Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 10, Issue 6

by Paddy O'Reilly

  Review of Australian Fiction

  Volume Ten: Issue Six

  Zutiste, Inc.

  Review of Australian Fiction Copyright © 2014 by Authors.

  Contents

  Imprint

  Stingers Paddy O’Reilly

  The Nightmares Chloe Wilson

  Published by Review of Australian Fiction

  “Stingers” Copyright © 2014 by Paddy O’Reilly

  “The Nightmares” Copyright © 2014 by Chloe Wilson

  www.reviewofaustralianfiction.com

  Stingers

  Paddy O’Reilly

  We stood by the side of the Bruce Highway, Highway Number One, our packs on the gravel and our toes on the tarmac as if some contact with the road surface would give us the power to make trucks stop. The sun flared in the sky, a mirage shimmered halfway along the ribbon of grey stretching north, a swarm of bugs buzzed from inside the head-high feathery crops beside the road.

  ‘Put out your thumb,’ Josie said.

  ‘You put yours out. You told me you’re a champion hitcher.’

  Josie cocked her hip towards the oncoming car. She thrust out her hand with her thumb pointing skyward. It looked like something she’d learned from a movie. She had these gestures, these stances, phrases and winks that she tossed off like an actress. I’d longed for her careless grace all my life.

  ‘Have you ever hitched before?’ I asked. I’d forgotten a sun hat and the top of my head was scorching. The word scared formed a swift surprising tension in my mind before evaporating like the wavy mirage up the road when trucks bored through it.

  ‘No.’

  The taxi from the airport had dropped us here on the side of the highway.

  ‘It’s unbeatable irony, Josie.’ I had to say it. I poked through the packet of sweets in my shorts pocket until I found a coiled snake and popped it into my mouth. ‘We took a taxi here to start hitchhiking.’

  ‘Shut up and look sexy.’

  We felt the road grinding under our soles as four cars and a truck roared past in a hail of grit and dust.

  ‘Pull your top down a bit,’ Josie said. ‘Show us some of that famous cleavage.’

  ‘I haven’t got cleavage. I’m an A-cup.’

  ‘God, I have to do everything.’ Josie wiggled her torso and pushed and pulled at the bra under her purple singlet until a wrinkle of cleavage appeared.

  ‘Push your biceps into your boobs. It’ll make them look bigger.’ I’d practised that plenty of times myself in the bathroom when I was a teenager, leaning forward, arms crushed to my sides, pouting and slitting my eyes, making love to my own reflection in the hope that one day I could fool some boy into believing I knew what I was doing.

  ‘Why don’t we just strip?’

  ‘Why don’t we strip and run out onto the road screaming?’

  ‘Why don’t you strip and lie down on the bitumen and I’ll flag someone down like you’re injured.’

  We decided to walk back to town, stay the night and take the bus the next day. The inside of the bus smelled like people had been living in there. Down the side of my seat I found a used tissue and a ticket stub for the Reading Cinema in Townsville.

  ‘Yuk. Don’t touch that,’ Josie said. She batted at my hand with her pen until I dropped the tissue. ‘That person might have had TB.’

  An old man hacking away in the back of the bus sounded like he did have TB. The driver put Johnny Cash on the sound system.

  J & M’s Travel Diary, Day One. We are losers and couldn’t hitch a ride even when we showed our cleavage, Josie read out from her notebook.

  Why am I here? I wondered.

  At seven in the evening the bus spilled us into the dark wet air of Cairns. The driver hauled our packs from the belly of the bus. As the other passengers drifted away or opened up maps and started peering at street signs, Josie and I punched each other in the arm to wake ourselves up.

  Around us were palm trees and assorted tropical plants breathing out steam. After we had changed our clothes in the nearest café toilet, we sat outdoors on plastic chairs in yellow café light, inhaling the moist exhaust fumes and briny air.

  ‘There are no pancakes on this menu,’ Josie said to the waiter, a beanpole fired up with some kind of health mania, who stood at our table with his pen cocked and a cheery smile. ‘I can’t tell you how disappointing this is.’

  ‘We could make you up a cinnamon buckwheat hotcake. It’s pretty tasty and filling.’

  Josie turned to me, her bare white thighs squeaking on the plastic chair. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘She’ll have the hotcake,’ I said in my usual straight-guy role, ‘and I’ll have a mango smoothie.’

  Josie already had her pen and diary out. I peered over her shoulder while she scratched away.

  J & M’s Travel Diary, Day Two. Cairns smells like a muck of sea, rotten fruit and dried cum. The people here have not yet discovered pancakes.

  ‘What’s with the diary? You’re a writer now?’

  ‘Yes, I grew tired of my free and easy retail assistant life.’

  Inside the hostel was a lounge filled with lounging backpackers wearing singlets, shorts and thongs.

  ‘We brought the wrong uniform,’ Josie said.

  I couldn’t see what she meant. Both Josie and I were wearing singlets, shorts and thongs.

  Josie sighed. ‘I wanted to find a different crowd. These people look like the ones we left at home.’

  ‘No they don’t. They look like exciting overseas travellers. They look like carefree young men and women looking for adventure.’

  ‘Citizens of the globe. Happy wayfarers. Pioneers.’

  ‘Or gap year kids.’

  ‘It’s true. They’re middle-class gap-year layabouts. I think we’re too old for this. Twenty-six is ancient.’

  ‘We should be in motels with fenced swimming pools.’

  ‘A guide with a flag.’

  ‘Rest stops and emergency wheelchairs.’

  ‘Have you got photo ID?’ the girl behind the hostel reception counter asked. ‘I need to make copies.’ She sounded resigned like the receptionist at the dentist, dealing with clients who have arrived miserable. I had thought that everyone in the tropics would be welcoming and have sweet breath. They would exude pineapple fragrance and optimism.

  ‘People in the tropics should be happy,’ I whispered to Josie as the girl hunched over the grey copy machine and stabbed buttons.

  ‘I’m sure they are. This is an act to discourage us from staying. They want it all to themselves,’ she whispered back.

  The area around the counter was decked out with postcards pinned to a corkboard leant up against the wall, posters for Great Barrier Reef cruises and rainforest tours, ads for part-time salespeople and charity collectors, lost earrings and necklaces hanging on screw-in hooks, and a rubber marlin head looming over it all. Counter girl was filling in another form.

  Josie tapped her fingers on the counter. ‘I don’t know how you talked me into this, Merryn.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘You sent me a ticket to fly to Townsville. You said we’d hitch up to Cape Trib and have a ball. You said this was the trip of a lifetime.’

  ‘You’re right. Let’s have a shower and lather up with bug spray. The good folk of Cairns await us.’

  At the pub, tables were clotted with backpackers leaning together over jugs of beer and the crushed remains of silver chip packets. They wore singlets, shorts and thongs, and an array of fading tattoos.

  ‘Tell me again, why are we here?’ Josie asked.

  The banter, our old clubby banter, was wrong, out of place. I didn’t know ho
w to stop it. I took a mouthful of the yeasty cold beer and held it while it hopped on my tongue. On the big TV screen in the corner I could see pictures of Melbourne. Something must have happened. After the opening shot of the skyline there was an image of a police car and a reporter sticking a microphone into the face of a spiky-haired kid who couldn’t hide his excitement at being on the television. In between answering the reporter’s questions he kept looking around as if he was waiting for someone to applaud.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere the locals go,’ I said. ‘I hate backpackers.’

  Josie was still looking at the TV. ‘That’s Hopper’s Crossing. I used to live in a street near that street.’

  ‘Come off it. That could be any street. All you can see is a few weatherboard houses and a dumb kid talking to a reporter.’

  ‘No, really. I walked along that street every day when I worked at the sandwich shop.’

  ‘You did not work in a sandwich shop.’

  ‘Did so. For a month in school holidays.’

  ‘You would make shit sandwiches. You can’t even slice cheese without the block falling apart.’

  ‘I did make shit sandwiches. No one cared. They ate their shit sandwiches and enjoyed them.’

  ‘Came back for more.’

  ‘Daily. Sometimes they bought two shit sandwiches.’ Josie stood, drained her beer, picked up her bag. ‘Let’s find that local joint. Meet some locals. If they’re lucky I’ll consider making them a shit sandwich.’

  What’s wrong? I wanted to ask her. Why are we doing this stupid talk when you’ve flown me up here because something is terribly, awfully wrong? But I couldn’t ask. She had that power over people, making them unable to voice the same questions she would ask without hesitating.

  Every bar, every pub, every café was full of backpackers in singlets, shorts and thongs, with an array of fading tattoos and face jewellery. We gave up after an hour and plumped ourselves into a hot pink furry love seat in an air-conditioned bar where the small space was condensed further by too much black carpet and chipped silver paint.

  ‘We could be anywhere,’ Josie shouted over the thump of 1980s retro pop.

  ‘Let’s have this drink then go to the beach. Maybe the locals are skinny-dipping.’

  ‘Maybe they’re swimming in their pantyhose.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t swim with bare skin now. The water’s full of stingers. You know, box jellyfish.’

  ‘We can’t swim? Crap, Josie. Why did you bring me here?’ I had to shout over the Eurythmics singing ‘Sweet Dreams’. Every time I heard that song I’d think of my mum, stubby in one hand, spliff in the other, swaying on the grass on summer nights, slapping at mozzies and trying to make my little brother dance with her.

  ‘I was lonely, Merry Merry. And this is my big trip. You have to do to Cairns and Cape Trib on the big round-Australia trip.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have waited till you got somewhere with a proper beach?’

  ‘No. Hey, listen to this.’ She waved a brochure at me. “If you happen to encounter a cassowary, do not run from it. Face the bird and back away slowly until you can hide behind a tree or bush.”’

  The giant blue flightless birds with keels on their heads and muscular legs lived in rainforest remnants to the north of Cairns. The pamphlet said the birds attacked anything approaching their nests. The cassowary is as big as a man.

  ‘It looks like the bird that time forgot. Let’s go on a tour, Jose. Let’s get on a cassowary bus with fifty other tourists and go discover ancient history.’

  Josie said nothing. She’d been on the road for four months before she sent me the ticket. When I met her at the airport I was shocked to see her lank dull hair and flat face. Her facial expressions were all wrong—it was as though her skin had thickened and couldn’t fold and crease properly anymore. She’d eased up a bit now. She was laughing again. But she still wasn’t the old Josie.

  I finished my beer and set the sweating glass on the table. ‘I’m going to do it, Josie. A touristy tour. You coming?’

  ‘Nope.’ She gestured to the waiter to bring another beer.

  ‘What the fuck is going on with you?’

  She fish-eyed me. The dead stare. ‘I’m thirsty for beer,’ she said.

  ‘Shut up. Shut up with the bullshit and tell me what’s going on.’

  She closed her eyes. The thin skin of her eyelids was a dull mauve. I waited but she didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t speak. Her silence eddied around me. I felt the pull on my skin. I wanted to speak to fill the space of what she couldn’t tell me. I wanted to ask about the boyfriend whose pictures had appeared then disappeared from Facebook. I wanted to say that her father called me every day for a month after she left and her mother had followed each call with a text of apology for bothering me.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it on my own.’

  Instead of taking a touristy tour I asked at the hostel if anyone was going to the Cassowary Lodge, which is how I ended up the next day in a beige Camry Rent-a-Wreck with a Christian couple from Canada and a Taiwanese girl. They’d met at a postgraduate conference on world literature. This was their last day in Cairns. I was paying a quarter of the rental and petrol.

  ‘So are you, like, a student?’ The driver spoke without turning his head but I could hear him perfectly, his voice ringing through the car like the speech of a reverend or a salesman.

  ‘No.’ I didn’t want to go on, but that would have been rude. ‘I do contract work in the public service. The government.’

  ‘Hey, that’s great!’ The girl twisted in her seat and pushed her left hand towards me as if we were about to do a high five. My hand was still sweaty, like the rest of my body, moist and sticky from waiting in the heat to be picked up. I waved my hand vaguely in the direction of hers and mumbled, ‘High five.’

  ‘So, like, policy?’

  ‘No, like, photocopying.’ Those Canadians were probably only two or three years younger than me, but they’d obviously never worked a day. Straight from school to university, conference trips across the globe, exciting adventures in cars with the locals who earned a living doing photocopying and filing. I turned to the Taiwanese girl in the seat beside me.

  ‘What do you study?’ I asked.

  ‘I am professor,’ she said, and turned to look out through the window.

  I wished I’d taken the touristy tour.

  Josie was lying on her bunk when I got back. I pulled off my outer clothes and lay down on the lower bunk in my underwear.

  ‘We need better jobs,’ I said to the slats and bulging mattress wads of the bunk above me. ‘And the cassowaries were in an enclosure and bored and they were as tall as men and looked angry.’

  ‘Better jobs? I guess I got chosen by the wrong parents and went home to the wrong house. Then I went to the wrong school and I met you there and we both got the wrong jobs.’

  ‘Wrong school all right. Wrong suburb, wrong country, wrong time. I never thought I’d say this, Jose, but I want to have a good job and nice car and a house and… are we talking about the same thing?’

  Above me Josie shifted position and the shape of the mattress through the slats rolled like the underside of a raft. A hand reached over the edge of the bunk and I took the notebook and read.

  J & M’s Travel Diary, Day Three. I am having trouble telling Merryn that I found out I was adopted. And freaked. And left Melbourne. And everything is shit.

  ‘Fuck,’ I said. ‘Fuck.’

  So here we are, standing up to our hips in the dawn sea, dressed in bikinis and pantyhose. We’re holding our arms high and she’s gripping my right hand like she’s the referee and I’m the winner of the bout. She’s gripping my hand so hard it hurts and I think of those years at school when all I wanted was to be her, the glorious, take-no-prisoners, bulletproof Josie. I can see the transparent blue of a box jellyfish drifting toward us on the lip of the swell, its tentacles performing a slow shimmy in the seawater. There are probably millio
ns of broken off tentacles here too, random strands riding the currents, wrapping themselves around the driftwood and the seaweed, the tiny silver fish and the human beings.

  ‘I feel better now,’ Josie says. ‘The water is refreshing.’

  My arms are getting tired. It’s tempting to let them drop into the cool sea.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she says.

  ‘Of course I came. I’d always come.’

  Our raised arms start to tremble with the strain.

  ‘I think I’m going to go back to shore now,’ she says. She lets go of my hand and leans over to kiss me on the cheek. The movement causes water to lap over the waistband of my pantyhose. I wait for the excruciating sting, but nothing happens. ‘Coming?’

  ‘I’ll stay in a minute longer.’ I wrap my arms around my chest and stare out to the horizon, white-blue against the dark line of the sea.

  The jellyfish washes past me on the swell, its gelatinous body bumping harmlessly against my nylon-wrapped thigh.

  The Nightmares

  Chloe Wilson

  When she was shown in, he pulled his tongue back into his mouth. He’d been worrying at the sore on his lip. He suspected it was getting bigger, and liked to run his tongue over it, as though he might wear it down, or melt it away like a salt-lick.

  She stood there, staring. He tucked his tongue back behind his teeth. She can see it, he thought. The sore was right in the corner of his mouth, covered by an awning of moustache, but still—she seemed to be staring straight at it.

  He had her file. Her name was Franka. Masculine, he thought. Had her parents wanted a boy? Perhaps a boy had died in infancy. Perhaps she was the replacement. But her name would not be Franka anymore, not while she was with him. He always liked this part, the renaming. Bertha into Anna, Isabelle into Sara. Franka arranged herself on the couch, while he made little notes in a corner of his pad:

  Maria