Authors: Ainslie Paton
“Historically, a reasonable choice.”
“But not today. Not when there are other safer, more comfortable options.”
“I am perfectly safe and have adequate comfort.”
Today he was safe. If Geraldo started making a noise about him, not so much. “You have no basic sanitation.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the beach. “Like in your average homeless shelter, it's not an ensuite. It's a shared facility down the hall.”
That accounted for his neat appearance. She'd guessed he was using the council-maintained shower and bathroom facilities on the beach.
“You have no heating or proper shelter against the elements.”
“No homeless person does. Many would be happy for your help. As you can see, I'm not one of them.”
“We have programs for people who are homeless, have low incomes, or intellectual disabilities. We have group homes, temporary accommodation, income assistance, Job Start, and free counselling services.”
“And yet I can play chess at any hour of the day or night with other homeless people living on the street.”
“You're right. You're not the only one who doesn't want our help. We wish we knew how to be more effective. Many people suffer, especially in winter. We're a prosperous country, it needn't be that way.”
His fixed stare at the landscape didn't falter. “I'm not suffering.”
She sighed. Something had happened to this man to make him want to live here, but he wasn't going to confess today, or maybe ever. “I have to ask you to leave here.”
“I understand.”
“You do?”
What
, it could not be that easy? She put her head in her hand, then winced as the movement grazed her sunburn.
“I understand you have to ask. It's the reason you have expense claim privileges. People trust you to do your job.”
“I'm guessing people once trusted you too.”
He shook his head emphatically. “They were wrong to.”
Now there was anger in his tone. It might be a warning. “I see.”
He stood up. “No. You see a man living in a cave and a challenge to move him on.”
“Is that so wrong? You are living rough and there are easier ways.”
“For you. This is my way.”
She blew out a stream of air. She'd contemplated failing because he was dangerous, or avoided her, because he refused to engage or abused her, or needed more specialised professional help. She hadn't planned on being outwitted by him.
He sat again, his eyes on his hands clasped in his lap. “I've frustrated you.”
That made her laugh. “It's the story of my life. My flatmate Natalie calls me Frustrated Foley.”
That flicker of amusement in his cheek. “Apart from recalcitrant cavemen, what else frustrates you?”
“This is not about me.”
They both knew that, but she was desperate to connect with him, to gain any leverage she could get. If he took an interest in her, no matter how fleeting, it was a handhold.
“My career. My romantic life. My, my, I don't know, it's confusing. Just knowing what to do with myself, I guess. I'll turn thirty soon and I'm not sure I've made enough of my life, you know. I think I'm with you on the science before God thing. I reckon I'm only going to get one go at life and I need to make it something exceptional, or I'll have wasted my shot.”
She might as well have confessed her sins, spoken her hopes to a brick wall. He didn't even blink the one eye she could see in profile. She screwed up her empty sandwich bag to punctuate her irritation.
“How's that going for you?”
She looked back to him. Still a brick wall, but a questioning one.
“Apart from the requisite broken heart, stupid credit card debt, a stalled career, a tattoo I regret, an unhealthy addiction to potato chips and an inappropriate piercingânot so good.”
He almost, almost smiled.
“I'm not going to talk you into moving out today, am I?”
“No.”
“Would it make any difference if I explained why it's important?”
“No.”
“I'm going to visit you again then.”
“I can't stop you. I also can't stop you taking my things. You should know they're only things and they're replaceable.”
“We won't steal your things.” That's exactly what it would be, theft, and it was against their Homeless Persons Charter. But he had no protection from other people stealing them.
He inclined his head. “You don't want to lose your expense account.”
“I promise you on my meagre expense allowance that my conniving, promotion-snatching boss has to sign off, and will probably query, we won't ever take your possessions from you.”
He stood up and turned to face her. This time he really was ending the meeting. “It was nice to meet you, Foley.”
She stood too, picking up the rubbish from their breakfast. “It was nice to meet you too, Drum. Is that your surname? I half expected you to be a musician.”
“It's the only name you need for me.”
“You don't play an instrument?”
“I'll show you out.”
She laughed again, but if he hid a smile it was under his lowered head. “I'll see myself out.” She stepped up on the first rock foothold.
“Thank you for breakfast.”
“Council's pleasure.” She stepped up on the second foothold and turned to see if he was watching. He'd disappeared. There was a back way out of here.
Sneaky bastard
.
Drum knew Foley would be back. She was one of those determined people, not easily put off or intimidated. Not that he'd deliberately tried to intimidate her, and he was sure that capability was still in his DNA, but he didn't want to see her again.
She was too glossy, too pretty, so bright and fresh, he had trouble looking at her. He'd almost forgotten himself and enjoyed her company and it was more than being starved for social contact. He had plenty of opportunity to be social if he wanted it. He didn't. And he didn't want her coming back.
So he avoided her. He left home before the sun came up. He stayed out later than normal and in general avoided the cave until it was dark. She was too smart to try climbing down there at night with only her questions and her reasons. But she wasn't smart enough to give up on him. Didn't she know she would break herself on him like waves on rocks; that he wasn't worth the effort? That if she offered to give him anything in the world he wanted, it would be this: an edge to remind him to live, a hole to hide in, an existence that didn't use much, take anything from anyone, or cause anyone pain.
Still she persisted. One morning she left him a chocolate muffin and a fruit salad. The birds got the muffin, and he refused to waste the fruit. One night he got home to find she'd brought him a bag of oranges and a big cask of spring water. She'd had to hump both under the railing and down to the cave. She might've fallen and hurt herself. He didn't want her bribes, her expense account charity. He didn't deserve it.
He was contemplating the oranges when they came. Three of them, over the top ledge, laughing and swearing, stumbling. He could smell the beer. He wasn't quick enough to extinguish his lamp. They saw its glow and like fat moths they were on it, sliding, tripping, pushing each other and jumping the distance between the two ledges, not careful of the edge, made from audacity and recklessness.
One of them tripped, landing on his knees laughing then whimpering, an elbow scraped bloody. One of them went to the edge and threw a bottle into the nothing dark.
The third said, “Hey man. What is this about then?” He was cold, calm. He was the leader. He had power in his body and calculation in his eyes.
The one on his knees lay out flat with a drawn-out moan. “Do you live here?” He was the youngest of them. He'd be the easiest. The one most at risk. “He bloody lives here. Look, he's got a bed and stuff.” He sat up. “That's mad. Are you a Looney Toon, dude? A bit Daffy Duck, eh?”
Drum had a decision to make. But this had never happened before. Before Foley, if anyone came over the ledge it was daylight and they were tourists. They wanted stories and pictures. They wanted him to be something special, novel, entertainment. He disappointed them. He didn't speak to them and they went away. If they didn't go, he did. It was simple. No one got hurt. But this, this wasn't so simple. Someone could be hurt and it would be his fault again. They wouldn't have come here except for the light. He had to stay. Get them to leave. He took a seat at the table.
“Can he talk? Maybe he can't talk?” That was the chatterbox on the ground again.
The leader stalked around him. “I think he can talk. I don't think he likes us. What have you got here, got money?” He signalled to the kid. “Get off your arse and go check.”
Drum watched the one at the edge, rocking back and forward on his feet. He'd discovered the edge of the world and he might fall over it.
“Look at this view. A million dollars. A billion dollars,” he said, arms thrown out. He was one of those guys who, when confronted with a gap, tried to fill it whether it needed to be filled or not.
All most people saw when they were in trouble was the money. When they realised it couldn't fix everything, that's when their anger burned them up.
“Ask your friend to step back.”
“Oooh he talks,” said the kid.
The leader said. “Robbo, set us up.” He made sure it was a new instruction, not the one Drum had given him.
The man called Robbo stepped away from the edge, his eyes full of stars and planets. He had a bag and he took their gear from it, spread it out on the table. Foil, a lighter, a knife. A straw. Packets of white powder with a Superman stamp on them. “Is he just gonna sit there and watch us or what?”
The leader laughed. “He ain't sharing.” He leaned into Drum, heavy, smelling of pizza and beer. “Piss off, you fucking weirdo.”
Drum stood and moved away. The kid had tipped his bed over, scattered his clothes from the suitcase and was flipping through his books. He moved into the shadows where he could watch and not disturb them.
“You.” The leader was loud with his weakness; weak with his aggressive pointing. “I said piss off.”
“He's got nothin'. Leave him, Jonesy. If he's a bit simple, he's all right then.”
Drum could see all three of them from where he stood. He wanted to keep it that way.
“I think he should just fuck the fuck off,” said Robbo. “He's spookin' me out.”
The kid came over, checked him out up close, as if he was a game and had buttons you could press. “Why'dja live here, dude? Good view but no net.” He laughed. He had good strong white teeth and his clothes were new. He didn't need to be this way. “Where'd you get your porn from then? Get it, no net.”
The leader was taking his poison. Drum saw his chance. He kept his voice low. “Why are you with them?”
“Me?” The kid seemed shocked Drum had addressed him. He had a tribal tattoo marking on his neck, but he was soft. He could be saved. “What'd you care?”
“You're better than them.”
“Yeah, right. You live on a rock, what would you know? You have to be gone in the head.”
“They're not your mates.”
“They are my best fucking mates.”
“Look at your mates, taking your share.”
The kid spun around. The leader and Robbo were both on the ground now, laughing and pointing at the sky. Drum caught the kid's arm, stopped him going to the table. “This is a bad place to get high. Men sometimes think they have wings.”
The kid reefed his arm away, but he was still sober enough, young enough, uncertain enough to listen. He walked between the table, where an easy fix waited, and back to Drum. He couldn't decide. He poked his finger in Drum's chest. “I know what you're doing. You're trying to take our gear. Sell it and buy some fucking stuff.”
“I don't need any stuff. Anything you want you can take.”
“Hah, see, you don't have anything I want.”
Drum grinned at him. “So don't be me.”
“I'm not, dude. I'll never have nothing and live in a freaking cave, like a loser fuck.”
“So don't be them either.”
The kid scrubbed at his near to shaved head. “You don't understand. They're my mates. We're together.”
“So that's why you do what Jonesy orders.”
Palms to the back of his head, elbows out like open car doors, the kid frowned. “I don't. He's not.” He dropped his arms. “Fuck off, man. You don't know anything.”
“I know this is bad news. Being here, them. I know you're young enough to have a different life.”
“Oh what, like you? Big scary caveman.”
“No. Like you. Like what you want. Is this what you want?” He jerked his chin up, so the kid turned again to watch as Jonesy tackled Robbo half a car length from the edge of the cliff. The kid hissed as the two men crunched to the flat rock face, both of them anaesthetised from pain or caution. Drum's whole body tensed as they rolled side to side. Robbo on his back grunting like an ape, trying to flip Jonesy.
“It's nothing, it's Wrestlemania. It's what we do.” But the kid reacted with nervous energy too, taking half a step towards the wrestling then back again.
Drum went to the table, stood over the fixings. He needed their attention. “Hey.” He got it.
Jonesy staggered upright and charged at him. Drum met his force with no resistance, letting the man throw him down, taking his gut punches, but protecting his face. The kid was shouting, kicking anything he could connect with, Drum's hipbone, his shin. Robbo pulled them apart. It wasn't going to be enough. There was intention in every twist of Jonesy's lips. Drum stayed on the ground. He could still see all three of them. All three of them were safe. It didn't matter that they were miserable pieces of humanity. This was his fault. He would keep them safe from the edge.