The Dark Part of Me (13 page)

Back in the parlour, we lay Danny on the yellow chaise longue. The room quivered with rainbow prisms of light from the crystals hanging at the top of the window as Hollie stroked Danny’s
brow and sang him a lullaby. Before long he was asleep. Somewhere deep inside the house, a clock chimed five times.

‘I have to go to work,’ I said.

Hollie looked at me, eyes bright. ‘Please stay with me a bit longer.’

I felt bad leaving her with Danny like he was but I was eager to get away.

‘I can’t,’ I said, pulling back from her. The afternoon in the cave had left me uneasy. When we’d pashed in the cave it’d felt different, like it wasn’t a
game any more. All I wanted was for us to be normal and talk about guys and sex and clothes and music.

‘Kiss me,’ Hollie murmured, coming up from behind.

I turned and kissed her quickly on the lips, then headed out the side door and down the spiral staircase to the garden where I broke into a sprint, my tits bouncing everywhere in my
boob-tube.

It was almost a whole day since Scott’s party and he hadn’t called. I was busting to ask Trish about how I was going to get back with him, but work that night was
mental-busy. The pavement tables at Temptations were teeming with stuck-up bitches wearing chunky silver fob-chains and Ray-Bans on their heads. They laughed way too loudly, sucking Corona through
lime wedges and smoking 0.1mg Dunhills. Most of them were from law school. Kirstie waved at me from the sea of blonde bobs and orangey fake-tan faces but I snubbed her. She thought she was so cool
in her hipster jeans and pink Lacoste with the collar turned up, but everyone knew Bomber screwed around behind her back.

It was past eleven before the madness died down. Trish called me over for a break. We sat outside, at the other end of the footpath from Kirstie and the law bitches.

Trish lit a fag. ‘So. Scott. Spill. Did you root?’

‘Ummm, sort of.’

Why not tell her the truth? You chundered then lay down in the middle of the road, pretending to be dead.

‘You sort of rooted?’ She exhaled into the mugginess. ‘What kind of root is that?’

‘You know, we had to be quick.’

She flicked ash on the pavement and grinned at me. ‘Was it ultra dirty?’

‘Yeah, well, we—’

‘Hey, Rosie.’ Kirstie’d come over. ‘You alright, sweetie?’ She touched my arm, acting all chummy like she wanted something.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Last night, at the party, you seemed pretty upset.’ Kirstie stood, hands on skinny hips.

‘I was fine.’ I knocked back the rest of my drink.

‘Well, if you’re sure you’re OK, can we get another round?’ She did a cutesy circle hand gesture to show off her French-manicured nails.

‘Counter service only,’ I said. ‘Read the sign.’

‘But there’s no one at the counter.’ Kirstie smiled down at me and, lowering her voice, said, ‘I would have warned you but I thought you knew.’ Mock-concern creased
her perfect brow. ‘He should have told you.’

‘Told me what?’

Trish interrupted. ‘We’re closing soon.’

‘What about our drinks?’

‘I’ll be over in a sec,’ I snapped.

‘Thanks, gorgeous. Same again. Don’t forget the lime.’ Kirstie clicked off in kitten heels.

‘How’d you know her?’ Trish scowled.

‘Bomber’s squeeze. We did first year together.’

‘I’ll sort her out.’ Trish stood up. ‘What does this Bomber guy look like?’

I filled her in and she went inside to get their beers.

Back at the table, Kirstie was whispering to the others. I watched them, my skin prickling with intense paranoia. She was slagging me off, telling them all how pathetic I’d been to wait
for Scott when he’d been banging some other chick the whole time. Trish came back out with the Coronas on a tray. I followed her over.

‘On the pull tonight, girls?’ Trish set the tray down.

‘We’ve all got boyfriends,’ said Kirstie, real smug.

‘Where’re they now?’ Trish asked.

‘Boys’ night out,’ said Kirstie.

‘And you think, if some real bad pussy comes up and ask them for a root, they’re gonna say no?’ Trish winked at me. I was catching her drift. ‘Just the other week, I was
out in the Valley and there was this guy. Fuck, what was his name? Dark hair. Big pecs. Cheeky grin. You know the type. So, I asked this guy, Bomber, that’s what he called himself, back to my
joint.’ Trish paused for maximum effect. I looked across at Kirstie. Her face paled under the fake-tan. The others were glancing at her, sipping on their drinks, acting like they didn’t
know Bomber fucked around on her. ‘Anyway,’ Trish continued, ‘we rooted like fucking psychos. He sucked me out like a fucking hoover. It was insane, you know, but then, in the
morning, he tells me he’s got a girlfriend. Some blonde bimbo studying law… hey, you girls might know her.’

Kirstie jumped up and slapped me hard across the face. ‘You pathetic slut.’ She grabbed my arms and dug her acrylics into the skin. Trish pulled her off me, pinning her against the
bricks. Kirstie thrashed and screamed and Trish kicked her in the shins. The bimbos looked on horrified. I stood back, wondering whether or not to get the dish-pig out to break it up. Part of me
was pumped like I wanted Trish to cream her but I felt bad, too. A pack of long-haired bevans in a yellow Escort, Iron Maiden blaring out of the back-seat speakers, pulled up along the kerb and
cheered. Trish let go of Kirstie’s wrist to give them the finger and in that second Kirstie bent down, grabbed an empty Corona bottle and hurled it at Trish. She ducked as the bottle flew
through the air, smashing into the café wall. Shards of glass ricocheted across the pavement. The bevans went berko, mooning out the window. The bitches swooped on Kirstie, hugging her as
they left the café. The Escort burned off from the lights, horn honking.

‘Fucking slags,’ Trish cursed.

‘They didn’t pay either,’ I said.

We sat down at an outside table and were silent for a while. I felt dazed and jittery.

Trish lit a fag. ‘Don’t you fucking hate working Saturday nights?’

‘Yeah, it’s shit.’

‘One of these days, when I’ve finishing ripping off the Slob, I’m gunna tell the bastard to shove this job up his slimy arse and I’m gunna piss off to southern India
where they have those awesome outdoor raves and I’m gunna to rave my tits off and root heaps of sexy boys.’

‘Yeah, cool,’ I said, although fucking scrawny rave-heads wasn’t exactly my idea of heaven. ‘I meant to ask you.’ I leant forward. ‘Scott wants some
drugs.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ She grinned. ‘What’s he want?’

I told her.

‘I’ll need the moula up front.’

‘How much?’

‘Five hundred.’

‘No problems.’ I dashed across the road to the ATM.

‘Nice,’ she said, counting out the cash. ‘Hey, that reminds me, there’s this rave on in the Valley next Saturday night called Oblivion. It’s at The Arena. We can
both swap for day shifts. How ’bout it? I’ll hook us up with some green elephants. Bit smacky but gets you rank as shit.’ Trish had asked me a million times before to go raving
but I’d never been that keen. But if Scott was going to the same rave, no way was I missing out.

‘Yeah, alright then.’ It was the same night as Hollie’s memorial party for her mum, but I reckoned I could go for a bit then sneak off to the rave.

Trish picked a speck of tobacco off her pierced tongue. ‘So, what’s Scott like to root? He must be some kind of fuck-machine for you to wait all this time.’

‘Ask the Asian Bitch,’ I said, not meaning it to pop out like that.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ I gulped down my scotch. ‘There’s someone at the counter.’

‘Fat Helen can deal with it.’ Trish pointed her fag at me. ‘I’ll get us another round and then you’re telling me everything.’

So I told her everything, except the bit about pretending to be dead. I got in a real state, mascara everywhere, my nose all runny. Trish had to calm me down with two more scotches and a couple
of drags on her cig. By then, it was nearly one and all of the customers had gone.

I turned to Trish. ‘So, how can I get him back?’

‘Too easy,’ she said. ‘With cocks it’s just too fucking easy.’

Trish dropped me off at my car, which was still parked under the leopard tree outside Scott’s house. After five or six scotches, we were both pretty maggot but Trish was
heading down the coast to catch the last set at some illegal rave. Her dealer was going to be there so she was confident of getting the drugs for Scott. As I watched her hoon away, techno beats
rattling the rust-eaten exhaust of her Suzuki, I thought about her advice. It seemed fair enough, coming from someone who’d had heaps of blokes. I got in my car, switched the cabin light on,
and read over the shopping list she’d given me:

No wonder Trish had guys after her left, right and centre. BrisVegas wasn’t that big a place and word, no doubt, had got around. Scott and I’d never had kinky sex.
We tried anal once but it hurt too much so we stopped. We liked experimenting, though, with different positions – doggy and standing up and the one where I faced the other way on top. That
suited us fine, we didn’t need any weirdo shit. Sex toys were for married couples who’d lost the magic or old men who couldn’t get it up. I mean, what the fuck was I meant to do
with an over-ripe banana? I hated bananas and so did Scott.

I tossed Trish’s list on the floor and looked across at the house. The bricks seemed to expand and contract as if they were breathing. He was in there, I could smell him, splayed starfish
on top of the sheets. I should have driven straight home but I couldn’t resist the thought of slipping into bed naked with him, his hands all over me in the dark, our legs entangled. I took
off my sandals and got out of the car. The air outside was as warm as sea water, and it felt like I was swimming through it. Avoiding the sensor light, I trailed the edge of the front lawn until I
hit the pebbled driveway which led to the side door. The pot plant was still there, dead now. Tipping it to one side, I hunted around for the spare key, trying not to think about redbacks. There it
was, on the same rusty old keyring. I crept inside the rumpus, closing the door gently behind me. For a few moments I stood still, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark, listening for any
sounds from upstairs. The old Kelvinator chugged in the corner like a big white bear. The pool table took shape, then the built-in bar, from behind which I half-expected Mr Greenwood to come
popping up like a jack-in-the-box. My feet slapped against the cool tiles as I headed towards Scott’s bedroom. It was just like old times when I’d surprise him, driving over in the
middle of the night to root and sleep spooned until sunrise.

His door was shut, which was strange on a night so hot and muggy. What if she was in there? I imagined her thin, blue-ish legs entwined in his, her black hair strewn like seaweed across the
pillows, her buff-coloured nipples small and erect as cherry seeds. I turned the doorknob but it wasn’t locked. Inside, it was stuffy, the air heavy with the smell of stale pot and unwashed
clothes. I shut the door and tiptoed towards the bed, taking off my top and slipping out of my skirt. I ditched my bra and undies until I was cool and naked, skinny-dipping under the sheet. A
lovely floaty feeling swept over me as the pores of my skin opened up. I crawled top and bottom, searching for him under the pillows and at the end of the bed where I found an odd footy sock and
curled-up porn mag. Where could he be? The red digits on his alarm clock flashed 2.25. He was probably out raving in the Valley. He’d come home eventually, after the clubs shut at five, and
I’d be waiting, strung out naked on his bed, the sparkle of my ruby belly-button leading him to his prize. I lay on my back, my ears pricked for the crunch of his footsteps up the drive. My
brain charged with visions of us having wild and dirty sex. I watched the minutes flipping, then the hours. At 4.02, I remembered the spare key and dashed outside to replace it in case Scott needed
it to get in. By 5.16 it was getting light and I hadn’t got a wink. Around the room, shapes were emerging, outlined by the first seeping of sun through the curtains. I had a sick, prickly
feeling like a cactus was lodged in my stomach. But then, it wouldn’t be long before he walked through the door. I closed my eyes and waited.

The air-con’s on the blink. The men have sweat patches down the spine of their shirts. The women fan themselves with programmes folded into concertinas. March can be the
hottest month sometimes. I sit between Mr and Mrs Greenwood in the university concert hall, wearing a new white linen trouser suit which I reckon makes me look twenty-five instead of seventeen.
It’s three months since the car crash and it hurts to sit for too long because the pain in my neck comes back. But I grin and bear it, clapping polite as an opera-goer as the chancellor walks
across the stage, because it’s Scott’s big night and I’m so proud of him. I uncross my legs, thinking about varicose veins, but then re-cross them, thinking surely it’s more
important to look sophisticated. Mrs Greenwood has her legs crossed and, despite the heat, she’s wearing flesh-coloured pantyhose. From where I’m sitting, most women, even the grannies,
are bare-legged, swollen feet jammed into sandals or court shoes. Mr Greenwood’s in his one and only suit, a shiny seventies number with wide lapels and flared trousers. As he leans across me
to whisper something to Mrs Greenwood, I catch a flash of his hairy tummy, spilling through a gap in his shirt.