Beyond Carousel (16 page)

‘Do you really want me doing that?' I asked.

‘What else am I going to do? Book into Salon Express?' she replied.

I trudged through to the bathroom feeling like an idiot for not staying in bed. Rachel was sitting on a chair with her back to the basins.

‘You'll need to wash it first,' she said. ‘Use a bucket and that yuppy organic stuff.'

I sighed and followed her instructions. Rachel lent back in the chair but the basins were too far back to catch all of the water. I splashed a fair bit of it on the floor. Thankfully the casino's clean towel supply still seemed never-ending. When I was eventually done Rachel turned the chair in a one-eighty to look at the mirror and handed me the scissors.

‘Short back and sides?' I joked.

‘If you want your balls cut off in your sleep,' she replied.

‘Holy shit, Rachel,' I said.

‘Take two inches off everything, but don't touch the fringe. I'll do that myself,' said Rachel.

I nodded and got on with it. There were a stack of expensive looking combs on the bench. I picked one
out and combed her hair straight. Rachel still had the remnants of an overgrown bob. The top half was her natural light brown while the bottom was the patchy blonde of a dye job she had when we first met.

‘Have you heard much of Ed Carrington's music?' I asked, remembering why I had come over in the first place.

‘Concentrate,' she snapped.

I exhaled and let it go. Rachel watched me as I gingerly started cutting. After a while she seemed to relax.

‘Those twins of yours been waiting for you across the river this whole time?' she asked.

I glanced at her and shrugged, defensively.

‘I thought they were nobodies when I saw youse in Carousel,' she said. ‘Was out on the balcony one day reading a magazine and there they were next to fucking Kanye.'

‘I told you they were in a band. Right before you sleazed onto me in the toilets,' I replied.

‘Dream on,' said Rachel.

‘You don't remember that?' I asked.

‘I remember you barging into the ladies' toilets like you owned the place,' said Rachel.

‘Oh my god. It was the men's,' I replied. ‘You must have been so trashed.'

Rachel snorted and coughed. I continued trimming.

‘How come you took off in the morning?' I asked, having wanted to for ages.

‘Used to see another trapped Artist on my way to work. I was getting smokes one day when I heard her singing opera or something,' replied Rachel.

‘Where was she?' I asked.

‘Sizzler,' she replied.

‘Seriously?' I said.

‘When she wasn't singing she would bang away at those windows like nobody's business,' said Rachel.

It was one of the most tragic stories I had ever heard.

‘When I saw youse were stuck too I knew something was going on. Got the hell out while I could,' said Rachel.

I nodded.

‘So I can't talk you into going back there? Even for a day?' I asked.

‘A Patron like me? No point,' she replied.

This sent a ripple of panic into my chest. I tried not to let on.

‘Got a visitor coming in the spring anyways,' said Rachel.

There was something like a twinkle in her eye.

‘Who?' I asked.

‘None of your business,' she replied.

I sighed. ‘Seriously? Come on, Rachel. You obviously want to tell me.'

‘A fisherman. I met him last year,' she replied. ‘He has his own boat. Takes it up north in the winter. Comes back down in August with crayfish, prawns. You name it.'

This finally explained her endless stockpile of frozen seafood.

‘How did you guys meet?' I asked.

‘In the freezer room last year. I helped him unload his catch, then we had drinks in the lounge bar,' replied Rachel.

I smiled at the thought of such a regular event still occurring in this weirdo world. The idea that fate wasn't just working against people like Rachel, but was still running in all kinds of strange ways. That amid all of the pompous talk of Artists and Residencies, there were simple, defining events like a fisherman and a cleaner having a drink in a fancy bar. I was convinced that these things kept the earth spinning more than anything.

It made me think of Georgia somewhere down in Fremantle. Travelling all the way across the world to study her craft. Wandering the abandoned city for more than a year before stumbling across my tiny note.

I realised then that I wasn't just hoping to find the Finns when I set off tomorrow.

‘Nice,' I replied. ‘Will he stay for a bit?'

‘Two months. Said we might head south on the boat for summer,' she replied.

She looked at me, then quickly away. It was the only time I had seen any hint of vulnerability in her.

‘That sounds pretty awesome, Rachel,' I replied, genuinely.

I finished trimming the back of her hair.

‘Wish I hadn't screwed up your hair,' I joked.

‘I will fucken kill you, Nox,' said Rachel. Again, way too serious.

‘Relax. Relax,' I replied.

Rachel cackled and coughed.

‘You sound way too genuine when you say stuff like that,' I said.

Rachel deadeyed me in a way that said she was well aware of this.

I finished up and waited around while she inspected the job with a series of mirrors. Thankfully it passed and I was allowed to go. Rachel took up her spot on the couch and resumed blasting herself with heat and noise. I stood there watching for a moment.

‘Alright. I'm off then,' I said.

‘Seeya,' replied Rachel, after a moment.

It was casual and dry, as if we were leaving work at the end of the day. I turned and left the room. My time at Burswood was over.

The city had been all but abandoned.

Early in the morning I crossed the river on a bridge overrun by birds. They nested between pillars. Lined the handrail looking west at the gathering weather. Sat atop cars and busses, watching on smugly as I pedalled slowly past. At the end, Adelaide Terrace spread before me, linking the causeway with St Georges Terrace like a giant gateway to the west. I swung onto it and made my way up into the teeth of a funnelling breeze.

The city had the look and feel of a park the day after an epic summer festival. Litter of all kinds fluttered about in the icy breeze. Wrappers, ancient newspapers, pages torn from notebooks and sketchpads. There were the remnants of an electricity in the air. Like a sports arena, heaving one moment, empty the next.

The streets themselves seemed wider than normal, as if the empty buildings were shrinking back into themselves. They had the faint smell of barbeque and rotting plant matter. There was more of the street art I
had seen in Victoria Park. Again on walls and buildings, but also on the streets themselves where the images ran on for block after block. I got the feeling that the city would look pretty amazing from above.

Gradually I began to see evidence of the party that had swept through. Windows were open and curtains flapping on the upper floors of ritzy hotels like the Hyatt and Duxton. Bottleshops were decimated but for scatterings of cask wines and liqueurs. The rigid, fortress-like frontage of the Perth Concert Hall had been ignored completely. Its stage and stalls too Old World for the new Artists of Perth. Instead I passed a drum kit standing defiantly, almost Tiananmen-like, in the middle of the road. There were amps and leads scattered around from a long-forgotten gig. The giant foyer of a multinational skyscraper had been broken into and transformed into a gallery, lit during openings by a generator and halogen worklights. I cycled up to the windows and peered in at some of the artwork. It was dim now without the generator on but I could see some striking portraits on the wall adjacent.

A makeshift stage had been erected in a corner of the piazza by Stirling Gardens. It held a stool and a solitary microphone stand, both blown onto their side now. There were chairs and beanbags scattered around. A space for spoken word or poetry maybe.

The Collective was meant to be a few blocks north of where I rode, but I was starting to wonder whether there
would be anyone there.

I left the Terrace and cycled up through a series of smaller streets. There were places there that I remembered. A good Chinese takeaway. Music stores I used to wander through on lunchbreaks. A second-level karaoke bar I had visited with Chloe and her workmates one Friday night. She had been nervous and opted out of a bunch of shouty duets, before stunning everyone with a perfect solo rendition of ‘Somebody That I Used To Know'. It was tragic and beautiful and I remember thinking that there was way more to Chloe than I had seen during our awkward dates and sleepovers. Two months later we broke up without a single fight and she left town to study in Melbourne.

Subconsciously I was taking a detour that would lead me past the stationery store where I used to work. I turned a familiar corner and slowed to a stop on the sidewalk. There it was across from me. The boring red logo. The early-morning opening hours. Streaks of dirt and silt caked to the windows. I was only two years late for my shift.

The door had been crowbarred open and was drifting with the wind. I walked my bike over and pushed it inside. The shop hadn't been ransacked like some of the others. People had cleared out some of the art supplies and taken just about all of the confectionery, but otherwise it looked the same as I remembered. I took a key from a hidden shelf behind
the counter and unlocked the staff room at the back of the store. The smell brought a heavy rush of nostalgia. Breakfast pastries. Deodorised carpet. Instant coffee. My boss Julie's bad perfume. I had never liked working there, but the place was loaded with emotions from my previous life. I sat on the floor and tried my hardest not to choke up at how alone I was now, just like I had been before the Disappearance. There were people all around me at work, at home, out at night. But I had coiled inward dramatically after finishing uni and breaking up with Heather for the second time. The ironic thing was that this whole Residency business had kind of changed that. For the first time in ages I had connected with some people. Then met a girl I could kiss without thinking about somebody else. These things had happened even though I wasn't meant to be here. But then they had slipped away. I couldn't help but think that fate had realised my intrusion and was somehow reneging on its gifts. That if I didn't turn up back at Carousel with something definitive I might be left here forever.

I checked the time on the barman's watch and pulled myself together. I had to keep moving and there was stuff in the store that I could use. Batteries, torches and bug spray. I took the best of each of these, along with a dauntingly thick but lightweight writing pad. Before I left I went back into the office and wrote out a note for my boss.

Hi Julie. On my way in today I decided that it wasn't a great idea for me to work here anymore. Nothing against you (although only giving overtime shifts to juniors to save cash is pretty shit – you know that kid you hired Craig steals from the till yeah?). I just need to focus on my writing for a while. Nox.

Julie hated when you texted her emojis, so I drew a couple next to my name and left the note central on her desk. It was juvenile, but made me feel a bit better about things.

I left the store and rode on northward for a while before I emerged onto the first of two outdoor malls. It was wide, barren and deathly quiet. The type of place that shouted
ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE!
from every vantage. In the distance I saw a weird looking device lying central on the paving. I rolled over to it cautiously. A series of generators surrounded something on a raised platform in the middle. I got off my bike and moved inside the circle of generators. On the platform were clusters of giant strobe lights all pointed up at the sky.

It was the nightly lightshow.

A laptop was hooked up to a lightboard, which in turn ran cords down into each of the lights. There was also a small solar panel nearby that seemed to be powering the laptop, and a line of jerry cans ready to refuel the generators. Aside from topping up the fuel in the generators every so often, the lightshow was effectively self-sufficient. It was weird to think of this
collection of devices as the source of the art we had gathered to watch almost nightly in the hills. For some reason I had imagined somebody would be down here orchestrating. I had only ever considered the outcome, not the process.

I took a break and ate some lunch on a nearby bench. My legs felt stiff from the riding and would be aching by this time tomorrow. I also had a headache that wouldn't seem to lift. There was an unnerving silence hanging over every corner of the city. I hadn't expected to find it bustling and full, but this was something else entirely. Almost like a second disappearance.

I finished eating and cycled back east towards the Collective. I remembered City Farm being close to the train lines that wrapped around the back of the city. I rolled down past the second street mall and saw the central station over to my left. There was a lot of construction behind the station and I thought I could see the crane Tommy mentioned.

Before he left, Tommy had told me about a giant construction crane that had blown over during a winter storm. I could see a great steel arm sticking up out of the ground where the base should have been. It was warped and bent back in on itself, a bit like a spring. Behind it was a building with a savage hole running the length of its side where the crane had hit during the storm. Empty offices and break rooms now stood exposed to the weak winter sun.

I rode forward to the edge of the tracks. They were fenced off and littered with crap. It smelt pretty bad down there. The same sweet rotting-apple smell that I had picked up on the Terrace, but bumped up a notch and mixed with old eggs. I followed the tracks back eastward and hoped the air might improve. After a while they swung away and a pocket of smaller offices and parkland stretched out before me. I weaved through until I noticed the dirty white top of a marquee to my left.