by Paul Haines
'Same again?'
'Yeah, make it JD on ice. Jim Beam's too sweet.' Dave the Drinker runs those long fingers through his shiny, black hair. He points another finger at the teenage girl gyrating against the pole. 'She take her clothes off?'
'No. Others will, but much later. Closer to midnight.' I wink. 'God won't be watching close to the witching hour.'
He laughs and shakes his head, staring down at his sleek, black boots resting on his backpack. 'Fancy running into you here. Last I heard you were up Byron Bay searching for free love and the new age. What the hell brought you to Adelaide? This place is dead, mate.'
'I could ask you the same thing.'
'I'm just passing through. On my way back from Perth.' His boots tap the backpack. 'Bit a quick cash, if you know what I mean.'
'You still dealing?'
'Hey!' His eyes widen in mock surprise then he grins. 'Simply spreading the word. Checked out Freo while I was there. A bit of a happening vibe going down. You'd like it.'
I realise Dave has no idea. He never has and he never will. Unless I show him.
'I don't think Fremantle would be my scene, Dave. You're not going to believe this, but I can feel something happening to me here. I feel, I don't know how to say this, like I can become complete here. I'm not yet, but I can feel it. I think Adelaide is my nexus.'
'Adelaide? You kidding me? I spent a year here working the vineyards after uni. Mate, there's nothing happening here except serial killing. Been going on since the mid-60s, and I'll bet you a kilo of heroin it goes back a hell of a lot further than that.' He slugs the drink the bartender places in front of him, then wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Urinate I must.'
Dave saunters off to the toilets giving the dancer an approving look on his way past. As soon as he disappears through the door
(he is the one)
a tingling starts in the pit of my stomach. It feels like a barely contained nervousness, a nervousness building from anticipation and excitement. I haven't felt this often, maybe twice in my life. The first time moments before my first tongue-kiss, the second the night I knew I would lose my virginity. And here it is, back, burning away inside me. And I know, as surely as one day I'll die, I know. Tonight Dave will be another of my firsts.
I tell the barman to make my vodkas weak and to double Dave's drinks.
#
'You okay to drive?' Dave's voice is thick with drink. 'Don't want you getting pulled over.' He indicates his backpack, heavy with hammer. 'Can't risk it, mate. You know what I mean?'
'This is Adelaide. There's nothing to worry about.'
I start the car and we pull out onto North Terrace. The city here shines at night, the splendour of the sandstone giants lining the road. I can tell Dave is caught up in it, the alcohol seeping through into his softer side. I'm finding it hard to concentrate, too—though for different reasons. I've had a hard-on for the last hour. Rock solid.
'See this,' says Dave. 'All this fucking grandiosity. Two girls went missing at the Oval back in '73. You know that? Just over there!'
The alcohol is pouring from his body, filling my car, and steaming the windows.
'I know,' I reply. Oh yes, I know.
'This place doesn't stop. Seven women went missing over the Christmas of '76, found them out in Truro. The Beaumont kids on the beach—the beach for Christ's sake. And then there's the Family. You heard of the Family?'
'No.'
'Lawyers, doctors, secret society shit. Abducted, drugged, raped and killed young men. And you say you're getting some sort of connection here?' Dave looks at me, his eyes wild. The spittle is shining on his lips. 'And Snowtown's bloody acid vats were only uncovered a few years back.'
We sit at the lights, the engine idling softly.
'Do you remember telling me about Aleister Crowley, Dave?'
'That's not the same thing.'
'Damn right it's not the same. He was a charlatan. There's something here in this city, Dave. Something real and I'm becoming a part of it. I've been touched.'
The lights change and I accelerate quickly.
'You can, too, if you want,' I say. The feeling inside me screams to burst out, to rupture my veins and explode. I realise even my voice is trembling.
Dave sits there staring at me. After a while he turns to face the road. 'Micana always said you were too weird.'
I want to drive faster, the need is growing unbearable, like an orgasm past release and if I were to ejaculate I'd shoot blood. But I can't risk it, not with Dave in the car. Not now, at the start of my new beginning. And part of the beauty of this city is that nowhere is never far. Soon, within minutes, we are in the driveway of the house. Its lights, like the walls and roof, are angular and stab into the darkness.
Dave steps from the car as if he's wading through glue. 'This is the house.'
'Yes it is.' I take his pack from the car. 'This is the house. My house.'
'No, no, no, you don't understand. This is the house! This is the place they caught the guy who took the rap for the Family.' His face is pale in the moonlight. It looks like the blood has gone to sleep inside his body. 'I don't know about this.'
'Sweetness and light, Dave. Moonstones and crystals. You won't find them here.' I take him by the arm and lead him to the door. He is like a leaf and I am the wind. 'You want magic?'
He nods dumbly.
'Behind this door, the magic's real.' I turn the key and the falling of the lock is thunderous in the silence of the night. 'Go ahead, open it.'
And he does.
I follow.
#
I cannot remember the exact details of my first kiss. I can still remember the sudden press of lips and the tentative, gentle touch of tongue that soon made way for a thrusting exploration for fear the kiss may soon be over, never to be experienced again. Of standing in a dark room and never wanting it to end but knowing it would never be enough. Yes, I remember that awful, excited rush before the first kiss, and the burning feeling lingering on my lips—the burn of her lips—for the week that followed. My first fumbling attempt at sexual intercourse I remember even less—warm and wet and over. But the feeling beforehand was, until now, the defining moment of intense unyielding unease. A moment more powerful than the act or the orgasm, and so, too, afterwards the feeling of invincibility that lasted for days. These thresholds I've crossed are nothing to this one and although it's happening now I can barely comprehend a thing.
A spear in my hand. The wooden shaft has a serpent carved into it, circling upwards to bite the head of sharpened stone. A gift from the grey-skinned man with the ashen eyes and fire mouth who even now lies sprawled upon the ceiling, heat pouring from his maw.
'Where did you get that?' Dave's sprawled on my couch. He tries to rise.
#
The river Torrens winds gently towards the ocean, fourteen of the thirty-two major churches in the inner city within sight of its waters. Where would a settlement, a city, be without its lifeblood? Especially in the driest state of the driest continent on earth? Colonel William Light built this city with foresight and intelligence, a vision of city squares and wide streets, lined with open gardens and surrounded by parklands.
I stand next to his statue overlooking 'Light's Vision'. His face is set in stone, gazing down upon the parklands and the river running through. It's a beautiful city; a calm and civilised city. There is no communal cluster of spiritual, new-age shops in this city offering guidance and healing for the lost; they are spread few and far between the suburbs, their unity destroyed by unyielding bluestone and sandstone churches whose foundations run deep in an attempt to staunch what they discovered. Dave the Drinker recognised the nexus here. Could he have embraced it as I have done? I think not. He was not made for places such as this. Not many are. Colonel Light staring valiantly over the darkness beneath the veil. I wonder what he thinks of the sights he has since seen?
I give him a wink and wander down to the university. It's a beautiful afte
rnoon here in the City of Churches and there'll be plenty of people relaxing beside the river.
***
Afterword: Burning from the Inside
It gets hot in Adelaide. Real hot. I spent a lot of time over one summer working Adelaide as an I.T. consultant knowing no one and with little to do apart from sit in a small hotel room watching television or sitting in a bar by myself nursing a drink and feeling like an alcoholic. I preferred my room in the end, at least I didn't have to drink there to feel sociable.
After work had finished, I would walk around the city watching the doors close, the streets empty, and feel any vibrancy or life left in the CBD literally boarding the buses and making their escape. Come 5:30pm, it felt like the city was a ghost town. Eventually, I'd eat in an empty restaurant and retire back to the disinterest of my hotel room and switch off while the air conditioning dehydrated my body.
I was a little bored.
And I suspect others get a little bored there, too. Despite the largest number of churches per capita, and possibly square metre, than anywhere else in Australia, the capital city of South Australia does its best to churn out serial killers. Lots of them, and nasty ones, too. Even better that this city was founded by colonials not convicts. Was there a connection between the heat and the overbearing weight of God in a city that appeared to the outsider to shut its doors against the night as soon as it could?
Eventually, I learned to book my accommodation in the seaside suburb of Glenelg, just south of the city, where I could relax in the shark-infested waters and soak up the flesh on display spread across the hot white sand, where the streets hadn't emptied until well after closing time.
Apologies to Sean Williams, a stout defender of all things Adelaide.
"Burning from the Inside" takes its title from a Bauhaus album, and the story was nominated for the 2007 Sir Julius Vogel Best Short Story Award.
***
The Punjab's Gift
The scents of cardoman, spice and sugar hang heavy in the air. Strange, misshapen lumps, brown and red and white, some chalky, while others sweat in the dry heat. The square, dense shapes towards the back of the display could be fudge.
The man behind the counter smiles, wiggling his head from side to side, urging us to sample the delights of his wares. His moustache is oiled and his teeth look like they have seen too much of what he has to offer. On the wall behind him, Vishnu smiles benignly, in colours exploding. Eat, he whispers, and the colours swirl.
I glance at Mike, aware the café is silent, all eyes upon us, the ignorant tourists off the beaten track. We can almost hear the shuffle of dirty rupees passing discreetly below tables, behind backs and under hands, as the locals bet on us staying or going.
'Namaste.' Mike's finger begins pointing. 'I'll have one of those, some of those, and that one, no, that one.'
The shopkeeper grins. Time resumes inside the café.
I choose whatever Mike hasn't.
We sit at a table towards the rear of the cafe. Its colour is not unlike the food.
'What the hell is this?' Mike sniffs an oily biscuit.
The café is again silent. All bets are back on. Double or nothing.
I bite into something unnaturally red, and sweetness fills my mouth. Mike's head tilts forward, eyebrows raised, and then he eats his biscuit.
'Is good?' The shopkeeper leans over the counter. I don't think his feet touch the ground.
'Is good.' Mike grins and finally the café goes about its daily business.
An elderly Sikh, resplendent in white cottons and silk, his turban adorned with exotic feathers, nods and smiles at us from a far table. His beard is woven up into his turban. He whispers something to a man at his table and they laugh.
'Where are you from?' he calls.
'New Zealand.'
Nods of approval; at least here, in the Punjab, our cricketing nation commands respect.
'Do you like India?'
We nod back enthusiastically, finger to mouth, savouring the sweet delicacies. Indian heads bob, white teeth in brown faces.
'We're off to Amritsar,' says Mike.
'Oh.' The room falls quiet. The Sikh looks at the others around him. A heartbeat passes. 'Then to Pakistan?'
'Yes,' says Mike.
'No,' I say too late.
Mike glares at me until he realises. A war is still being fought here and Amritsar lies in its heart. A border town built on passports and guns, looking fearfully, contemptuously west.
'Wait here. I have a gift for you.' The Sikh disappears into the haze outside and conversation returns nervously to the café.
We finish our meals and step outside into the heat. The street teems with people working, loitering, begging and scamming, the babble loud and chaotic. Crowds push past, eyes staring and fingers groping. The heavy smell of spice and unwashed bodies assails us. Two scrawny donkeys pull an overladen cart of baked dung and the small boy aboard pauses in his whipping to flash us a grin.
'Wonder what he's getting us?' says Mike.
'Dunno. What time is it? We leave in ten minutes.' Sweat drips from my armpits, trickling coolly down my sides.
'Why would he want to give us something?'
'Perhaps he likes us.'
Time ticks and sweat drips. Flies descend and eat the salt off our skin. I can see the truck from here. The rest of the crew mill around it, ready to board.
'Where the hell is he? We gotta go.'
'What if he wants us to carry something over the border?' Mike's eyes shine. 'What about those stories in the paper?'
'You thrive on that crap. You stoned?'
'I'm serious, man. All those bombings recently. They're not far from here!'
'You're paranoid, Mike.' But the headlines are still fresh. Dozens of them. 'Let's go.'
'Ah, Kiwis!' The Sikh emerges from the crowd, his white silk bright and clean in the sunlight. 'I hope you still here. Here is your gift.'
He hands Mike a plain cardboard box, twice as wide as a shoebox though not as deep. The Sikh's hand stops him from opening it.
'Not now,' he smiles. 'Your truck waits. Go.'
He ushers us forward. Our legs jerk back towards the truck.
I look back and he's standing there surrounded by villagers, all smiling and waving. 'Remember the Punjab!'
Mike shoves me the box. 'Here, you take it.'
'I don't want it.' The box is far too heavy for its size. Something large slides within. Too heavy. Bus torn to pieces. Twenty dead.
'What if it's a bomb?' says Mike, our thoughts riding parallel paranoia. His eyes no longer shine; they burn and his face is slick with sweat. He looks sick.
'Don't be stupid, man.' People on the street avoid us. The seas part. Everyone stares. The Sikh has disappeared. I try to hold the box level. No more sliding. Too heavy. I've seen the headlines.
Mike's walking ahead now, his pace faster. Black stubble upon paling face. His shirt sticks to his back. Like mine.
The box is too heavy. Too much noise in my head, though no one is speaking.
'What have you got there, Richard?' One of the girls climbs up into the truck. The street around us is empty.
'Open it!' hisses Mike. He puts the truck between us.
How did I end up holding this? I can't take it on board; I know these people. Just put it down. Leave it. It's just a cardboard box. That's why the street is empty. In India. Where you are never alone.
I think of only one thing. Will I feel it? My eyes brim with sweat and I reach for the lid. I try to prise it off, but it sticks, so I work at it slowly. Time has stopped. I hear nothing for the blood in my ears. I've wandered away from the truck, my back to them, using my body as a shield. I hope Mike has made it far enough away.
I pull off the lid.
Indian fudge.
***
Afterword: The Punjab's Gift
Travelling in the third world is mind-blowing, but you soon realise you're seen as money, as a mark, and that everyone has an ulterior motive
for talking to you. After a while, you become very jaded and suspicious. And then someone opens your eyes again ...
This is an autobiographical piece, all of it's true, and I don't think I have embellished it in any way, even for fiction's sake. When my partner in travelling crime, Mike, reads the story, it takes him back to that dusty crowded street as well, and he laughs and shakes his head.
He appears in several other stories I have written as well, most unrecognisably as the disgraced knight and bestial practitioner Scwythe Winchecliffe in the Tales of the Interferers novelettes. In many ways, he is a muse for me, both in fiction and in real life.
"The Punjab's Gift" was originally published on the side of a can of coffee beans in the good ole USA. The opening paragraphs appeared on the label of the can, and inside you folded out a piece of paper with the entire story written on it. The coffee company couldn't send me the actual finished product due to export/import technicalities, but they did send me the label, the folded story, a nice cheque in strong US dollars, and a couple of sticks of chewing gum.
***
Hamlyn
To see townsfolk suffer so
Winter lingered over Hamlyn.
It smothered spring like a wet cloak left on the ground, blanketing the spirits of the townsfolk, keeping them cold and weary. Whispers of the Apocalypse crept through the town, while rumours of a plague spreading throughout Europe scurried between the ears of the townsfolk like vermin.
Frau Heschlinger sat vigil next to the bed of her only son Pieter, the room lit by flickering candles. She dipped a cloth into the bowl on the bedside table, wrung the icy water from it, and placed it over Pieter's brow. The cloth turned warm beneath her hand in seconds.
