by Scot Gardner
One of the telltale symptoms of that sort of heart disease is random leakage of liquid from the eyeballs.
Nishi held my hand properly. Julian rubbed my back and I bawled my heart out.
In time, Sandy arrived with a floral box of tissues. I honked and wiped until the flow of tears and snot had been staunched.
‘What are your options?’ Sandy asked. ‘Does he know about the video?’
I shrugged. ‘I doubt it. Not unless . . .’
I had a flash of the final minutes with Claire. Filled with a sun-hot rage that made me shake and struck me mute, I’d shown her the video. Her tears had pleased me. Her blubbered apologies came at me as if from the end of a long tunnel.
She must have told my father about the video.
‘Can you ring him?’ Nishi asked.
‘My father? And say what?’
‘Leave me alone or I’ll sell your sex tape to the internet,’ Julian suggested. ‘Boom, there goes his job.’
‘Or sell it to the paparazzi,’ Sandy suggested. ‘Nothing like the smell of a potential scandal with a celebrity to bring them out of the woodwork.’
‘It wouldn’t be that simple,’ Nishi said.
Sandy shrugged. ‘Why not?’
He handed me his phone, but I handed it back.
‘He’ll be tracing the calls,’ I said. ‘If he knows about the video, he won’t stop until he has it in his hand.’
‘So the cops are looking for you, but your father’s looking for Claire’s phone?’ Nishi suggested.
‘Something like that.’
‘That’s sad,’ she said.
‘Why don’t you destroy the evidence then?’ Julian suggested. ‘Smash the phone and post it to him.’
Why hadn’t she wiped it remotely herself?
‘What’s to stop you from copying the video?’ Nishi said.
‘Send it to my phone,’ Julian said. ‘As insurance.’
Nishi frowned and shook her head.
‘I think I have to—’
Loud knocking rattled the security door.
Julian swore. Nishi scampered to the window but didn’t disturb the curtain.
‘Cops,’ she said. ‘I see their car.’
Sandy nodded, wide-eyed, towards the back door.
I let myself out as quietly as I could and crouched beside the step. In my head I knew my actions had been rash but justified, and knowing that didn’t stop my heart from racing. I felt like I was about to lose this four-month game of hide-and-seek. If I hadn’t done anything wrong, why were my feet tingling? Why was I scampering over the back fence? Why was I running, hard, for the hills?
BOX
I RAN ACROSS the concrete bridge over the feeble but bushy creek that separated Treedale from Dempsey and slowed to a walk. Somehow, crossing the creek into a new suburb put me outside the search area again. I could hear my feet complaining in my shoes.
‘Enough running, already,’ they bawled.
Maybe I’d imagined it, but they were right – I’d done enough running for one day, one month, one lifetime. Nothing had changed and nothing would change until I grew some balls.
How, exactly, does one grow a pair? Steroids? I had no doubt that Jules would know an enterprising individual in West Tennant willing to sell me steroids.
I turned down a grassy lane that ended in a strip of land between the creek and someone’s backyard. There was a gate in the property’s tall paling fence and someone had put a concrete garden seat beside the creek.
A plaque on it commemorated Alice Yeung. She was thirty-six when she died. I sat and it felt as though my limbs were concrete.
My mother’s death and the end of my relationship with Claire had begun to bleed into one another – two very different relationships a decade apart seemed to be sitting in the same box in my head. I looked on the lid of the box for a label but the dust of denial was thick. Why would I bother doing housework inside my own mind? Why would I mess with that shit?
But I knew why; you mess with that shit when that shit messes with you. And it was messing with me.
The downside of staying with Jules in the bungalow was that it had an air of normalcy about it – I’d lost my emotional refugee status and all the secret squirrel crap that went with it. Living rough had been keeping me sane by filling my head with survival thoughts. Now the lid was off. I had no idea where to start, but I had to do something.
I ran. Not a steaming death-on-your-heels sprint but a languorous jog, all the way back to the laneway behind Sandy’s unit, keeping an eye out for police cars. I hurdled the fence and knocked on the rear security door. An eye flashed from behind the curtain and the locks rattled. Sandy grabbed the front of my shirt and dragged me inside, the door slamming behind us.
‘Are you all right?’ Nishi asked. ‘Where’d you go?’
‘Over the creek into Dempsey. Hid in a little park.’
‘You could have let us know,’ Julian said. He crossed his arms over his chest.
‘Didn’t really have the time or tools to write you a note.’
He dug his phone from his pocket and waved it in my face.
‘I . . . I could have texted,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
I slapped Claire’s phone on the kitchen table. I held the power button until it asked me if I wanted to turn it off.
More than anything else in the world. Die, you evil piece of . . .
I slid it across the table and it dropped noiselessly into a chair.
‘You’ve been on the run for months. Why now?’ Nishi asked.
I shrugged. ‘Maybe Claire just told my father about the video. Maybe that’s the only reason he wants to find me, to make sure no one else sees it.’
Why had I even kept the phone? If someone knifed you, would you keep the blade as a souvenir? If you were kidnapped, would you hold on to the ropes that bound you as a keepsake? In hindsight, I knew why I’d taken the phone – it was my only power. In the early days after I left, I’d thought about sharing the video around. A sex tape featuring Ian Gale would be gold. But I wasn’t a paparazzo; I was his son.
‘Where to now?’ Sandy asked.
‘I have to go,’ Nishi said. She rattled her keys.
Julian crossed his arms again. ‘You’ll be okay?’
‘Sure. I’ll head to the train station soon. See you back at the bungalow.’
He nodded once and collected his helmet.
Julian and Nishi said their goodbyes – Nishi pecked my cheek and wished me luck. Sandy insisted on toasting sandwiches before I left and we ate in awkward silence until he turned the radio on and we could eat to the sounds of the seventies instead.
‘Thank you for being so accommodating,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to drag you into all this.’
He smiled and blew air from his nose in a muffled laugh.
‘Do you want me to walk with you to the station? Just in case.’
‘Nah,’ I bluffed. ‘I’ll be fine.’
I slipped my damp runners onto my sore feet. He held the security door open for me.
‘See you when I do,’ he said.
I nodded and jogged onto the street. I made it around the corner before the concrete settled in my limbs again.
I grew short of breath thinking about the state of my life. This was not entirely my doing. No doubt I’d reacted badly, but Claire and my father had shoved me in this swamp. If I drowned, I could drag them down with me. Some part of me delighted at the thought of holding my father under by the hair while his thrashing faded. Yet when I thought about it, no part of me could see destroying Claire’s life as acceptable collateral damage.
PORSCHE
I SAW CLAIRE on the train.
My breath snagged in my throat and I slumped low in my seat, my back towards her. She was with two guys I didn’t recognise and there were perhaps twenty passengers between us, but I froze there listening and waiting, hoping and dreading she’d call my name, but she never did.
She and her friends didn’t move, but I di
ved through the open door moments before it closed at West Tennant station and stayed close to the windows as the train moved off, desperate for one more glimpse of her.
She hadn’t called my name because it wasn’t Claire. Close up, it didn’t even really look like her. The woman – whoever she was – saw me staring through the glass. She smiled and gave a little wave, but it wasn’t Claire. I returned the wave and my smile was one of relief.
I left the station with my head hanging. If I’d been wearing a hoodie, I would have donned the hood, so that shitty brew of shame and embarrassment would have been invisible to everybody else on the platform. My head was doing my head in.
Jules sat slumped in a camp chair beside the bungalow, the bong in the grass beside him and his limbs heavy.
‘Know anyone who drives a red Porsche?’ he asked.
I froze. ‘My father.’
He nodded deliberately. ‘Been casing the joint. Parked out the front for a while then drove off when Mum looked through the curtains. Porsches are hard to miss in this neck of the woods.’
He straightened in his chair, groaning. It sounded like a monumental effort. ‘Looking for you?’
‘Maybe,’ I said, and felt my pockets. No phone.
‘So the cops would have told him where they were looking and he just had to make sure?’
‘Something like that,’ I said. I’d left the phone at Sandy’s. Hadn’t I?
‘Just give it to him,’ he said.
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s . . . complicated.’
He threw his hands in the air. ‘It’s not fuckin’ complicated, man. It’s simple. You have to let her go. You have to let the phone go. You don’t need to do anything stupid to get out of this situation. It’s all in your head.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
He stared at me, expressionless, for ten whole seconds.
‘Sorry, Will,’ he eventually said. ‘Here, sit with me, bro.’
The seat farted as I dropped into it. He packed a cone and handed me the gear, but I declined.
‘Come on, dude,’ he said, and rapped a knuckle on my temple. ‘Got to get out of there.’
‘No, dude, I don’t.’
‘Okay, okay. Whatever. Don’t freak out.’
‘I’m not . . .’
‘Riiight,’ he drawled. ‘Look at you . . . your skin’s grey and you’re twitching like a junkie.’
I looked at my shaking palms. ‘I’m scared,’ I breathed.
He shot me a glance. ‘Of what?’
‘Everything. Nothing. Confronting my father. Claire.’
‘You haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘I filmed them.’
‘You needed proof. I would have done the same. Maybe a few different angles . . .’
The chair squeaked as I stood.
‘Come on, Will, settle.’
‘Settle?’
‘Breathe then. So you’re frightened of your old man and your ex?’
‘Yes.’
‘And they’re doing the bow-chick-a-wow-wow together?’
‘That’s one way to put it, yes,’ I mumbled.
‘So are you scared or angry? Or both?’
‘You’re my psychologist now?’
‘Call me Dr Jules.’
‘I’d rather not.’
He flashed me his palms. ‘Whatever, Will, but fear and anger are things I have some experience with.’
One look at his face and I realised jokey Julian had gone. Until then I didn’t know he was capable of being serious.
‘Both,’ I said.
He nodded sagely.
The back door slammed open. Duane held the dog in one hand and the doorhandle in the other, beaming. ‘You have a visitor, Will.’
‘Me?’
‘It’s your father. It’s Ian Gale! He’s in our lounge!’
BIOLOGY
I FOLLOWED DUANE and the growling Booboo inside. Julian followed me; hands on my shoulders, shoving and massaging me like a trainer before a fight.
‘I’m right here,’ he said.
I bounced from foot to foot, flexed and shook my hands.
The lounge wasn’t exactly the Colosseum, but Julian pushed me past his brother into the centre of a circle of standing bodies – Mandy, Duane, my father’s friend Rob and the suited and hulking form of my old man.
In the dingy light he looked formidable. He opened his arms to me. The gesture felt alien and contrived, but I hugged him anyway. He crushed my nose into his collarbone and punched my spine as though he was congratulating me for scoring.
He hugged like a door.
We both did.
Two doors, flapping in the breeze.
He held me at arm’s-length and looked me up and down.
‘You okay?’
‘Fine,’ I said.
‘You look . . . good,’ he said, nodding and grinning.
‘How did you find me?’
The smile fell from his lips.
‘Rob found you,’ he said, gesturing over his shoulder. ‘Remember Rob Granger?’
He was one of my dad’s old teammates who fancied himself as a private investigator. Sofie caught him outside her bedroom window when she was sixteen, investigating her privates. She dubbed him the Sleazebag. Rob extended his hand, but I didn’t shake it.
‘What do you want?’
My father sighed. ‘I haven’t seen you in months. I got worried. Just wanted to know you were okay.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Do we get an introduction or what?’ Julian asked.
‘Sorry. Julian, this is my father Ian and his mate Rob.’
Jules shook hands like a pro.
‘And this is Julian’s brother, Duane, and his mum, Mandy.’
‘We’ve met,’ Mandy said, but Duane handed Booboo to his mother and shook my father’s hand. His knees bent in a bizarre sort of curtsey as he did.
‘Love your work, Mr Gale,’ Duane said. ‘Really great to meet you in person.’
My father chuckled. ‘Good to meet you all. Thank you for looking after my boy.’
Mandy guffawed. ‘We’ve fed him, but he looks after himself.’
‘Well,’ my father said, ‘thank you for feeding him then.’
‘Our pleasure, of course,’ Duane said.
Mandy shot him a look.
‘What do you want?’ I asked again.
My father seemed shaken. He lifted one large shoulder in a shrug. ‘A word? In private?’
Mandy collected her boys and headed for the kitchen.
‘Don’t leave,’ I said. ‘It’s your home.’
‘It’s no problem, Will,’ Mandy said, and Duane agreed.
‘I’m sure whatever my father has to say won’t be news to you guys.’
My father crossed his arms and drew himself to his full height. He nodded reluctantly. The Hillmans crowded in the hallway, looking on.
‘I wanted to say how sorry I am that things turned out the way they did.’
I nodded. Spare me the passion.
‘And so’s Claire.’
Hearing him say her name was a body blow. It winded me. I hung there mute for a full minute trying to get my heart and lungs to cooperate.
‘That’s it?’ Julian said. ‘You fuck your son’s girlfriend and that’s the best apology you’ve got?’
Mandy covered his mouth. He brushed her off.
‘Whoa, hang on a minute there, Jeremy,’ Rob said.
‘Julian,’ four of us chorused.
‘Hang on there, Julian, this is their business. How about we leave them to it, hey?’
My father silenced him with a wave of his hand. ‘Julian’s right. I fucked my son’s girlfriend, as he so elegantly put it. I’m an arsehole. I’m deeply ashamed. My actions have been unforgivable. And yet, here I am.’
He uncrossed his arms and opened his palms to me. This wasn’t a call for another door-hug; this was my father pleading innocence. Hey
, his body language said, I’m a man and I have biology to compete with here. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose, but it’s out of my control.
The arrogance of it had me scanning the room with my peripheral vision, hunting for something to smash him with. TV remotes? Coffee table? Lounge chair? I felt my jaw clenching of its own accord. Booboo growled – not much more than an indignant purr, but it was enough to short-circuit the fight response tingling in my limbs.
I couldn’t stop myself from getting angry, just like I couldn’t stop myself from feeling like my life was fucked. There was a huge fountain of hormones and history that made me feel like smashing my father, but the hormones and history don’t do the punching. Violence is a choice.
Sex with your son’s girlfriend is a choice.
A weak, immature and cruel choice.
I mirrored his stance.
‘What?’ my father said.
‘What?’ I parroted.
He put his hands on his hips. ‘This is a bit futile.’
‘What does futile mean?’ Julian whispered to his mother.
‘Pointless. Stupid,’ Duane hissed.
Mandy shushed them both.
‘What were you hoping for?’ I asked. ‘A few tears then a few laughs? Bit of change-room bullshit and we pretend it never happened?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Then what?’
‘I wanted to open up the lines of communication, that’s all. I don’t want to be an arsehole anymore.’
‘The communication lines are open,’ I said, and threw my hands wide.
‘And . . .’ Rob prompted.
‘Oh, and Claire would like her phone back.’
Julian laughed. ‘I bet she would.’
His mother and brother both shushed him this time.
‘I don’t have her phone,’ I said.
‘No doubt you know where it is,’ Rob said. ‘It was here earlier.’
‘I know where it is,’ Duane said. ‘I’ll grab it for you.’
We watched him head for the bungalow. I felt completely confused. He wasn’t gone long and he returned at a trot, spinning Claire’s phone between his fingers.
‘What the hell, Duane?’ Julian growled.
‘This what you’re looking for?’
