Losing Your Head

  * * *

  Gerongate wasn’t an exceptionally large place. I mean, it was a city, but with only 300 000 people, well, it wasn’t exactly New York. Even by Australian standards, it was fairly small. It was big enough, though, that you could never know everyone like you could in a country town. You’d get people who seemed to know everyone, but that was just because they always did the same thing and never saw anyone new. I guess I noticed this during the time I spent working at Gregory’s Groceries (George Street, Gerongate – just so you can avoid it).

  Every customer had a regular shopping day and time, so by the end of the first month I knew everyone’s name. Two months and I knew all about everyone’s immediate family. Three and I could name everyone in their extended family as well. Four months and they started to let me in on the latest gossip. Five months and my job really pissed me off.

  On the rare occasion that we got a new customer, it was normally just one of the regulars’ kids who’d grown up and left home. That was fine, but if someone entirely new came in, watch out. The amount of foul looks they received was enough to ensure that they would never return. The way people reacted to newcomers, you’d think that they were criminals. Then again, in the parts of Gerongate that I’d been in, change pretty much was a crime.

  So I was about to do something illegal.

  I guess this is about time for the boring introduction – don’t worry, I’ll keep it short. My name is Charlie Davies. I’m nineteen, and I have sometimes-curly, sometimes-straight blonde hair (it still hasn’t decided on its true identity), and dysfunctional blue eyes (read: I have to wear glasses). Being roughly 5 feet 3 inches, most fully-grown humans are taller than me. Some people think I have anger-management issues. I disagree with this. I disagree with most things.

  If you want a concise assessment of my general personality, you could just look at the sum of notes written in my file by the high-school counsellor over the course of my two-year stint of sessions. It was part of the anger-management program that the head of the P.E. department (is it me or is ‘physical education’ just an exceptionally creepy name for a school subject?) stuck me on after I attempted to assault a guy two years up from me with a hockey stick. Not that it was my fault. He had it coming. Anyway, the counsellor didn’t have much to say about me when I took a sneak-peek at the folder while he was out getting coffee one time. All he had written was ‘snide, jaded – would not date.’

  Ta-dah, my psychological profile when I was fourteen. Yes, fourteen, and I was already bored with the world. (And also apparently not worthy of the attentions of a paedophile, which is somehow both comforting and offensive.) I haven’t changed much since then, except that I’m slightly taller. Roughly a centimetre.

  I glanced down at the clock display on the checkout computer. Ten to five. Ten minutes and then my shift was over. I’d been a checkout chick at Gregory’s Groceries for four years now. Four years of employment at a supermarket that barely passed health regulations. Oh, joy. You’d think that after working somewhere for that long you would at least have a bit of cash saved up. Only in my dreams.

  I cast my gaze around the supermarket. Not that you could really call it that, being that there was nothing exceptionally ‘super’ about it. Supersized rats emerging at night, maybe. Perhaps you could say that the owner had superpowers in his ability to sweet talk health inspectors. It amazed me that they didn’t close Gregory’s the moment they entered and were confronted by the cat-sized cockroaches guarding the front door.

  I stood there surveying my surroundings, trying to spot the owner-slash-founder-slash-manager of this gem of a store, Mr Gregory himself. Strangely enough, the man’s real name was Jeremy Martin. Apparently there had been a misunderstanding when the sign was printed and he was too cheap to get it redone, so the store remains Gregory’s to this day.

  Jeremy wasn’t hard to spot, even amongst the large crowd of Wednesday shoppers. (I think it must have been pension day or something. Or maybe everyone came shopping after bingo.) It may have been more difficult to find Jeremy were his wife not with him. Mrs Jeremy Martin was a nice woman with what most people considered to be a respectable husband. She had married Jeremy at age 18 and had been regretting it ever since. OK, so that’s just speculation on my part, but if I’d somehow ended up married to a ferret like Jeremy, I would definitely be regretting it. And judging by the way Lea was screaming at him now, I was pretty damn sure she agreed.

  I didn’t really know Jeremy that well as a person. I just knew him as a boss, and he was a crappy one of those. He never paid me enough unless I did special off-the-books jobs for him. He made us scrub the real use-by dates off produce and stamp on new ones after hours, and for that he gave me a decent amount of cash. I would never have done anything illegal if he hadn’t paid me well for it. At least not for him.

  I gathered up my belongings and, standing, took a deep breath before making my way back through the crowd towards the angry Lea and her ferret. As I got closer I was able to make out some bits of the torrent of abuse Lea was hurling at Jeremy.

  “Just tell me where the hell you were on Monday night, Jeremy. I want the truth. And don’t try and spin me that line about you helping your sister. Just admit what you were doing, you creep!” She let out a stream of descriptive words about her husband. Some people may have said that they were vulgar, but not me. Every single one of those words suited Jeremy down to the ground.

  “I just want to know where you were!”

  “Darling, I’ve told you over and over again, I was with Karen. My sister. Now, you need to calm down and –”

  “DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN, YOU ARSEHOLE! IT’S YOUR OWN BLOODY FAULT!”

  Ah, the joys of married life. I wondered where Jeremy had been. I had no idea of course; he was probably with his sister, like he said. A plan was forming in my head. Well, it was my last day…

  What have I got to lose? I asked myself. I might as well go out with a bang.

  I strutted over to Jeremy, pretending not to notice his irate wife, or at least pretending not to care. I gave Jeremy a kiss on the cheek (which was kind of gross, but it was for a good cause).

  “Hi Jeremy,” I said, just loud enough for Lea to hear. “Dinner was great on Monday night. We’ll have to do that again some time.”

  “THAT’S IT! I’M GETTING A DIVORCE!” Lea screamed. And on that note, she left. I thought she did it in a very dignified fashion, considering how angry she’d been a moment before. She just walked out as though nothing had happened.

  Mission accomplished. Almost. I’d ruined Jeremy’s life and reputation. I’d saved Lea. She was only 22 and beautiful. She’d have no trouble finding a better husband – not that she could get one much worse. I was hoping now that she had a bit of experience behind her she’d pick better second time round.

  Now for the next thing on my list. I turned to Jeremy, whose face was red and contorted with rage.

  “Charlie – Davies –” he spat at me. “You – are –”

  “Suspended?” I suggested.

  “Yes! Two weeks.”

  I snorted. “Oh dear, how can I live without my pay for two weeks? Oh wait, I’ve lived without it for the four years I’ve worked here, so I guess I can manage. By the way, I’m quitting.”

  “By company rules you’re required to give –”

  “A two week notice? Yes, I know. This is it. At the end of my suspension, I’m not coming back. Have a nice divorce, Jeremy.”

  I was amazed that by the time I’d reached the street I still hadn’t screwed up. So amazed, in fact, that I was checking behind myself as I walked along to make sure my skirt wasn’t tucked into my undies (my classic party trick). When I turned my head back around to look forwards, a brick wall ran straight into my face and broke the bridge on my glasses. Oh well. No day is perfect.

  I walked all the way back to my parents’ house holding my specs together with one hand. I didn’t have a car or a house of my own, so I walked to work and
lived with my parents. I know, I know. What a grown-up.

  My parents’ house was your average Gerongate abode. There was nothing all that special about it. It was a two storey, three bedroom home designed in the 70s. As it had slowly moved on through the decades, much of the interior/exterior had (luckily) been updated. However, there was still evidence of the original decorating to be found in the lounge room, where you practically had to wade through the cream-coloured shag pile carpet in order to reach the couch.

  I had once pointed out the lack of taste in that rug to my mother. She just told me that if I didn’t like it I could move out. She had never changed that carpet, so I guess she was hoping I’d go for the ‘leave’ option. She’d probably call in the decorators the second I was gone. I was sure she hated it just as much as me; she probably just kept it as an incentive. Mumsie’s quite cunning like that.

  I entered our house through the front door and walked through to the back. I was heading for the kitchen to see if I could scab some food off my mother. She’d probably be cooking something, since I hadn’t seen her in the garden when I came in. Now, despite the kind of mental images this may provoke (“Oh, thy mother art such a lovely housewife”), that’s not quite accurate. If you think that her hobbies make her sound a little repressed, then you need to take into account that another of her favourite pastimes is driving her bad-arse Nissan with the massive bull-bar out into the country and ‘sight-seeing’ (read: drag racing) with her best friend, Violet McKenzie (who drives a Prado). She thinks we don’t know she races, but it’s pretty obvious – who goes for a country drive with their best friend in two separate cars?

  I stood in the doorway of the kitchen getting high on the smell of biscuits cooking. Mmm. She was putting a second round of mixture on the trays ready to go in the oven when the first lot was done. Mum had her back to me, but she must have heard me come in because before I even spoke she said, “No, there will not be any mixture left over, you won’t get it if there is, and you can’t lick the bowl. You can eat one of the biscuits when they come out of the oven, like a nice, civilised grown up would do. And –” She turned to face me. “Jeez, what happened to your face? It’s hideous!”

  I can always rely on Mum for a confidence boost.

  “Well, the wall wasn’t watching where it was going…” I trailed off.

  “Get some ice on it or something, for god’s sake! It’s all bruised and swollen. Where does it hurt?”

  Well, I was guessing it was probably hurting in the same place it was bruised and swollen, but I told her anyway.

  “Just up the middle of my face.” She passed me a bag of frozen peas to put over it.

  “So, apart from your ‘run-in’ with the wall,” – at this point she began to laugh hysterically at her own joke – “how was your day?”

  “Great!” There was no sarcasm in this statement, and my mother cut her eyes to me suspiciously.

  “Drugs?”

  “No, I – ”

  “You found a wallet full of money on your way home and you’re keeping it?”

  “No, I – ”

  “Oh well. Better luck next time.”

  “I’ve got big news. It’s the reason I’m happy.”

  “You’ve finally got a boyfriend and he’s asked you to move in with him! Isn’t that wonderful? Quick, let’s go upstairs and I’ll help you pack. Who is he? When do I get to meet him? How old is he? Not that I care too much if he’s going to get you out of my house.”

  “MUM! That’s not it. I don’t have a boyfriend.” She looked a bit put out at that. “But I did quit my job today.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes…”

  She was concerned. I could see it on her face.

  “Where are you going to work now?”

  I paused. I hadn’t really thought about that. In fact, I’d totally overlooked it.

  “Umm…” I began. “Umm…”

  “Yes?”

  Oops. Forgot about that bit. That whole getting-another-job thing. I wasn’t really qualified to do anything. At all. Maybe I could get unemployment benefits. It probably paid better than my last job.

  “I don’t actually know. I don’t s’pose you’ve heard of any jobs available?” I hoped she had. I’d do anything. It couldn’t be any worse than working at Gregory’s. I was desperate. “Anything?”

  “I’ve heard there’s an opening at Coles.”

  Well, maybe not anything.