‘You’re getting fat.’
He pats his stomach and lets out a Tarzan yodel.
‘I’m hungry.’
‘Order some pizza.’
‘I’m tired of pizza. You said you’d cook.’
‘Can’t be bothered. Order a pizza.’
‘Who’s going to pay?’ Fucking user. I don’t say that. I don’t want to believe it.
I get up off the floor and walk into the kitchen. There’s dry bread in the cupboard. Two tomatoes, a lettuce, a jar of mustard and some tinnies in the fridge. That’s it. I walk back into the lounge room and position myself in front of the TV screen.
‘Let’s go out. Get something to eat.’
‘Get out of the frigging way.’
I don’t move.
‘What the fuck is up with you?’
‘I’m hungry.’
‘Well, go out and get something to eat.’ He opens another can of beer.
‘Come with me.’
‘Look, mate, I just want to watch some teev. I’m not in a mood to go out.’
‘You were last night.’ Without me. I’ve not forgiven him.
‘Last night was different. Now get out of the way and let me watch the show.’
‘You’re a drunk.’
He takes a long sip, he’s silent, watching me.
‘You’re also a pig.’
He finishes the can in two long gulps, throwing the liquid down his throat.
‘You always stink of piss.’
‘That’s enough.’
I sense the outrage in his voice. I don’t move. I keep going. ‘And you’re dumb. Dumb as dogshit.’
‘I said, enough!’
I keep taunting him. Call him more names, give in to my anger, call him a poofter, call him a loser, call him a bore, I keep yelling until he bolts up and it happens so fast that I don’t have time to run, not even time to plead, though I hear myself screaming something before he’s hurtling into me and I’m kicking but he’s stronger and bigger and tougher and knows how to fight and he cracks me sharp across my face and as I fall his knee crashes into my stomach and that’s it, I’m crying, flat on my arse and it’s not even that it hurts very much until he punches me in the middle of the mouth so my teeth bite on my tongue, I’m tasting blood, and he turns me over and twists my arm up my back and with his free hand he pulls at my hair, banging my head on the carpet until he hears something break and he lets go and I slump on the floor.
Then he pulls my shorts down to my knees and sticks his fingers up my arse, so hard it’s like a punch going right up me, in me, through me, and he tries to push his cock in and I’m struggling, squirming, screaming so he bangs my head down on the carpet again and again until I’ve shut up.
The first five thrusts,
I’m counting them because they’re slicing through my gut, it feels like a blade has torn through my bowels and up into my stomach.
All I do is grunt like a pig and then the thrusts become a pounding.
And I prefer the hammer to the blade because the pain is duller and I’m waiting for it to finish, the television is on and a cop is running after some white kid who’s been dealing drugs on a housing estate, out of nowhere I’m hearing a shit Bryan Adams song in my head, and as the thrusts become more rapid he is throwing himself deeper into me and all I’m thinking is please god, don’t let me shit, oh please god please don’t let me shit please god don’t let me shit.
He comes, goes soft inside me, and falls heavily onto me. There is wetness on the back of my neck, maybe his tears, but probably just spit.
The cop gets the white kid.
•
Neither of us makes a sound. I’d be sick if he tried to talk to me. There’s not a word. All I’m aware of is the acrid stink of the alcohol. There’s blood in my mouth. I spit it out.
I watch the television, watch the red dial on the video recorder clock count down the time to midnight. He’s falling asleep. I won’t move till I’m sure it’s deep sleep. I’m fixed on the red digits. I hear the muffled snores, they shudder along my neck. Slowly, carefully, I shift from under him; though he stirs, he rolls over and is back to sleep. I’m dripping blood all over the carpet, over him.
I get up and wash my face in the bathroom sink. In the mirror my face is bloated, bloody. I move quickly through the house, taking the alarm clock I lent him, grabbing the book I’m reading, taking my shirts, my socks, my underwear. I’m erasing myself from this house.
I pause at the three strips of photos pinned to the bedroom mirror. Black-and-whites from a photo booth. I take one strip, shove everything into a plastic bag and leave the bedroom. But then I turn and go back, to take the picture of Jessica Lange. I’m making it mine.
The television is playing the news. Trade conference in Asia. He’s still asleep, heavy, congested drunk snoring. I lean over him. His black hair is sweat-plastered to his forehead. I can still see it, still fucking see it: his face is sweet. I lean closer, trying to get through and back to him. I try to smell him but I can only make out the alcohol, the mouldy yeast of beer. I am, finally, repelled.
•
The first taxi driver takes one look at me and speeds off. The second takes me, but won’t talk to me. I don’t mind. I sit in the back, hugging myself tight to stop the shivering.
The cat is crying for food. I feed her fish and notice the slugs. One monster in particular. Its thick slimy body has climbed over the rim and sits inside the bowl oozing filth. I grab a tissue, pick it up, holding it far away from me. The cat ignores me, she’s lapping up her food. I take the slug, wrapped in tissue, into the loo and throw it in the toilet bowl. I piss and I make sure I aim my stream directly at the slug, torch it with my urine. When I’m finished I flush, watch the water, the tissue, the slug spin round, round, round. Then all of it, abruptly, is gone.
The upstairs room is hot and I open the window. The street comes rushing in: dance music from across the road, the squeals and horns of cars, a crazy man is yelling out obscenities, teenagers are laughing. My mouth is hurting, swelling. My gut, my arse, they are fire.
I retrieve the picture of Jessica Lange from the plastic bag. I run my thumb over its shredded edges. Shaking, I light a cigarette and put the smouldering tip through the picture. I watch the hole expand, burning her mouth, her chin, her angry eyes. As the picture becomes flame I throw it in an ashtray, mash it up, turn it to ash, to dust.
I sit and watch the traffic flow. The night is warm, but a breeze is blowing in from the south, off the ocean. I lean out the window. I’m still fire. I pack ice into a glass, fill it up with water. Again. It’s no good. Nothing helps to cool me down.
The Disco at the End of Communism
IT WAS SAVERIO’S WEEK TO DO the shopping. Trying to fit the key into the front door lock, both hands laden with supermarket bags, he noticed the shadowy form of his wife coming towards him in the cloudy beer-bottle glass of the door pane, rushing to open it for him. He was about to kiss her, to ask her to help him unload the other bags from the car, but froze when he saw her expression. He didn’t drop the bags or cry out, but he could not speak for fear of what she was about to say.
‘It’s not the kids — they’re fine.’ Rachel grabbed some bags from him and ushered him into the house, leading him by the hand. When they got to the kitchen, she put down her bags and took his hands. ‘Julian rang while you were at the market. I’m so sorry,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘It’s Leo. He had a stroke this morning. He’s dead.’ She gently shook her head. ‘There’s nothing anyone could have done, Sav. It must have been quick, he wouldn’t have suffered.’