She liked to imagine how he was before she knew him, when he was a love-sick young husband sleeping beside his lovely wife. She imagined he never let Eugenie go; even in his sleep he gripped her hand or circled her waist. If she rolled over, he moved with her. If she got up, he awoke with a start and called her name. In the mornings he trailed her to the bathroom, his hands on her hips, his steps comically small. If they had to part, he would kiss her face all over and make her promise to think of him every minute. If Katie had danced naked in front of him he would not have seen her. He would be looking over her shoulder, waiting for Eugenie to reappear.
She was sick with tiredness but the humming in her brain made sleep impossible. Her hands felt arthritic, tiny bombs exploded in her calves and something in her throat bubbled when she swallowed. She counted her breaths and then woke with a jolt, feeling that she was flying fast into the ceiling.
Nights and dawns were only endurable if she distracted herself with thoughts like what CDs she wanted or how to find the money for more grog. Sex and shops and food and TV commercials. A sad man and his corny tattoos. The stuff of life was all distraction, and distraction allowed her to get on with the stuff of life. But nobody stays distracted. The song ends and the man sleeps and the alcohol wears off and there it is; the window, the truck, the bread knife in its stay-sharp sheath.
18.
Graeme said hello to the madman with the stick whenever he passed. The man had never responded with more than an outraged glance, but this morning he said, ‘Careful, careful, son.’
‘Careful of what?’
The man tapped his stick against the side of the bus shelter. ‘What a question! You’ve been here long enough, you should know where the traps lie by now.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m a slow learner.’
‘Lucky you’ve still got the top of your head!’
‘Yes.’ The man’s beige pants were splattered with dark spots and his thick white hair was flat with grease. ‘Do you live nearby?’
The man stared straight past him. ‘They pretend not to hear. Hey!’ He darted past Graeme, and ran with surprisingly long and fast strides to the traffic lights down the road. He stopped and leant on his stick, then stood straight and shook his stick at an oncoming bus.
‘Poor old bugger.’
Graeme turned to the woman who’d spoken. She was Katie’s age, but dressed like a little girl, in a short dress and knee socks. She wore a backpack and held a laminated student card in one hand; the other hand jiggled loose change.
‘I see him here a lot. He was in a war, he told me. Not sure which one. It’s hard to talk to him. He comes in and out.’
‘Do you know if he lives around here? If he’s alone?’
‘Dunno.’ She craned her neck, signalled the approaching bus. ‘Hope not. Too sad otherwise, isn’t it?’
Graeme watched the girl mount the steps of the bus and pay the driver. When she disappeared from view he turned his attention back to the old man, who was shaking and shouting now at nothing at all. Two suits walked past, swerving together to the far edge of the footpath without seeming to have noticed him at all. As they approached Graeme a sharp pain in his head screamed Kick their feet from under them. Grab their neat heads and spit into their smug mouths. Make them pay some goddamn attention.
The rage dissipated as soon as he acknowledged it.
He waited for the suits to pass and then fell into step behind them. He walked past the office and bought a coffee at the corner shop, exchanging lifted eyebrows with the bloke behind the counter who knew without being told that Graeme wanted a latte with two sugars. He unlocked the office and walked through the empty reception area, listened to the others arrive as he drank his coffee. He thought about asking Sherry and Mike if they’d seen the madman with the stick, if they knew what his story was, but they’d think his joining their morning chat odd. He imagined the faces they’d pull at each other. Talk about a madman, Mike would say.
It was one week into February and it seemed that after a solid month of unrelieved humidity, there would finally be rain. The air, as Graeme walked home, was electric. The streets bristled as wind kicked up dried-out leaves, faded chip wrappers, disintegrating cigarette butts. People walked fast, looking up at the sky. Graeme walked slowly, hoping to feel the first drops.
As he crossed Broadway he considered detouring around the block before going home, but Mrs Lewis was standing by the mailboxes watching him approach.
‘Mrs Lewis, hello.’
She smiled. ‘I’m sure I’ve told you to call me Ann.’
‘Okay, Ann.’ He nodded towards the entrance. ‘On your way up?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I’ve just come down. I was going to call you later on, but then I saw you coming and so . . .’
‘I’m sorry for the other day at lunch, I –’
She waved a peach-nailed hand at him. ‘It’s fine. Actually, it’s why I’m . . . I need to ask you a favour and I wouldn’t bother you with it except the other day you showed such concern over Katherine and . . .’ She put her hands on the low brick wall behind her and pulled herself up, motioning to Graeme to join her.
He shook his head, held his ground. ‘What is it you’d like me to do?’
She sighed. ‘I need to go away for a few weeks. My daughter – Katherine’s mother – broke her leg and she needs help with the house and everything. But I’m anxious, you know, about Katherine. Like you said on Sunday – someone needs to be watching her.’
‘You should ask Adam. He’s much closer to her than me.’
‘No. He’s . . . He’s a disappointment, to be honest. When I met him he seemed so decent, so mature. I couldn’t imagine him taking up with a kid like Katherine. Oh, not that I don’t think she’s loveable – I know she is – only that she’s so young and so obviously vulnerable and I thought he was the kind of man who wouldn’t take advantage.’
Graeme pictured Katie wriggling half-dressed into his bed; how differently that would have ended twenty years ago. He swallowed dry air and said nothing.
‘Anyway,’ Ann continued, ‘I was wrong about him, but I don’t think I’m wrong about you. I think you’re a decent man, that you wouldn’t take advantage of her or turn a blind eye if something was wrong.’ Her eyes had the same shiny, guileless intensity as Katie’s. ‘Am I wrong, Graeme? Am I wrong to trust you with her?’
‘Of course you can trust me, but I’m not sure what you’re asking.’
‘Maybe nothing. Maybe a hell of a lot.’ She smiled as thunder cracked in the distance. ‘Katherine’s like the weather, you know, it’s possible she’ll be fine, better than fine. She can be so lovely, Graeme. Bright and funny and . . .’ She sighed. ‘But if she’s not, if she starts getting dark, you need to take note. If she stops eating, stops going out, stops . . . stops being Katherine, then call me – you have my mobile. And especially if – and this probably won’t happen – if she gets violent –’
‘Violent how?’
‘You’ve seen what she did to her face. We both know they’re not bloody tribal markings.’ Ann squeezed the bridge of her nose. ‘If she hurts herself again call me. It’s usually nothing to worry about – god, what a thing to say, right?’ She jumped down from the wall and took hold of his arm. ‘You understand why I reacted the way I did the other day? I’ve had years of this, Graeme. Years. It’s got so a couple of burns are no big deal. Just Katherine blowing off steam. It’s got so the things that used to terrify me now make me just slightly more watchful for a week or so. And when an outsider comes in and acts like I’m not taking care of her . . .’ She let go of his arm, held her palms up to the sky. ‘Fussing about, hovering over her – it doesn’t work. I lost her once. Eight months and I didn’t have a clue where she was, if she was sick or in pain or worse. I learnt that I have to give her as much independence as I can stand. I have to choose my battles carefully or I’ll lose her altogether.’
‘Okay,’ Graeme said, as another clap of thunder sounded. ‘You w
ant me to watch from afar, not interfere, call you if she seems to be slipping or if she hurts herself.’
Ann reached into her bag and pulled out a business card. ‘Her doctor. She goes every second Thursday. I’ll text to remind her so you don’t have to worry about remembering. But that’s the number of his office and his emergency service, just in case you can’t reach me.’
A drop of rain slid down the back of his neck. He tucked the card into his shirt pocket. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay.’ She smiled, biting her lip. ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine.’
‘Yes. Me too. We should get inside.’
‘I have to go. I have work.’ She nodded and patted his forearm. ‘Don’t tell her I asked you to do this, okay? She’ll feel humiliated.’
‘Sure.’ A sheet of lighting flashed overhead and the gentle rain became a sudden torrent. Ann laughed and tucked her handbag into her side. ‘Safe trip,’ Graeme yelled over the roar. She raised a hand, mouthed thank you, turned and ran fast down the street.
19.
Adam found a job washing dishes at an Indian restaurant on Glebe Point Road. The money wasn’t great – sixty bucks for eight hours’ work – but it was cash in hand, no questions asked, and he got a hot meal of dhal and roti every shift. He figured that if he paid for nothing but rent and an occasional sandwich to keep him going between shifts, he’d be home in less than two months.
He forgot that mindless work encouraged thinking. There at the sink, rinsing, scrubbing, passing, drying, carrying, the thoughts he’d avoided for the last few months made their way forward. His mind spooled back through all Eugenie’s weird aches and pains, the swollen stomach, the way she started leaving a third, then half, then almost all of her dinner on the plate. He tried driving the memories away by concentrating on the restaurant music, but the lyrics were in Hindi and his brain began throwing up long-forgotten scenes, early moments when he teased her about her fear of doctors, then later, when he urged her to get over her childish dread and get a damn check-up. He replayed the arguments again and again, furious at how ineffectual he’d been, how easily he’d given in. If there had ever been a time for forcefulness . . .
He scrubbed bright orange stains off the thali bowls and thought about her joking that it was just her luck to finally have a fashionable shape and be too sick to go shopping. He carried a tray of clean bowls to the preparation bench and picked up a tray of dirty ones on his way back to the sink. He emptied the sink, wiped down the sides, and refilled it with hot water. He heard her crying and holding his hands.
He asked his fellow dishpig Arj to turn the radio to a news station, and told Arj’s uncle that he was willing to work any extra shifts that were available. He asked the men to explain to him again the rules of cricket and half-listened to them while he tried to remember the sound of Eugenie’s laugh. He asked intentionally stupid questions about innings and underarm bowling, dhal recipes and spice suppliers. He wondered how it was possible to miss a scattering of fragments so much.
He walked home from work along glistening streets. The air was cool and damp. Twigs were scattered over the clean sidewalk. It had rained at last and he had missed it.
When he reached the humid, smoky flat, Katie was waiting for him. ‘You must need a drink,’ she said, handing him a beer.
‘What I need is a shower.’ He sat down in his stinking kitchen clothes and drank the beer while Katie rubbed the back of his neck.
‘Gran came around before. I told her where you were and she got all suspicious. Doesn’t know why you’d wash dishes when you’re already working in a shoe shop. Said you’re probably out dealing drugs or picking up girls.’
Adam held up his wrinkled hands. ‘I wish.’
‘Ha, I know. She came over because my mum broke her leg and needs help with the housework and cooking for the husband and kid.’
‘So you’ll be spending some time with your mom. That’s great.’
‘God, no. I’d be in a locked ward by the end of the week.’ Katie chopped her hands across his shoulders. ‘Gran’s going; flying up to Rockie in the morning. But like, five minutes after she left I went down to check on Phyl. I was standing at the window over her sink rinsing tea cups and I see Gran and bloody Graeme having a big D and M out by the mailboxes.’
‘D and M?’
‘Deep and meaningful. You know, huddled together nodding and patting arms and shit.’ Katie stopped chopping his shoulders, draped herself over them instead. ‘The rain started and Phyl hollered that all her windows were open so I had to bolt around closing them and when I get back, I see Graeme jogging up the walkway to the foyer, dripping wet. So I told Phyl I had to go and I charged out and caught the bugger just as he was getting into the lift.’
Adam yawned. ‘And?’
Katie slapped his arm. ‘And I asked him what the story was and at first he was all “Story? What story?” you know, but I just asked him straight out then – because I know Gran, right – I just asked straight out if she’d told him to keep tabs on me while she’s away and he couldn’t deny it. He said he’d agreed just to set her mind at rest, but that I shouldn’t worry because he had no intention of keeping more of an eye on me than I wanted him to.’
Adam craned his head to look at her. ‘What does that mean? Why would you want his eyes on you at all?’
‘He didn’t mean it like that,’ Katie said. ‘He just meant he’s on my side.’
After his second night of work at the Indian restaurant, Adam came home and found Katie and Graeme on the sofa together, her legs on his lap, wine glasses in their hands.
‘Good night, babe?’ Katie asked.
‘Fine. How was yours?’
‘Quiet.’
‘How about you, Graeme? Good night? Cosy?’
‘Mmm, past my bedtime, though.’ Graeme lifted Katie’s legs, nodded at Adam and scurried from the room.
A couple of nights later, they were there again. This time, Katie was lying down with her feet on Graeme’s thighs. They both looked up at Adam, and then, when Katie began to speak, Graeme’s eyes returned to her face.
‘Adam, did you know Graeme’s a war hero? You should hear the stories.’
‘Really? What war? Because I remember you saying you weren’t in Vietnam.’
‘Right,’ Graeme said, without looking up. ‘I’ve never fought in a war. I was only talking about my aid work.’
‘Only! You should hear the stuff he’s done. It’s not just like Angelina Jolie or Bono or someone popping in to say hi, Graeme lived in these amazing, dangerous, scary places for months and years and –’
‘Sounds fascinating,’ Adam said.
‘Oh, it is. Graeme, tell him about the little boy in Somalia!’
Adam leant against the front door, arms folded.
‘Another time. It’s late.’ Graeme squeezed Katie’s foot, a signal, evidently, to allow his escape.
Adam didn’t think Katie and Graeme were sleeping together and wouldn’t have cared if they had been. He would have been relieved to have less of Katie’s attention. She told him constantly that she loved him and then rushed to add that she knew he didn’t love her and that was fine and she was just happy he let her love him. She was still as aggressively sexual as she had been the night he met her. If he was too tired or drunk she’d go ahead and get herself off using whatever bit of his body she could take hold of. When he was up for it she was embarrassingly generous. If not for her lack of skill and grace he would have thought she had been trained as an elite callgirl so tireless and cheerful was her dedication to his orgasm. Regardless of his intentions at the beginning of the night, he always ended up saturated with her.
He wasn’t jealous, but his discomfort grew. On a Saturday at the end of his second work week, he woke early to an empty bed – not an unusual event given how little Katie slept. He went to the bathroom and then to the kitchen for a drink of water. It wasn’t until he was climbing back into bed that he realised he had walked the length of the apartment without seeing
her.
He checked the apartment again, then went to the living room window, last night’s korma bubbling in his gut. There was nothing to see – a sidewalk under a grey dawn sky. He remembered Graeme and jogged down the hall, threw the man’s door open and flicked on the light. Katie’s stubbled head appeared from behind the bulk of her bedmate whose pin-prick eyes blinked fast.
‘You’re awake,’ Katie said.
‘Obviously. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, babe. Just chatting.’
‘Hello,’ Graeme said, sitting up. He was wearing a blue striped pyjama shirt like someone out of a child’s story book.
Adam pictured the striped pants scrunched at the bottom of the bed. ‘I’m not like judging or anything,’ he said. ‘You can do whatever you like, really, I don’t care. But I’d just like to be, you know, in the loop. So if it’s not too much trouble could you tell me what the fuck you two are doing?’
‘Chatting, like I said.’ Katie slithered from the bed and came to his side. She was wearing sweatpants and one of Adam’s T-shirts. ‘Come on, let’s get you back to bed.’
Adam looked at Graeme who was covering his mouth with his hands. ‘Is something funny?’
Graeme shook his head.
‘Babe, you’re naked,’ Katie said softly.
‘You’re pissed off at me,’ Katie said, closing Adam’s door a few minutes later.
Adam yanked the sheet over his groin. ‘No. Katie, I couldn’t find you. Then I found you in there and I don’t know what’s going on.’
‘Nothing’s going on.’ Katie lay beside him and closed her eyes. ‘It’s nice to have someone to talk to.’
‘What’s wrong with talking to me?’
‘Nothing. Just . . .’ She squeezed his arm and sighed.
‘Yeah? Just?’
‘When I’m with you I feel like nothing will ever be wrong again.’ Her eyes fluttered open. ‘But there are things I can’t say to you.’