Blood Sunset

17



BY MIDNIGHT THE PARTY was on its way into the messiness that only alcohol can cause and only large amounts of sleep can cure. Not long after, Ella and I were in a cab. Fortunately this driver knew his way around town and neither of us had to give directions.
As it happened, the DJ had gone on to play ‘Khe Sanh’ and ‘Run to Paradise’ and many other classic rock anthems, and, sure enough, everyone sang and cheered in a circle, just as drunken teenagers had done for many years and would no doubt continue to do for many more. It just went to show that no matter how fashionable electronic music became, Australians always reverted to type when it came to a backyard shindig. In the end I regretted having the debate with Anthony about the drugs. Though he sang and carried on with everyone else, there was something missing. An innocence, perhaps. Maybe he would’ve been better off staying in his hot air balloon.
Along St Kilda Road, a canopy of maple trees entwined with green nightlights arched over the boulevard, giving it the feel of a space-age tunnel. Warm air blew in through the windows as we skirted the buildings of downtown and headed into Carlton. When the cab pulled up outside the building where we’d shared an apartment for more than five years, Ella kissed me on the cheek and whispered in my ear, ‘I want you to come upstairs.’
Following her into the foyer, I watched her hips again as they swayed beneath her dress. She moved with more vigour this time and I knew she was putting it on. At the elevator she looked back over her shoulder and caught me watching her.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, smiling.
‘Stalking you.’
The look she gave me told me she was both scared and excited at the same time. I wondered whether she could see the same in me. When the elevator opened I followed her in and she kissed me, first gently, then with more force. I pulled her back against the wall, not wanting it to end. Soon we were staggering through the front door of her apartment. As we reached the bedroom, she unbuckled my belt with awkward hands and I lifted her dress up and over her shoulders. I sat back on the bed and she straddled me, my hands trembling as I guided her onto me. We kissed deeply and she ground herself against me with slow but deliberate thrusts. I was engrossed in her taste and the faint smell of sweat and perfume as she moaned in my ear. I resisted the urge to tell her how long I’d wanted this and how I’d missed her. Instead I just held her as she shuddered and squeezed my head tight against her shoulder.
When she was finished, I pulled her down onto my chest and stroked her back, staring at the ceiling. How long had it been since I’d held her like this? How long since I’d been in this bed, in this apartment? For a moment I wondered how many other men she had been with like this, how many others had stared up at this ceiling. The room was dark now, but the streetlights from outside pierced the window and bathed her figure in shades of soft blue, like a dream. It was a long moment before I realised I was holding my breath.
‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked, her voice muffled against me.
‘Ah, no, it just . . . it just doesn’t seem real, that’s all.’
‘It doesn’t seem real to me either,’ she said, rolling off me. ‘Do you wish it wasn’t real?’
Beneath the sweat and frazzled hair I saw a person lost in uncertainty and in need of stability. In that moment I knew it didn’t matter how many other men had been with her. For them, it would never be like this. For her, and for me, there was only one lover.
‘No. I’m glad it’s real,’ I said.
She squeezed my hand as I slid off the bed and walked to the kitchen for a glass of water. At the sink I paused, looking around the dark room. A freshly pressed hospital uniform hung from a cupboard door handle, dry-cleaning bag draped over it. The blinds in the lounge and dining area were open, the city skyscrapers rising high above. I’d expected the place to feel more familiar, but it didn’t, and I had the sense that this was a good thing. We’d bought the two-bedroom apartment off the plan before the real estate boom in the late nineties and lived in it until our separation.
With two glasses in hand, I walked to the window. About fifty metres east I could see Lygon Street – Melbourne’s Little Italy – winding up after another hot Saturday night. Back in the bedroom, I slid in beside her and pulled the sheet over us. Ella took a sip of water and hugged the sheets as I rested my head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat.
‘I want to tell you a story,’ I said after a while. ‘When I was a kid, my best mate was Tommy Jackson. Jacko, we used to call him. Our dads used to work together on the building sites. We all took holidays together and –’
‘Wait. I think you told me about him. Is he the one you lost touch with, the one who moved to Melbourne?’
‘Yeah, but I never told you why he moved.’
I pictured the events and tried to arrange them into words. ‘I guess I’d sensed a problem with Jacko, but it wasn’t till this one camping trip that I began to understand what was going on. Me, Jacko, Anthony and our dads spent a week on the Murray. Towards the end Anthony caught a cod, over two feet long. Dad and Jacko’s old man were real proud. It was the highlight of the trip and we were going to cook it up for dinner. When it was cooked, Dad flayed the fish on a platter and handed it to Jacko.’ I took a breath, trying to control my emotions. ‘Jacko was clumsy, always falling over, hurting himself. When he got close to the table, he tripped on a stick and the fish went everywhere. We tried to salvage as much as possible, but it was useless and we ended up eating canned soup. Everyone was mad at Jacko, even me. His dad went right off, told him to go to his tent and not come out.’
‘Poor kid,’ Ella said.
I ground my teeth as I recalled what happened next. ‘I don’t know why, maybe because we were all watching, or maybe because he’d had enough, but Jacko didn’t budge, just stood there, shaking. I can’t remember exactly what he said, but he gave his dad some attitude and that was it. His old man threw a full beer can across the campsite. It hit Jacko right in the face, dropped him like a wet towel.’
Ella tensed beside me.
‘He beat the absolute shit out of him, Ella. Right in front of us. Anthony and I tried to stop it but he was too strong. He just kept hitting him and hitting him until Jacko was unconscious and covered in blood.’
‘Jesus. What did your dad do?’
‘Nothing. That’s the point. He just sat there, the gutless bastard. He carries on about how tough he was to go to Vietnam, but he couldn’t stop his own mate from beating up a kid.’
I rolled off her and stared up at the dark ceiling, feeling queasy from the acids mixing with the alcohol and dinner in my stomach.
‘We ended up going home the next day and Jacko had to go into hospital. I don’t know what happened between my dad and Jacko’s dad, but we never went on any more camping trips together after that. Jacko’s family moved out of town and I’d only see him every so often. Even when we did catch up, we never spoke about that day.’
‘He leave to escape his dad?’ asked Ella.
‘S’pose. Left town as soon as he turned eighteen. By then I was old enough to know what happened on the camping trip wasn’t a one-off event. I was also old enough to know that all the bruises and scratches Jacko’d had over the years weren’t from falling over.’
We lay there for a while then and I listened to her breathing over the top of the traffic on Lygon Street. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed across the city. Another emergency; somebody else’s this time.
‘One day I decided I was going to come down to Melbourne to find him and I made Dad come with me. We hit St Kilda and asked around but nobody wanted to help. Even the coppers weren’t interested. Back then St Kilda was wild. It scared the shit out of me. How was a kid from the country going to survive in a jungle like that? Anyhow, we spent a full week looking for him, but we were never going to find him. For the next two years I worked with Dad on the building sites and life carried on. Just after I turned twenty we heard Jacko had died of a drug overdose. About a year later I joined the police.’
Ella ran her hand through the hair on my chest. It was a sensual touch that felt out of place and I wanted her to stop, but I didn’t tell her.
‘And you blame Jacko’s father for that?’ she said after a while.
‘Course I do.’
‘What about your own dad? Did you ever speak about it later?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you should’ve.’
‘I didn’t know how he’d take it.’
‘Well, it’s not too late, you know?’
‘Yeah, I know.’
We were silent again, and I remembered one of the nights Dad and I spent trying to find Jacko. For hours we stood at the entrance to Luna Park, just hoping he might happen by. But he never did, and Dad and I never spoke about it. By then I’d worked out that Dad had known about the abuse for many years but had chosen to do nothing about it because he was mates with Jacko’s father. Since then I’d accepted – through my own silence – that Dad’s guilty conscience was punishment enough. But it wasn’t. Dad needed to know that his failure to act or intervene made him culpable, that he was part of the problem. Part of the system. Just like anyone who chose to ignore something in the hope that someone else would deal with it. It wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation, but Ella was right. I had to tell him. Things would never be right between us until I did.
‘I guess I just feel a bit weird, that’s all,’ I said. ‘I mean, these last few days have been full on, and tonight with Johnno turning eighteen and all. That’s how old Jacko was when he left Benalla.’
Ella seemed to consider this, then rolled over and faced me. ‘I saw you with Anthony tonight. You looked like you were arguing. Do you want to tell me about it?’
I hadn’t considered telling Ella about Anthony’s request for me to talk to Chloe because I wasn’t sure what angle to take, and I wasn’t even sure what Ella would make of it.
‘He was drunk and he wanted the music changed, that’s all. Do you want to go out on the balcony and have a smoke?’
It was an obvious lie and I knew what was coming. She shrugged me aside and sat up.
‘No, I don’t want to smoke. If something’s going on, I want you to talk to me. I know he’s your brother but I’m your –’
She caught herself mid-speech and stared at the window. I put my hand on her naked back.
‘What are we doing, El?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, reaching over for the water and drinking the last of it.
I slid out of bed and took the glass back to the kitchen. At the sink I splashed cold water on my face and was struck by a moment of clarity. Why didn’t I trust her? I’d let her in on my movements at work, so why not the family? Just then I realised there was no other way. To get what you want, you have to know what you want. If I wanted her back, if I wanted our old life back, I needed to treat her like a wife instead of an ex-wife. I needed to trust her again.
I turned around with the glass, but stopped when she came out of the bedroom in a bathrobe, a cigarette in hand.
‘You still want that smoke?’ she asked.
‘No.’ I handed her the glass of water. ‘Anthony found drugs in Chloe’s room. Ecstasy tablets. That’s what we were arguing about.’
‘Oh no.’
‘He wants my help but he doesn’t want to hear what I’ve got to say.’
‘What’s there to say? She needs to stop. You know how many drug overdoses we see in emergency every weekend?’
I nodded. ‘I know that, but it’s complicated. He wants me to talk her out of it. I think he wants me to scare her.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You want me to talk to her? I could tell her about all the kids we see on the weekends. That’s scary, just the number of them coming in.’
‘And so could I, El. I could also tell her about all the brawls, assaults, rapes and car accidents we get because people can’t handle their drinking. Do you think that’ll turn her off alcohol?’
‘You can’t make that comparison. Alcohol is legal. Ecstasy isn’t.’
‘Doesn’t automatically make one more dangerous than the other though.’
‘Right.’ Ella finished the glass of water in one gulp and picked up a bottle of wine off the bench. She held it in the air like a trophy. ‘This is alcohol, Rubens. It’s been around for centuries. Jesus Christ even drank it, so we know exactly what it does to us over time, and we know exactly what’s in it. Look, it says it right here on the label.’
She swayed on her feet, trying to read the alcohol percentage information. She’d obviously drunk more than I thought, and I knew there was no point doing this now.
‘Look, I know all that,’ I said. ‘Let’s not talk about it now. I am worried about it. I mean, it could just be a phase and she’ll grow out of it, or it could get worse. But I need to think it through before I speak to her. I want to make things better, not worse.’
She put the wine down and raised her palms to the air, feigning indifference. ‘Fine. Let’s go back to bed then.’