was earned, but with actors and directors it could be dispensed like confetti. This was a better than expected beginning. So, down to business. He had to be careful how much he told Anton about the brief: enough to entice him, but not so much that Anton could take what he knew and shop himself somewhere else. ‘The TVC is for an electric car,’ he told Anton. ‘Script already written, obviously.’

  ‘Who by?’ asked Anton.

  ‘We’ll get to that,’ Will assured him, thinking, none of your fucking business!

  ‘Which agency?’

  ‘First things first,’ insisted Will. He didn’t want to tell Anton the agency was LSQN, because chances were Anton would be over there quick as a rat up a dead nun, touting himself and cutting out Flame. ‘It’ll involve shooting in a variety of scenic settings across both islands,’ he said, going into his patter, ‘if you take the brief literally. The idea, the controlling idea, is that this isn’t a car experience, you aren’t riding in a car, you’re drifting along on a cloud. The car has a lot of autonomous driving features too.’ Next thing it’ll be the fucking Flintstones.

  ‘Any CGI in the budget?’

  Will didn’t know, he hadn’t done a detailed budget, that cost time and money he didn’t have. ‘The script implies a bit of computer graphics and green screen,’ he told Anton. ‘The complexity of the script, its varied settings and inherently high production values imply a proper production company with resources, facilities, and, of course, a talented director.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Anton.

  ‘It’s not been posted on LSQN’s website, so it’s not going to be shot on spec by Some-cunt the guerrilla film-maker on his iPhone.’

  ‘So the agency is LSQN,’ said Anton. ‘Is Nick the creative then?’

  Fuck, thought Will, he’d given too much away, although in truth there was no way he could sell the thing without telling Anton who the agency was. He’d been at Western Springs high with Nick Preston, who he remembered as an arty streak of piss with explosive acne. Who’d have thought Nick would end up as the hot creative, the man, at an agency like LSQN? ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘Nick’s across it.’

  ‘Which car company?’

  ‘Dunno yet. They want to keep the whole thing under wraps until they launch. It’s a new model from a second-tier European company which has a good foothold in NZ but the big thing is they reckon the pictures they get here, they can use globally, which is why they’ll spend real money.’

  ‘But still get it cheaper than they could get anywhere else,’ observed Anton.

  Beggars can’t be choosers, thought Will, but said nothing.

  ‘I should talk to Nick,’ said Anton.

  ‘I’m talking to Nick,’ said Will. ‘I’ve got the brief right here.’ Will pulled the plastic file cover from his bag. When Anton reached for the file, Will held it back. He saw a quick rush of bad blood through Anton’s bland face. ‘In return, I need at least an expression of interest from you.’

  ‘I need to know what I’m expressing an interest in,’ said Anton.

  ‘The brief is comprehensive.’

  ‘I need to fully understand where Nick’s coming from. I want nuance.’

  ‘If you’re on for the job, I can get a sit-down with Nick. We can do lunch maybe.’

  Anton couldn’t keep the contempt out of his face. ‘Lunch?

  ‘Or whatever,’ conceded Will. What the fuck happened to the idea of cementing relationships by going out to lunch and getting pissed? ‘I’ll organise something with Nick. Leave it to me.’

  ‘Just me and him would be fine,’ said Anton.

  Oh yes, thought Will. I don’t trust you, you little cunt. But what can I say? He knows we need him. He’s the bankable element here, potentially. The only card I’ve got to play. He had to swallow it with good grace, try to keep some control. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll make the call.’

  ‘I’ve got his number.’

  ‘It should come through me.’

  ‘Let’s not stand on protocol,’ said Anton, standing. ‘That wouldn’t augur well for a creative relationship.’

  Anton was smart, Will had to give him that. He’d turned the meeting, so that instead of Will holding out an apple, Anton had taken it, eaten it and was now throwing him the core.

  ‘I’ll give him a call, let you know,’ said Anton, shaking his hand.

  ‘So we’ve got an understanding?’ asked Will. He knew as he asked the question that it was a step too far, giving Anton a glimmer of his need, his fear.

  Anton understood it perfectly. He instantly dropped Will’s hand and smiled at him with baleful, uncrinkled eyes that had no brows. ‘That’s exactly what I’m looking for,’ he said. ‘Understanding.’

  Anton left without even the pretence of the old ‘Where’s my wallet?’ Aussie haka, leaving Will, who had given everything in return for sweet FA, to pay the bill. On a purely monetary basis, it was good that Anton had eaten nothing, but on any other measurement, the fact that he hadn’t wanted to break bread, or even fucking muesli, with Will, wasn’t good. Anton was going to sell himself to Nick as the director he needed, and whether Flame got the producer gig, depended on . . . Who the fuck knew? It was now down to Nick at LSQN. Not for the first time, Will found himself wishing he’d been kinder to the gangling unco spaz at high school.

  ***

  AS Will pulled the parking ticket from the windscreen wiper, screwed it up and threw it in the gutter, he tried to find the positives – though resorting to a biz-speak cliché like that was in itself a huge neg
ative and even, he thought, a sign of desperation. WTF, he was desperate.

  Anton had acknowledged Den, that was a positive. But did it really mean anything? Anton wouldn’t have dared fuck Den over like that, so why do it to him? There was an obvious answer: because he could. That wasn’t simply down to the fact, though it was a fact, that his father had earned a certain cachet in the industry that Will hadn’t: times had changed. Entropy used to be the word people employed to describe a state of general and deep-seated fuckedness. Now the word was disruption. Maybe they were both right, Will thought. Entropy described the dynamic, disruption the result. An explosive disruption. That made sense: an explosion was just entropy at light speed, hurling everything outwards like a 360-degree projectile vomit. That’s what’s happened, he thought. Explosion. Fragmentation. Disruption. And it had begun happening way before Den had left the building.

  Will cranked up the air con. The Bluetooth connected his mobile to the car-play and he saw a message from Yelena. Urgent. Fuck Yelena, she’d have to wait in line. He pulled out abruptly into the stream, cutting off some honking incompetent.

  He’d arrived at Flame right out of high school in ’95. Last fucking century. There seemed to be a shoot every couple of months back then, and Will had been the runner, the gofer, on whatever productions were happening. He’d loved it, driving round town, taking messages and people between the production office and the set, running errands for whoever needed something, picking up actors at whatever time the call-sheet dictated, delivering them to set, taking them home again. That had been particularly fascinating. Any overseas stars brought in would be staying at the Regent or the Langham, whereas he’d pick up the local ‘stars’ from some rented hovel at the dank end of Grey Lynn or Kingsland. He was always surprised at how needy they were – and not just the locals. A beautiful American B-lister on the wrong side of thirty had taken him back to her plush suite at the Regent after a trying day, cried about her lot, told him he had wonderful come-to-bed eyes and proved it by fucking him on her super king-size. He was sixteen, barely out of his high school short pants. How good was that!