The Jesus Man

  Filthy Indian bitch.

  He went to the automatic teller and pressed four buttons. He placed three of the fresh notes into an envelope and slid them into the machine. He had two accounts. This was for his brother. Neil was saving as much as he could for Darren. There was one thousand dollars already in the account.

  Neil had no doubt about his relationship with his brother. It was evil. When Neil was drunk, the devil made the excuses for him. Look, he wants it, look at that little faggot. Look at how he walks past you, almost naked, swinging those hips. He’s asking for it.

  In the morning, knowing the enormity of his sin, he would grab the knives, the nails, the cut glass, draw blood from his skin. His body, his mind, his heart was filth.

  He crossed the road, entered a phone booth and dialled a number. Five rings and it was answered. She was drunk.

  —Yeah?

  —Mum, it’s Neil.

  —Everything right?

  —Yeah, Mum. How are you?

  —Good, mate. Real good. Need some money. You got any money?

  —Mum, I told you. I’m putting it away for Darren.

  —I need it, I’ll look after my son.

  Then why don’t you, why don’t you take him, you fucking black cunt?

  —Are you still living with Steve?

  —Why?

  —Are you?

  —Of course. Me and Steve love each other.

  —Then Darren’s staying with me.

  There was a cackle on the other end of the phone.

  —You can keep the little poofter. Her voice lowered. Don’t trust him, Neil, right? Don’t believe him. Stevo did nothing to him, nothing. It was that little cunt that tried to do things to my Stevo. He’s sick he is.

  —Mum, he’s your son.

  —Yeah, well he’s welcome here any time he wants. But he can’t order me around. If he lives here he lives with Stevo and me.

  —Stephen’s a cunt! Neil exploded.

  —None of that language, and you pretending to be a bloody Christian and all.

  —Sorry, Mum.

  Her voice was soft.

  —That’s all right, love. You a good boy. She shifted tone again. I need some money, love.

  For grog.

  —What for?

  —Life’s hard, Neil. You know that.

  —I’m on the dole, Mum. Like you.

  —Darren told me you got a job, at the church.

  —That’s nothing, Mum, just a pittance. I do it for the church.

  —I wouldn’t worry about the fucking church, Neil boy, they got money, they always got money.

  —That’s not true, Mum. They’re not like the Catholics.

  She snapped at him.

  —Don’t you go insulting my faith.

  —Sorry, Mum.

  She softened again.

  —Can you send up some money, Neil?

  —Got none.

  —How about Darren?

  —No.

  She was angry.

  —By law I should be minding his money.

  —It’s my money, Mum, till he’s eighteen.

  —Well fuck you then, you look after the little shit.

  —He needs you, Mum.

  She began to cry.

  —I’m bad, aren’t I? It’s been hard, Neil, been real hard. You kids are lucky. You don’t know what it was like for me. The rambling began. He knew the litany. Your dad walked out on me. I got no education. I wasn’t a servant, I was a slave.

  He watched the neon lights on the telephone screen. Thirty cents worth of time remaining.

  —Got to go, Mum.

  —I understand. She was almost incoherent, sadness and alcohol.

  —Mum, it’s near the end, you know.

  —What is, love?

  —The Apocalypse. This Gulf War, it’s in the Bible.

  —Love, it’s their Apocalypse, not ours. She laughed. Son, there’ll be plenty of Apocalypse. I promise you that, love.

  The line went dead.

  He went back to the church. The building was dark, cold. He switched on the radio. A commercial for mufflers. The radio announced the five o’clock news. He emptied the bin and lined it with new plastic. The selling of the State Bank, the Kuwait refugees, the war between the Serbians and the Croatians, the chance to win free tickets to Goodfellas. The lead-up to the Grand Final. He began a sweeping again, aimlessly, for no reason except he didn’t want to go home. He was safe here, with God.

  Soo-Ling knocked on the door. Once, softly. Three times hard. The blinds were drawn, there was no light, but she was sure she had heard the sound of television. There was no noise now.

  —Tom, open up. It’s me, I need to speak to you.

  There was nothing.

  Her mouth was dry. And her anger ferocious. She began banging at the door.

  Inside, Tommy was curled, a ball, rocking back and forth.

  —Open the fucking door!

  Soo-Ling kept bashing away, determined.

  The door finally opened.

  She was shocked at how thin he was. The chubbiness in his cheeks which had first attracted her to his face was now all gone. A soiled white T-shirt was hanging off his body. He was unshaven, his hair long and greasy. She stared at him. He attempted a smile.

  He did not want her inside. She was a past he could never return to. But she waited there, shivering, and he invited her in.

  The smell was a pollution. She closed her eyes. Sheets, a blanket on the floor, in front of the television. The refuse of junk food and its wrapping on the floor. She could smell urine everywhere. He sat on the floor, cross-legged, not looking at her.

  She could not begin to speak. She had arrived determined and prepared. A speech. But nothing was possible now. She wanted only to get as far from him as she could. He was not even the body of a man she once knew, once loved. She cringed. The smell of piss and McDonald’s. She sat on the sofa, felt a wetness under her thigh. Her feet kicked at an object. She looked down. A porno. A woman with a dick in her face.

  —I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Tommy lunged for the magazine and hid it into his chest.

  Soo-Ling put up a hand. It said, please, this is nothing.

  He was dying. His eyes, enormous in the sunken face, were tearful.

  —Tommy, Tommy, she whispered, what’s wrong?

  He recoiled from the sound of her voice. It terrified her. She stretched out a hand and he jolted back, pushing against the television. The hurt tempered her compassion. She sat back.

  —So how’s things, Tommy?

  The question sounded like a blasphemy.

  —Fine, fine. He still refused to look at her.

  —Are you eating? She could not avoid this question.

  He nodded, quickly.

  —Are you sure? You look so thin.

  He defiantly shook his head.

  —Nah, I’m still too fat. Always have been.

  —Tommy, look at you, you’re so skinny.

  He scratched at his body. He pulled at skin. He tugged at his T-shirt, wishing to go beyond to the fat, to escape the obscenity of his obesity. She returned to the subject of food. Everything else seemed dangerous.

  —Should I get you something to eat? I can drive down the road to the Chinese take-away. How about I do that?

  His refusal was violent. He stood up, walked agitated back and forth across the room. Her eyes followed him.

  —I’m not hungry, I’m not hungry, I tell you, I’m eating.

  —Have you seen your parents?

  He stood still, faced her. His face was a howl, an immense sadness. She bit her lip. He reminded her of a Christ on the Cross.

  She prayed.

  —Lord help me.

  Tommy heard her whisper. He could not touch her. That would spread the contamination. Instead he walked towards her, towered over her and implored her with his silence. Stop.

  And she did.

  Soo-Ling got to her feet. She touched him softly on his arm and this time he did not pa
nic from the touch. He looked down to her hand.

  She walked straight to the door and said the word without looking back.

  —Goodbye.

  They both waited a beat, paused as the door shut between them, before they both started crying.

  Tommy crouched on the floor, turned on the television, flickered furiously through the channels. Every image disturbed him. He left it on static, requiring the radiation, but jumped to his feet and searched a shelf. He kicked the porno, looked down, grabbed it and flung it against the wall.

  Go to hell.

  He switched on the radio, hustling through stations. Words made him sick. He found a song, an electronic shudder of noise. Only beats and snatched words. He poured the music through the flat, the decibels corrosive, and finally lay relaxed on the floor. The bass of the music massaged his body and a voice above him ordered: Beat dis, beat dis. His fingers searched the floor and curled around a pen. He pushed the ballpoint and started slaying at his arm. It wasn’t until the pen scratched and punctured skin that he was at peace; he smelt the blood flowing. The light from the television. Even with the music screaming he could hear the crackle of the screen. Keeping on slashing at his arm, he relaxed into sedation. The dancing electronic light, the crashing beat; he could no longer hear the demons shrieking in the room next-door.

  Soo-Ling had come to tell Tommy that she was pregnant and that the child, he must know, was his. But his decay had forced her to a different decision. She arrived home and called her mother.

  —Mother, it’s me.

  There was a rush of words. Soo-Ling interrupted. Can I speak to Dad?

  Her fist was tight around the telephone. A man was breathing, waiting.

  —Father, I ask your forgiveness. And she collapsed into waves of crying.

  She arrived a week later with a suitcase. He answered the door. She bowed her head and she was again welcome in his house. That night, alone in her old bedroom, she stopped crying. She ordered her heart to steel. In humbling herself before her father she had forsaken the one refusal that had given her pride. She now felt shame. She closed her eyes, she cursed Tommy, wished his death. She abandoned God.

  13

  War

  Sisters, brothers, we’ll make it to the Promised Land. A young woman was singing, kicking at her chair, a song in her head. A bomb in Jerusalem. The young woman’s hair was straight and limp, her face a raw paleness. Tommy watched the television, blood and limbs, hysterics and prayer.

  The dole queue was slow and crowded. The last few months he had noticed that they were beginning to penalise recipients who came in late in the morning or came in the afternoon. There were less staff waiting at the counter, they pored over the form. He never made it in by the morning. From time to time he forgot, had to argue his case the next day. They knew him by name now. And he knew the others in line with him.

  She was Mattie. Matilda really, but she hated that name. She was pale from blood and pale from drugs. She always sung, to herself but audible, in a surprisingly deep and soulful voice.

  Brothers, sisters, we’ll make it to the Promised Land.

  There was Stan. Stan Kandouris. He was permanently stoned. He hated work and he was hoping to move over to sickness benefits.

  —You should get on the pension, mate. Stan pointed to the scars on Tommy’s arms. They’ll certify you, dead set, with bullshit like that. Stan spat on the floor. On the pension you don’t have to go through this crap.

  There was Clara. Forty-three and deeply embarrassed to be there. She shuffled in, eyes down, always neat, always her clothes ironed. I am a secretary, she told Tommy once, have been for twenty years. Her eyes were frightened. I’ll get a job soon, she had also said, just a matter of time. She was still shuffling in.

  Barry. Kev. Theo. Sandra One and Sandra Two. Van. Vin. Tim. Ahmed. Candy with the big tits. Savino with the big hands. Candy and Sav had begun fucking. There was Oprah and Phil and Sally Jesse Raphael on the television. There was a bomb in Jerusalem. In some Muslim church. Nineteen dead, a hundred and forty wounded.

  —Fucking Muslims.

  Mattie had dated a Muslim last year. He dumped her.

  —I hope they blast the shit out of them.

  —Fuck off, sulked Kev. He was sitting across from her. I hope that Hussein blasts the fuck out of those lousy Jew bastards. He pointed to the television. That’s what Saddam wants to stop.

  —Fuck all of them, said Stan.

  Clara stood up, walked to the toilet.

  —Don’t swear around her, she don’t like it.

  Kev laughed.

  —How about you, bitch, you fucking swear all the time.

  Mattie held up her finger and turned back to the television. She half sang, half spoke.

  —Suckers to the side I know you hate my 98. You’re gonna get yours.

  There was the Punk Princess, all chains and earrings and tattoos. Who’d give her a job? This week she was talking to the single mums, they’d made up. But they didn’t trust her. Weirdo, they called her. Everyone called her that. No-one knew her name.

  Tommy had washed this morning. They were to arrive tomorrow. He did not know who they would bring. The police? A sheriff? Did Australia have sheriffs? This was the last night he could legally stay in the flat. He owed them one thousand two hundred and thirty-six dollars. He knew he could never afford to pay them back. He washed, showered, even cleaned his teeth. He drank his coffee.

  He filled out the form.

  Have you sought work for the period 8/11/90–22/11/90?

  He was happy, this time, not to go through the humiliation of looking through the Yellow Pages. He marked the space. No.

  If not, why not?

  Jesus was a maker of crosses.

  Have you changed your address since your last application?

  Yes.

  Where and why have you changed address?

  He left the spaces empty. He signed the form.

  They called his name. When he slipped the form into the woman’s hand she glanced at it, bored, was about to stamp it and then she stopped.

  —Mr Stefano, the form is not complete.

  He insisted that it was.

  —Excuse me. She walked away. Tommy turned and stared at the people waiting. They all avoided his eyes.

  The woman returned.

  —Mr Stefano, you’ll have to sit an interview.

  And so he waited.

  They called his name and the young man James, with the slicked back hair, the polite smile, waved him into a booth.

  —How are you doing, Tommy?

  —Fine.

  James laid Tommy’s dole form on the desk.

  —Tommy, have you looked for work the last fortnight?

  Tommy shook his head.

  —Why is that?

  —I have my work.

  James looked up.

  —What’s that?

  Tommy squirmed in his seat and said nothing.

  —Tom, we can’t make a payment to you. This is a contract. James pointed to the dole form. If you don’t honour your side of the contract, which is to look for work, then we can’t pay you.

  —I don’t need your money.

  Your money is death.

  —You’ve changed address.

  Tommy nodded.

  —Where are you living?

  —You don’t need to know.

  The two men stared at each other. James was dying for a cigarette.

  —Tom, I’m going to make an appointment for you to see one of our counsellors.

  —I don’t want to.

  James sighed. Fuck this idiot, he thought to himself. He fingered his cigarette packet.

  —Up to you, Tommy. But this means you’re off the dole.

  Tommy stood up. His task here was accomplished. He shook James’s hand.

  —Thank you.

  As he was leaving he spun around in the doorway.

  —I don’t need you any more, I got Jesus, he said.

  James nodded
politely, watched the man walk out and flicked a cigarette to his mouth.

  Tommy walked through the shopping mall. Young mothers pushing prams and old men sitting, smoking, reading the newspaper. He waited for the bus and recognised a stranger from the gym. The man was gargantuan, his body all ripples and muscles. His neck thick. All this flesh is evil, thought Tommy, it is all disease. He tried to smile at the stranger. The man turned away, uncomfortable, a glare on his face. The bus arrived and he made his last ride home.

  He stood in front of the door, his knees weak. He had not been in the bedroom for weeks. He pushed open the door. It was all a coldness. The room was leaden with ice and the heavy weight of stink. He crossed to the trunk and lifted the lid. The video cassettes, the magazines. He doused the contents of the trunk with methylated spirits. He struck a match. In the living room he took the icon in his hands. The Virgin’s face was still dark, her eyes invisible in the black. The Son stared back at him, aloof and reproving. Soon, thought Tommy, I’m going to make it up to you.

  He left the house, the icon in his hand. And in his jacket pocket a knife.

  He walked to the sinner’s house, clutching the icon. Two young boys followed him, taunting him. Jesus freak, Jesus freak. He kept touching the knife in his pocket, and even though the air was warm, he kept his jacket on. He passed a school, young girls skipping rope. He was making it safe. In the treetops the crows were waiting.

  He knocked once and he heard a bang, a short curse, a shadow in the glass. Neil opened the door. His cheeks were dark with stubble, there was no surprise in his eyes.

  —I was expecting you. Darren said you’d been around. He let Tommy in.

  Neil was drunk, he stunk of it, the pharmaceutical stench of red wine. Tommy placed the icon on the table.

  —What’s that?

  Neil took the icon then grimaced.

  —Papist shit.

  The television was on. The preparations for war.

  —Want a coffee?

  Tommy shook his head.

  —Want a drink?

  Again a refusal. The two men looked at each other.

  —What do you want?

  —Let’s pray, Neil, I’ve come to pray with you.

  The room was as before: the filthy mattress, the trunk. The lock had gone. Neil knelt on the floor before the picture of Jesus. A fresh stain of slime trailed down the wall, bubbles had dried to form white flecks in the plaster. Neil’s mouth moved to worship. Tommy listened to the murmurs from the foul mouth. He did not pray. Instead he drew up close to the picture on the wall, studied Jesus. Tiny black writing beneath the image: Christ After the Flagellation Contemplated by the Christian Soul, Diego Velazquez, National Gallery of London. The Christ figure, his arms and legs tied to a post, his anguished eyes, had been painted with a virile economy. This was a man’s body, even in his humiliation. The strength of Jesus shocked Tommy who was more familiar with the softness of the Catholic God or the anorexic poverty of the Orthodox Christ. Tommy’s eyes moved across the picture; the dark flesh, the thick folds of cloth wrapped around Christ’s genitals. Tommy’s own cock responded to the sensuality and to the suffering. He turned sharply from the wall and looked down at the gross man on his knees.