The Fancies, page 21
So Col pulled into the vacant lot.
‘Hey, man,’ said Brian Wimple, strolling up to Col, then he stopped dead. ‘Shiiit,’ he drawled, whistling. ‘That looks nasty.’
‘So’s your sister,’ said Col.
‘Is that really Twitch’s handiwork?’
Col shrugged. ‘I’m no snitch.’
Brian handed Col a joint. Col smoked until his face stopped hurting. Little Jase Turner showed up, followed by his brother Adrian, and for a while Col worried he might be pushed from the top of the food chain—especially when Trisha Loft cruised past—but in the end, after the Turner brothers conducted a conference inside Adrian’s ute, Adrian drove off having not even set foot on the weedy gravel, so Col’s position was safe.
It did not take long for Jessica to grow bored. On her mother’s front porch, she listened to her mother, Sheila Rocket and Mrs Dinwiddle dissect the town from one side to the other while she scrolled Instagram and kept an eye on the developments in the vacant lot—of which, even after some time had elapsed, there were none. Other than Col Morton and Little Jase Turner, Jessica saw no one of any import. Brian Wimple was handing out pot, but what else was new?
A few times, Jessica was sure Col had seen her, his face turned in what appeared to be the direction of her mother’s house, but when she stared back at him, he turned quickly away.
Jessica’s wine glass was empty. Her phone read 9.18pm; she’d been watching the vacant lot for almost twenty minutes. She tuned into the conversation around her (‘No, no,’ Sheila Rocket was saying, ‘It was his great-uncle, not his grandfather …’) then tuned out, flicking to the photos her mother had sent, zooming in and out. That was definitely Adrian Turner’s ute. So where was Adrian now? He wasn’t on Instagram so Jessica couldn’t check, and there were no new posts from Little Jase Turner, nor Col. As she was flicking over to check Facebook, a text came in from her husband, which wasn’t unusual, but in it he asked after her whereabouts, which was. Was he really that nervous about Col? she wondered. @ mum’s, she wrote. Back soon. She hesitated, then added xxx before sending.
Over at the vacant lot, the men continued sitting around the fire. Other than the occasional arm lifting to drink, no one moved. The ocean rumbled and soughed, leaves rustled, a boobook hooted.
‘… ten cents,’ Mrs Dinwiddle said, ‘and back then that was expensive, for a stamp …’
Idly tapping her phone against her thigh, Jessica had the idea that she could go over to the drive-in, inject some fizz into the situation. She could see what they were talking about, and find out how Col was doing. Because although she had not seen Col today, Jessica had heard that Twitch had taken Col to the lighthouse and people were saying that Col was nursing a black eye. Jessica was experiencing conflicting feelings about this knowledge. In part she found it thrilling, almost titillating—the idea of an old-school manly punch-up over a woman’s honour. But also, more annoyingly, Jessica suspected any bruising on Col would only serve to remind people that Abigail Fancy was back, because Abigail was also currently sporting a black eye. And that particular bruise Jessica had seen for herself.
‘… seventy-eight hectares, or is it seventy-nine?’
Jessica yawned and glanced at her mother, who shot Jessica a look that she could not interpret.
‘What’s that?’ said the postmistress suddenly, sitting forward.
All four heads swivelled to the vacant lot.
‘Where?’ said Sheila.
At the drive-in, the fire flickered. Col took a drink. Crickets chirped. Nothing else happened.
‘Never mind,’ said Mrs Dinwiddle, deflating.
Pushing back her chair, Jessica stood. Her mother’s eyes went wide in a silent plea. Jessica left the porch, went into the house and made her way to the bathroom.
Her mother’s bathroom was small and spotless, everything in its place: clean cake of soap on a tray, hand towel hung just so, tiny pot-plant trailing leaves down one side of the vanity. Jessica locked the door. The older women’s voices continued to murmur. Jessica checked her reflection, fixed her ponytail, swiped mascara from beneath her eyes. Rummaging in a drawer, she found lip gloss and slicked some on. She lifted her shirt, rearranged her breasts. Then she changed her mind and pulled down her pants. She arched her back, snapped a photo. Hit send.
Jessica returned to the kitchen. Filling another glass of wine, she went out to the front porch, put her feet up and waited.
OLD DICK
Everything has gone quiet. No voices, no footsteps. Even the TV is silent.
You might wonder where they all went, but I couldn’t care less. A man doesn’t have the energy or inclination to care about where all the noisy bastards went when it’s time to kick the bucket.
Richard, honey, you’re not dying today.
I want to ask the woman what she knows about dying. Has she ever died before? No. She hasn’t. The way I see it, until you can call yourself an expert on any matter, it’s best to keep your mouth shut. But I’m a gentleman and Luce would have my guts if I back-talked a lady, so I don’t say anything.
Oh, now the cat’s got your tongue, has it?
The woman is standing there with her hands on her hips. If I had to guess, I’d say she looks mad, but sometimes I can’t tell how women are feeling just by what’s on their faces. I swear, a woman’s face was designed that way on purpose—looking like one thing, but thinking or feeling another thing altogether—just to make men say something stupid and get themselves into trouble.
Now her face changes again and she sighs, and if I had to guess, I’d say she looks wistful.
Could have used a little of this silence earlier, she says.
What in the blazes is she talking about?
It’s late, are you tired?
I’m not tired, I’m dying. There’s a difference.
Now she’s sighing again, looking out the door and talking about Abigail being asleep finally and she doesn’t know what she’s going to do. There isn’t any time, she’s saying. We need time, but there isn’t any. I look at the clock and tell her it’s about half past nine. For a few seconds she looks at me, puzzled, and then she smiles but it’s a sad smile, so maybe it’s not a smile after all. Now she’s sitting on the bed and putting her hands over her face and I still don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.
The young fella knocks on the door frame. Why’s he knocking? The door’s wide open. This isn’t a dunny and I’m not sitting here taking a dump.
Sorry, Luce.
Now his face? His face, I understand. That’s an expression I’m familiar with. If I’ve seen that face on one man I’ve seen it on a hundred. I’ve seen it on boats, in paddocks, at the pub. I’ve seen it when the night was so dark you couldn’t see anything at all. That right there? That’s a man as angry as a cat with its tail on fire.
ABIGAIL
At first, when Abigail awoke, she did not know where she was. Emerging into consciousness felt like being yanked from the bottom of a well. Dim, shadowed room; lying on a lumpy surface, mouth tasting faintly of garlic. Then she remembered: the couch. Home.
She was cradled on her side, hip disappearing into the rift between two cushions. So bizarrely comfortable, all her aches vanished, as if this couch had been engineered just for her at this exact point in her life. How long had she been asleep? From another room she could hear the murmur of her parents’ voices, the clink of a spoon against a cup, the tick of a clock.
Yawning, she stretched her arms and the muscles along her spine and down her legs shuddered back to life. Digging awkwardly in her pocket, she retrieved her crappy new phone and checked the time. Almost ten. Barely an hour she’d been asleep yet she felt as rested as if she’d slept all night.
‘What the hell was in that soup?’ she muttered to the empty lounge room.
Blue light from the tiny screen illuminating her face, she keyed in a text: Missing the cows?
The reply came after a few minutes. Pining.
This is the problem with pimps, she wrote. They can’t get enough. How’s your leg?
Nate began to reply then stopped, then started again. This went on for several minutes, and she was close to setting the phone aside when the message finally dropped in:
Leg fine. Hows your enema?
She let out a burst of laughter. She could picture Nate staring at his phone, disbelief mounting, wondering how he could take it back.
*everything
**all your body
You know what? Forget it.
Abigail wrote, Sadly I know you didn’t mean that in a sex way. Right now I’m comfy but tomorrow could be hell
But then Nate’s response pinged in, and had she not been wedged into the cushions, she might have fallen off the couch:
How do u know I didnt mean it in a sex way?
‘Oh, it’s like that, is it?’ she said, smiling and settling into the cushions.
Then her mother came into the room.
‘You’re awake,’ Nell said.
Momentarily blinded by the phone screen, Abigail blinked into the dark. ‘What did you put in my soup?’
‘Nothing. But there might have been hops in your tea.’
‘Might have been?’
‘Was.’
There was a click and Abigail’s vision flooded white. ‘Jesus,’ she cried, screwing her eyes shut. ‘Do you mind? And I was already tired—you didn’t have to roofie me.’
‘Oh, please,’ said Nell. Abigail heard the huff of a cushion as her mother sat down. ‘It was just a few flowers. Less than what’s in a beer.’
Abigail cracked open one eye. Her mother was sitting on an armchair opposite, lit by the glow from a small lamp. ‘I’d rather have had a beer.’ Abigail picked up her phone. ‘Now can you leave? I’ve got a vet to sext.’
‘Leave him alone. He’s a good vet.’
‘I’ve no intention of compromising his veterinary skills.’
‘No, but you’ll compromise my relationship with him. Then I’ll have to go back to calling someone from the bigger town, and the travel fees are ridiculous. Ruskin coming here was a godsend.’
‘Even if he’s a blow-in?’
‘Even then.’
Sleepiness was tugging at Abigail again. She fluffed her hair and pouted her lips, angling the phone a little further, pulling down the neck of her jumper to expose some bare skin, the dip of her collarbone. The shutter clicked; the message whooshed off.
‘Abigail, can you listen to me?’
Something in her mother’s tone made her look up. Among the mild impatience and exasperation, a sharp edge crept in.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m sending Nate a ph—’
‘Forget the bloody vet,’ Nell said. ‘You know damn well what I mean. And I’m tired of arguing, so please answer me. If you’re going to stay here, we’re going to have to talk.’ Her mother leaned forward, elbows on knees, and repeated, ‘What are you going to do?’
It was an excellent question.
Currently she was tucked on a couch, belly full of potato and leek soup, flirting badly by text with a hot vet. Less than a week ago, she had been lying in her narrow bunk on a thin mattress after an unsatisfying dinner of slop-in-a-box, staring at the blue slice of floodlight cutting across the ceiling from the skinny window, claustrophobic and lonely. A year ago, she might have been sitting on an orange bar stool drinking half-price shots of tequila at a bar that had old number plates and horse bridles hanging from the walls, surrounded by drunk stable-hands.
She thought back further. Five years, ten years, twenty. Certain details stuck—shivering, stamping her feet against the cold in line outside a club, breath and cigarette smoke fogging up into the night; the heavy roll of a horse in a straw-filled stall; headlights strobing on tree trunks through switchbacks in the Hills. But other memories were spongy, harder to pin down. That time she had slipped on a mossy trail and sprained her ankle, hobbling three kilometres back to the car with her arm over a friend’s shoulder, the air sharp with eucalyptus and campfire smoke—when was that? That time she caught the flu and couldn’t get out of bed for three days and Mark had actually shouldered open the door, lock splintering through the architrave, to check if she was okay—when was that? Her life had become a series of murky eras, defined by jobs, by people who’d come in and out, most of them already ghosts. There was her childhood in Port Kingerton, there was the leaving, and then there was two decades of whirlwind: years spent chasing a desperation to forget, hoping the next thing—town, job, lover—would wash her clean, make her safe. Would convince her that she wasn’t the contemptible person she believes she is.
But now: returning home. An ending and a beginning as clear-cut as yelling out the window of Zac Murphy’s Corolla, I’m never fucking coming back.
What was she going to do now?
Her mother waited.
Abigail realised she was too tired to argue anymore. Too tired to try and hide. Her mother was right: they could not keep sniping at one another.
‘Abigail?’
‘I can’t go back.’
‘To the city?’
‘To prison.’
‘I know that,’ Nell said, as if it was obvious. Then she added, more gently, ‘But you can’t work with Nate Ruskin much longer.’
With difficulty, Abigail sat up. She let the blood in her body redistribute itself. ‘You know what’s crazy? The night before I got out, I was shitting myself. I hated every minute in that hole, and yet there I was, about to get out, and I was terrified.’
Her mother narrowed her eyes. ‘Of coming back here?’
‘Believe it or not,’ Abigail replied with a mirthless laugh, ‘no. I was scared to get out because I was scared of having to go back in. Being in prison sucks, but being sent to prison is horrendous. Unless you’ve been through it, you can’t imagine the humiliation. And your entire sentence is in front of you. Once you’re inside, it blows but at least every day is a day closer to getting out. But outside …’ She trailed off. What was she trying to say? What was more terrifying than a torture you were currently enduring?
The threat of something worse: that it could happen again, and again.
‘Outside, it’s the devil you don’t know.’
Nell considered her for so long, Abigail wondered if she would speak at all. ‘There are devils from your past here, too,’ Nell said finally. ‘Are you ready to face them?’
Abigail repeated what she had said to her mother last night: ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
The phone chirped.
A photo: pale yellow botfly eggs speckling the underside of a horse’s belly.
Oh god. Sorry.
Hey, she wrote, as far as dick pics go, I’ve seen worse.
THEM
Almost ten pm. No moon; the stars scattered chips of ice in the sky. A dense mist slunk off the ocean, leaving beads of moisture on hoodies, slicking the duco of the utes. Someone threw another stick in the fire and sparks flared up. A car stereo was tuned to Triple M playing hits from the 90s, making them all nostalgic for their teens.
Col’s phone beeped. He drew it out and saw a flesh-coloured blur. He blinked a few times, pressed his fingertips carefully into his eyelids and tried again, but the photo remained opaque, a fuzzy, pinkish square.
Col looked up. He was seated on the tailgate of his ute, parked with a few others in a rough circle, all reversed around the fire. Tailgates down, blokes lounged, legs swinging, tins lifting to mouths.
When Col first arrived his vision had been fine. Sure his head hurt, but his eyes were working. Now, Col realised as he glanced around the group, he could not see very well at all. If he squinted he could make out Little Jase Turner, a few feet away, but across the circle, past the fire in the drum, he could see only indistinct shapes.
Col wasn’t drunk, but he was stoned. Plus he was cold. And the others were being far too loud. The men’s laughter was strident, their voices drilling into his head then pushing out from the inside of his skull.
Col frowned at his phone, holding it at arm’s length, then bringing it close to his face, right under his throbbing nose. Nothing worked. He couldn’t see the photo. He couldn’t even read the text to see who it was from.
‘What you got there?’
Col lifted his face and found someone standing alongside him. A tall, skinny silhouette smudging out the stars.
‘Pottsy,’ Col said. ‘When’d you get here?’
‘I been here a while,’ Damon Potts replied in his reedy, nasal voice. ‘You been asleep?’
Col ignored Pottsy and got back to trying to interpret the blur on his phone. Was that an elbow? he wondered.
‘Who’s that?’ Pottsy said, coming in closer. Then he whistled, long and low. ‘Da-a-amn, I’d hit that.’
‘You couldn’t hit a bitch on heat, Pottsy, you wanker,’ someone yelled. Raucous laughter rang out and Col thought his forehead might pop open with the intensity of the sound. He imagined the front of his skull shooting off, the pillow of his brain bursting out like an airbag.
‘Fuck off, Pottsy,’ Col muttered and went to pocket his phone, but before he could it was snatched from his hand.
‘Hey! Give that back.’
‘Hello,’ said another voice, with an appreciative whistle, ‘who’s that?’
‘Niiice.’
Col clambered to his feet but found himself plonking right back down again, tailgate smacking into his rear. The edges of his vision flashed white with pain.
‘Wait, is that … Abigail Fancy?’
‘What?’
‘Lemme see!’
Once again Col tried to stand but the ground beneath him had begun to list. He spread his feet, bent his knees, braced his thighs like any good sailor, but the earth continued to pitch from side to side. A sour taste rose in his mouth. Col did not want to chunder again. Not in front of these blokes. Suddenly all he wanted was to go home. Dimly it occurred to him that he should have listened to Young Dick earlier when, after Old Dick had started ranting about Ed Bram and the baby, Dicky’s face had paled and he’d hastily suggested they all call it a night, quiet like, just for a few days. To let things settle back to normal. Col felt the pain of a bullet entering the instep of his foot, shattering the tiny bones there, and began to feel incredibly sad.
