The Bit In Between (18 page)

The small part tried feebly to be heard: Remember when he didn't turn up for the romantic dinner you planned because he was too busy taking photos of stone paths to remember and you had to eat the banquet-for-two for one? But the larger part shushed it and kept on with the scrubbing story.

Alison was confused. When she looked at Ed she saw the young man who had once abandoned her for three days in the middle of Shanghai while he went on an adventure with a men-only Chinese biker gang, but she also saw the young man who had once had a wood carver craft a one-off statue depicting her as a reincarnation of the Buddha holding objects symbolic of her life. Ed had infuriated her, but he had also enchanted her. She looked at his magnificent eyes, tilting her head to the side in wonder. Suddenly she realised that she had stopped talking and that Ed was staring at her expectantly.

‘Sorry, what?'

‘I said how long have you been here?' Ed repeated.

‘About five months. You?'

‘Oh, we just got here.'

‘We?'

Another small part of her felt instantly jealous and she told it mentally to grow up.

‘Me and some animist naturists I met at a folk festival in Queensland. We're heading off tomorrow out into the provinces for some spiritual re-energising and to try to get back in touch with the eternal reality,' Ed said offhandedly.

Alison nodded. ‘That sounds . . . reasonable.'

‘My qi has been all out of whack since we visited that dragon healer in Hunan province. Do you remember?'

Alison remembered. It had taken them four days to hike through the slippery, rain-soaked mountains to find the village of the dragon healer, a woman shrivelled ­magically beneath the weight of years. The dragon healer had taken one look at them and asked why they had not simply taken the bus like everyone else. She did not speak English, but her son been there to translate for her. She held her hands up to Ed's face and immediately recoiled, muttering something in their village tongue. Her son's eyes had widened for a fraction of a second and then he'd hustled the young couple out as quickly as he could. They were on the next bus out as soon as it arrived.

Alison nodded. She remembered all right. ‘That old lady and her son who turned out to be a big con and sent us away as soon as we got there? What a waste of time.'

Ed looked annoyed and Alison remembered again why she had left.

‘If you think searching for inner peace is a waste of time, sure,' Ed commented and she looked away guiltily.

‘So how's your writing? Written any good poetry these days?'

‘All poetry is good,' Ed replied dismissively. ‘But I have been producing some more accessible pieces of late. Would you like me to recite one for you?'

Alison didn't but she felt obliged to nod.

‘It's called “Talk Spangled Flag”,' Ed said dramatically, then held his hands out in front of him. ‘It's a performance piece that would probably work better in a stadium-style arena, but here's okay too.'

He looked around him. ‘Should we get an audience happening here?'

‘Maybe let's just do it,' Alison pressed him.

‘Okay. Ready?'

She nodded again.

Ed collected himself and began.

Mother, flag, liberty

Hidden there for me to see

Freedom from the bitterness

that tore my eyes from wit-er-ness

Nowhere left for me to run

I speak to you my mother tongue

Korman-shezzi-para-do

Huma-seva-goona-go

Ririputa-ba-ti-hey

Dona-mata-ni-fo-bay

Ed finished and sat back wordlessly. ‘What do you think?'

Alison paused. ‘Did you make up your own language at the end?'

‘It's my mother tongue.'

‘But did you, you know, make it up?'

‘Well, it was already inside me. It is the language of my soul.'

‘But not like an actual language?'

‘If you mean is it recognised as an official language, then no.'

‘So you just made up the sounds as you went along?'

‘I let them out from where they live.'

‘Sure.'

He stared at her expectantly.

‘I . . . I liked the way you rhymed witness with bitterness.'

He nodded and waited. Alison sighed. This was one of the most annoying things about Ed – his constant need for validation. He was the neediest anarchist she had ever met.

‘It . . . I don't know. I liked the sounds . . .'

Ed gave her a dismissive look. ‘That means nothing. You're not even trying.'

‘Ed! It's like ten lines long. What do you expect?'

Ed sighed. Alison did too and glanced over at Oliver, who was still chatting with the tall man but kept sneaking quick looks their way.

‘Ed, I reckon it's time we left.'

He looked at her hopefully.

She quickly corrected herself. ‘Me and Oliver, I mean. I'm just going to call a taxi and then we'll probably head off.'

Ed stood up. ‘Hey, would it be okay if we split the taxi?'

‘Sure.' Alison fought back a smirk. She knew Ed and there was no way he would end up paying anything.

There was a minor confusion with seating and somehow all three of them ended up in the back seat, with Oliver wedged between Alison and Ed. Oliver was just about to climb into the front when Sera's cousin Betty got in the passenger seat and asked if she could get a lift into town. Oliver sat back awkwardly, obviously avoiding Ed, and the taxi pulled away from the house.

Ed turned to Oliver and stuck out his hand. ‘Ed.'

Oliver stared mutely at the hand. ‘I know. I met you before.'

‘And who are you?' Ed asked.

Oliver looked affronted.

‘Oliver. Alison's boyfr – partner. Her partner.'

Ed leant forward and grinned cheekily at Alison. ‘You didn't tell me you had a boyfriend, Coops.'

Alison shrugged. ‘Oliver's a writer. Like a proper published writer,' she replied. ‘Ed is an artist,' she told Oliver.

‘I prefer to think of myself as a creator,' Ed interjected.

‘What do you create?' Oliver asked.

Ed laughed dismissively. ‘What do I create? What do I create, Coops?'

Alison had spent several months with Ed and she still had no idea what he created, other than drama.

‘I create the sublime,' Ed said. ‘And the unspoken. And the dangerous.'

Oliver shot a look at Alison but she pretended not to notice. Criticism of Ed reflected badly on her, as she had once dated him.

‘That sounds . . . nice,' Oliver replied.

‘And what do you create, Oliver?'

‘I'm a writer. I create words,' Oliver said, then hesitated. ‘Well, I mean, I don't create the words. I use ones that already exist . . .'

Ed waited.

‘I write about the world,' Oliver continued hastily. ‘And what it means to be human. And how we're all magnificent flawed creatures who don't often get it right.'

Alison took his hand and squeezed it, pleased with this answer.

Ed looked at him like he'd just thrown up on his own lap.

‘My first book did really well,' Oliver added. ‘It won a prize. I met the premier.'

Ed smiled. ‘I create work that tells humanity to get fucked and wake up to the trauma that begins with birth and ends with death and that can only be assuaged by the fall of the capitalist autocracy,' he said. He turned and stared at Oliver. ‘What are your books about?'

‘Oh, you know . . . stuff . . . people.' Oliver gazed directly ahead out the front windscreen and pretended to be distracted by the traffic.

Alison looked out the window too.

The last time she'd been in a taxi with Ed, they'd been going to the Great Wall. Rather than catch a bus with all the other tourists, Ed had decided they would take a cab to a less popular section of the wall, farther away from Beijing. It had cost a lot to pay the return fare – almost $200 Australian dollars – but, as Ed told Alison, money was a transitory thing that meant little more than the value ascribed to it. Alison had pointed out that this value was $200 but Ed had looked at her sadly and asked her at what stage in her childhood the music had died. The section of the wall the taxi delivered them to was old and worn and almost vertical in its ascent up the mountainside. Unlike other sections that had been rebuilt to allow tourists to easily, and safely, walk along the wall, this part looked like it might crumble away in a light summer shower. It had indeed showered that morning, so the smooth, worn bricks were incredibly slippery. Alison had slid trying to climb the rather steep incline and scraped the skin off her knees. Ed forged ahead and, instead of offering her a hand up, pointed out that thousands of workers had died building the wall and that their bodies were buried beneath its foundations. Alison muttered that she wanted to bury Ed's body with them as she hoisted herself up and kept struggling. They had climbed for what seemed like an eternity but was more likely half an hour or so. The sun was at its peak and bore down on them, burning Alison's neck. She had almost tripped again when the wall finally levelled out. Alison paused, panting for breath, and looked around. It was spectacular. Ahead she saw the wall stretch out endlessly, working its way up and over, around and above the curves of the mountains. It looked like a delicate paper lantern draped over the lush green of the hillsides. Small guard towers divided it into sections, and no matter how hard she strained, she could not see its end either ahead or behind her. It took her breath away, and when Ed stood beside her and put his arm around her she had leant into him and wished the moment would last forever.

‘It's so perfect that if I died right now I wouldn't care,' Ed breathed into her ear.

Her eyes welled up and she nodded. And everything bad about Ed had wafted over the mountains and out into oblivion.

The taxi stopped in the centre of Honiara town to drop off Ed and Betty. Betty waved and skipped away to meet a friend. Ed leant casually through the open window. He reached across Oliver and took Alison's hand.

‘It was so good to see you, Coops. Let's catch up when I get back.'

Alison nodded. ‘Of course. You too.'

Ed held her hand a moment longer, gave her a wistful smile and then headed off. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Oliver glared at Alison. She blushed.

‘What?'

‘What's Coops?'

Alison looked at him blankly. ‘Oh that? It's just a nickname.'

‘What does it mean?'

‘Coops. As in Coopers. As in the beer. He used to tease me for drinking it.'

Oliver gave her a disdainful look.

‘What?' she said.

‘He's . . . a bit . . .' Oliver trailed off and made a supremely unimpressed face.

Alison grinned and took his hand. ‘I know. It's crazy though, isn't it?'

‘What is?'

‘Him turning up. Like, of all the places in the world . . . I mean, literally . . .'

Oliver tensed. ‘It's not so crazy.'

‘What do you mean?'

Oliver straightened, preparing himself.

‘I did it.'

‘What? You did what?'

Oliver took a deep breath. ‘This. Ed. I wrote this first. This morning. I wanted to prove to you that I am doing this. That I did those other things too. That I did them for you. I wanted to make sure it wasn't something political or predictable. Nothing that I could have assumed or gathered from the newspapers. So I wrote about Geraldine's ex-boyfriend turning up out of nowhere, and then Ed appeared. Ali, I did this.'

Alison frowned at him. ‘I don't believe you,' she said, but her voice revealed her uncertainty.

Oliver pulled the piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Here. This is what I wrote this morning before we left home.'

Alison read through it. It described a picnic Geraldine and Colonel Drakeford had attended with Mary and her husband that had been crashed by Ludwig, Geraldine's old flame. She stared at the piece of paper for a while before she looked up at him.

‘Ludwig?'

Oliver waved this away with his hand. ‘It was the first name that popped into my head.'

‘But why him? Why Ed appearing out of nowhere?'

Oliver shrugged. ‘It was the first thing that came into my head.'

Alison glanced at the paper again. She looked like she might burst into tears.

‘Why him, Oliver? Why Ed? Why would you choose someone who hurt me? Why would you bring him back into my life? What did you think would happen?'

Oliver hadn't really considered this. ‘I . . . I don't know. I . . . I didn't really think it through. And he's going out to the islands anyway. But see, this proves that I'm right. Alison, I think what I'm writing is somehow influencing our lives.'

‘Do you expect me to actually believe that?'

Oliver pointed to the piece of paper in her hand. ‘How else do you explain that?'

She threw up her hands in frustration. ‘I don't know! I don't know. Obviously I don't believe in magic – I'm an adult. Magic is something people make up to explain things that have far better explanations. And there is obviously a far better explanation for this.'

‘Such as?'

‘Such as this all being a giant coincidence.' She looked at him, her face a mix of frustration and pity. ‘Do you think it's magic?'

Oliver shrugged. ‘I don't know. I don't want to. But I write these things and they happen. Things happen so I write them. I don't know if I'm writing this book or if it's writing me.'

Alison smiled wearily. ‘Wanker.'

‘Fine. Why don't I just kill off a character and we'll see what happens?'

Alison hesitated. ‘Don't.'

‘Why?'

‘Just don't, okay?'

‘So you do believe it?'

‘No, but just don't, please.'

She turned away and refused to say anything else for the rest of the trip home.