Demons

by Wayne Macauley

  I went to the funeral. Rani was there. We spoke a few words but didn’t touch. I have never felt so sad or bereft. After the service Dane asked was I interested in investing in his new idea: a mash-up version this time of a Dostoevsky novel, about nihilism, revolution, disenchantment, murder. The great disillusionment drowning the world. He pointed out the dramaturg, a tall, skinny guy. They would do it flash-style, he said, in Canberra, on the steps of Parliament House. He pulled the paperback from his pocket and read to me from the scene where the suburb over the river catches fire: It’s all arson! It’s nihilism! Well? Aiden? What do you think?

  I said no.

  What else could I say? I had left my job, my wife and kids, I had treated a young woman badly and let a young man drown. I had bought a drop of self-importance with a bucketload of spoilt money. What right did I have to an opinion about anything? What entitlement? I woke late the morning after Jordan’s funeral with a goon-sack hangover and watched the light seeping through the blanket at the window. What morals do you have, Aiden? I showered and dressed. And without morals what do you have? Anything? I made breakfast, sat out in the backyard in the sun. I had a good think. Well, I thought, I’ve still got money. I’ve got no responsibilities. I can do what I like. Ah! I said. That’s what I’ve got: freedom. Freedom—what about you?

  I moved out of the sharehouse into a city apartment with a view of the river and the bay. I bought the best food, wine, drugs. I hung out with gangsters, pimps. I lived like a king. I spent whole days in the casino (the casino!—ha!) and rented a new girl every night. Sometimes I rented two. Sometimes I got one that looked like Lil, sometimes one like Rani. We always drank the best champagne. Did you ever do it with two? Leon? Three? I’ve still got cash, he said, pulling it out. Here.

  It was at that point, said Leon, that I realised not only that we were both pissed but that we’d slipped down a rabbit hole into another place—a place I quickly realised I didn’t want to be. The bar had filled; it was five o’clock and the after-work punters had arrived. Aiden had a crooked smile. So you see? he said. We’re fucked, aren’t we? Hypocrites. Liars. We’ve let the whole thing go to shit, and now there’s nothing we can do.

  Aiden’s voice changed then—no, not just his voice, his whole demeanour. He straightened his spine and lifted his chin. He was doing Vershinin. Remember? Well. Thank you for everything, he said. I’ve talked a great deal, a very great deal—forgive me for that too. He did the crooked smile. So, I’ll go off by myself, he said—and then he was gone.

  Leon’s words just sort of hung there. It was only now in this seeming silence that they realised it was not silent at all. The rain was belting down, falling in sheets, cascading off the balcony and out of the gutters and smattering the big windows every time the wind whipped it sideways. It had built up all morning, and now they were in the middle of a storm.

  Shit! said Marshall, heaving himself up off the couch: Tilly’s still in the car! That’s it, she’s coming in.

  All this caught everyone by surprise. It was as if the flurry of activity had left a momentary hole in the room. Marshall went down. The soup, said Lauren. She and Megan went into the kitchen. The others listened to the rain.

  Shit day for footy, said Evan. Adam nodded. People used to tell the weather by looking at the sky and studying the behaviour of animals, said Hannah. Evan pointed at the window. Rain, he said. A mackerel sky, said Hannah, I love that expression. Is that like when it’s raining fish? It’s when white clouds in a blue sky look like the markings on the side of a mackerel, said Hannah; they tell us a front is approaching, although it may be a long way off; a mackerel sky may mean rain, but not always. That’s handy, said Evan. If cockatoos come down from the mountains to the coast, it’s going to rain, she continued; they even say you can tell how many days of rain there will be by how many cockatoos there are. Ants tell you that too, don’t they? said Adam. All this will be gone soon, said Leon, because of what’s happening to the world.

  The blender went on in the kitchen and Marshall came back upstairs. She’s not in the car, he said. Lauren came to the kitchen door. She’s put my stuff outside the room, and a chair or something up against the inside. She won’t speak to me; she won’t come out. What’s going on? said Megan. She’d come in from the kitchen too. Tilly’s moved into the room downstairs, said Hannah. Well thank Christ for that, said Lauren, and she went back to the soup. Maybe I should have a word to her? said Megan. Sure, said Marshall. Megan went downstairs. The fire alarm rang again. Ah for fuck’s sake, said Marshall, who’d just sat down. Are you burning something in there? The alarm kept screeching. For fuck’s sake! said Evan.

  They were all out of their seats now, looking at the ceiling. Evan found a broom and used it to push the button but the alarm didn’t stop. What the fuck? said Megan, who’d come back up the stairs. It’s faulty, said Leon. Can you stop it? said Megan. We’re trying, said Evan. Is there a ladder? said Marshall. He and Evan went to find one while Adam, Leon, Megan and Hannah just stood there, staring up. Lauren came out of the kitchen. Can someone turn that fucking thing off?

  The alarm didn’t stop, not like last time, it just kept going on and on. Marshall and Evan came back, huffing and puffing and wet from the rain, carrying an aluminium stepladder that they bumbled around with for a while until Evan managed to click the thing into the thing. He held it while Marshall went up. He seemed to take forever to figure out how to open the flap. Then the screeching stopped. Well thank Christ for that, said Lauren, again. Marshall threw the battery down. Have we got a fresh one? asked Hannah. The alarm’s broken, said Leon. But what if there is a fire? said Hannah. The storm’ll put it out, said Evan. Everyone looked at him, trying to figure out if this was a joke. Marshall climbed back down.

  The rain was falling just as heavily, but everything seemed calmer after the screech. My ears are ringing, said Evan. Is she okay? said Marshall. Megan didn’t answer. Marshall sat on the couch. Soup’s ready! said Lauren, from the kitchen. Yum, said Leon. We’ve got no bread, said Hannah. Did we eat it all? asked Leon. There’s some white in the freezer, said Megan. White? said Adam—white? I can whiz down, said Evan. Ad, Lee, Marsh: do you want to nip down the shops? You’re getting more grog, aren’t you? said Megan. Evan shrugged. (He looked like a little boy.) We can take mine, said Marshall, already up, fishing in his pockets for the keys.

  The three women listened to the four men going down.

  What should we do? said Megan. Nothing, said Lauren, there’s nothing we can do. She scares me, that kid, she’s so—self-possessed. They listened to the door below close. She’s had to be, said Megan, you can’t blame her, she’s learning how to hold her own, because of Jackie, and what’s been happening at home. And now this. They heard Marshall’s car reversing, changing gears, fading down the hill. It was only just gone midday but the sky outside had darkened. Lauren turned on the lamp. No, fuck it, said Megan.

  Lauren and Hannah listened to Megan’s footsteps going down. Hannah pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Somewhere, way down the hill, they heard a branch or tree falling in the bush.

  What was it about Jackie? asked Hannah. Lauren thought about it for a bit. Let’s just say she’s been going through some mid-life issues—but she’s seeing someone now. She threw a cast-iron griddle, she said, and tried to stab him. Hannah waited. Lauren set one eyebrow higher than the other, played
with her ring, continued. I mean, sure I feel sorry for her and all that, and her brother, and the whole fucking crazy family, I’m sorry to see Tilly on the receiving end, but at the same time, I’ve got to tell you, I am perfectly happy with her not turning up last night. You can’t have a conversation with her any more, a normal female conversation; she’s changed, the change has changed her. And the job, Lauren continued, lifting her arms and clacking her bangles, that’s changed her too. She walked into it, no experience, and bam, she’s promoted twice in one year. It’s counterproductive, isn’t it—well, that’s what I think—going into a job you know nothing about then being given all that responsibility? But she’s always been a good talker, Jackie, God bless her heart and soul, and I’m sure that’s a prerequisite for that kind of job, crapping on. But there’s got to be something more, hasn’t there? People tell her she’s the best and she starts to believe it. Then your husband wins a seat in state parliament, he’s in the papers, he’s out doing things, important things, and you probably start to feel a bit inferior, don’t you? You get paranoid. Maybe even a bit competitive. You want to prove you’re on top. But it’s events promotion! said Lauren. She brings out arena ballet shows, Chinese acrobats, prancing horses.

  She got up and stoked the fire.

  Did she get him? asked Hannah. Lauren turned to look at her: tall, lithe, upright, head turned like a bird’s. With the knife, said Hannah: did she get him with the knife? No, said Lauren. She put a log on and closed the door.

  Is it afternoon yet? Lauren was looking at the two empty glasses on the table under the lamp and the half-full wine bottle beside them. She picked the bottle up and poured them both a drink.

  So what actually happened? asked Hannah. The devil got inside her, said Lauren, deadpan, and she turned into a witch. Marshall tried to get that devil out but when he couldn’t, and the devil started spitting and snarling, he retreated into his work. The devil took over, made Jackie bleed rivers, then he stopped up her womb, shrivelled her breasts, hunched her back, made her hair lank, turned her fingernails to claws. Gave her breath the smell of rotten meat. Put a wart on her nose, a knife in her hand. A mad fury in her eye. Greer, said Lauren, uninterrupted, says the woman who lashes out in menopause has found ‘the breach in her self-discipline’ that leads ultimately to her freedom. She can be mad, if she wants; she can be anything. She’s not made of sex any more, she’s declaring her liberty from it. But the guy doesn’t get it, does he? His eye starts roving, looking for the pert ones still slave to the only effective weapon they ever had. And no, don’t look at me like that, said Lauren, turning; you lose that weapon, Hannah my darling, and you’ve got to find another. But they’re all inferior, aren’t they? Brain. Bravado. Old-fashioned self-belief. That’s why we want a man to hug and not fuck us, isn’t it? We’re storing up the idea of the hug for later, so when he doesn’t want to fuck us any more, when he wants to fuck everything but us, we’ve still got something to fall back on.

  She drank. Fuck, I hate getting old. Hannah looked down at her breasts. At least you’ve got both, said Lauren. Hannah looked up. Lauren raised an eyebrow, gulped her wine. It’s the kids, she said, clacking her bangles again; we give them everything, they suck it all out of us. That’s why we have to love them so much.

  They both sat listening to the rain; each, secretly, in their own way, wishing the men would get back soon. Is Oliver okay? asked Hannah. The same, said Lauren. She pulled at her top, adjusted her neck, brushed something from her sleeve. He’s living out of home now, she said, but I think he’s off the stuff. Hannah nodded, and took an elegant sip. A friend of my sister’s, she said, her son was caught dealing—it was after she and her husband had separated. The husband was having an affair with a woman in Sydney. Fay’s friend went through his phone and found the texts. Apparently their marriage was looking shaky, anyway, and they were sleeping in different rooms and all that. But, well, this kid went off the rails.

  It’s the hotel, said Lauren; they can’t help themselves.

  They heard a car, or what sounded like a car, revving somewhere on the hill. Megan’s Sam has just graduated though, hasn’t he? said Hannah, brightly. Yes, said Lauren. Again Hannah pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. How did you meet Adam? she asked. Meet him? said Lauren. Oh, I don’t know. We shared a couple of tutes, did that play Leon mentioned. Lauren looked into her glass, unsure whether to go on. At first I thought he was strange. He was strange—but then I kind of felt sorry for him. Then I fell in love with him. I guess he fell in love with me. Then—well. I haven’t seen him in court for years—he used to do criminal stuff, now it’s all corporate—but they say he’s still the master of the put-down. That’s the trick, isn’t it? To make a virtue of your flaws? All that show, but something’s broken. Everything I do, in my advocacy work, it’s all driven by ego. I know that. Client satisfaction, it’s a by-product: it’s all about the performance. She raised one arm, let the bangles fall. But the kids keep you grounded, they knock you down to size: if anything’s going to dampen a rampant ego it’s a screaming, shit-smearing brat. That’s why they gave us the coping mechanism, isn’t it? So we cope. And the next thing you know you’re forty-seven, with a sagging arse and a single tit. She laughed, throwing her head so far back that Hannah could see the roof of her mouth.

  He must have been handsome though, said Hannah, when he was a student. I mean, he’s still handsome now. That’s true, said Lauren—but then she seemed to lose interest. She looked out to where the wind was shaking the trees. She was thinking about something, then the thought changed again. Keep your eyes off, she said, without turning around. She gulped her wine, smiled. Anyway, she said, jauntily, I better have a look at that soup.

  It was all quiet down there; Megan knocked and waited.

  Honey? Can I come in?

  Tilly pulled the door back. She was wearing blue pyjamas with a grey hoodie over the top. She had a pale face, half-obscured, and long, straight, dyed-black hair. Is it okay if we have a little chat? asked Megan, aware that she’d already pushed her voice up too high. She lowered it again. Your dad and the boys have gone down the shops—why don’t you let me in so we can have a little talk? Tilly seemed to be looking at the floor behind; she let the door go and gestured for Megan to come in.

  It was the kids’ room, where the various broods had come and gone over the years while the adults went about their business upstairs. There were three bunk beds, one on each wall, a cupboard next to the window and a dresser beneath it. On top of the dresser was a stack of picture books and teenage novels and a tennis racquet with a single ball resting on the strings. The window was closed, the blind drawn—it would otherwise have looked out onto the bush.

  The first thing Megan noticed once her eyes had adjusted was Tilly’s travel bag open on the floor near the cupboard with all the clothes spilling out. (And yet, she thought, she still hasn’t got out of her pyjamas.) Next, the blue bucket on the floor near the furthest bunk with a small quantity of dirty water in it. Then the drip gathering on the ceiling above. Last, aside from the slight swampy smell coming off the bucket, was that fusty teenage odour, familiar from her own kids, close and cloying.

  Tilly was sitting cross-legged on the bottom bunk near the window, a stack of pillows between her and the wall. Her phone was on the bedcover, screen down. You could hear the rainwater churning in the pipes.

  I only want to see if yo
u’re okay, said Megan. You did that before, said Tilly. They held each other’s gaze; Tilly looked away. She picked up her phone with a languid hand and slid her thumb across the screen. Megan took a chair from the corner and placed it in the centre of the room.

  It was not a kids’ room any more but a teenage room which already in the short time they’d been there looked like any other teenage room you’d find anywhere in the world: the half-eaten plate of breakfast, the pair of knickers hanging off the cupboard door, the strewn clothes, the unmade bed. The smell. You people have no idea, Tilly was saying; I don’t care if Uncle Rylan jumped from a rooftop café and killed himself. What do I care about that? Who’s ever going to miss Uncle Rylan? There was an electric charge coming off her. What did he ever do? What did any of you ever?

  But your father’s trying, said Megan. The phone rang, buzzing and bouncing manically on the bed. Tilly picked it up. There was a tinny voice at the other end. Megan tried not to hear. She remembered Leon, at the same age, and the fire he had in his belly. I’m going to tell the stories people don’t want to hear, he’d said, that’s how we’ll change the world. But by forty he was an alcoholic and his second marriage was fried. An old boss—what was his name?—gave him a fortnightly opinion piece but they buried it in the supplements. Say what you like, Lee—but no-one was listening.