Luck in the Greater West (5 page)

His car was in the carport, as it had been on the several other occasions Sonja had walked towards his flat, but had found small reasons in the asphalt not to go further. It was the only car to be seen within at least six carports — that is, of course, except for the police cruisers that came and went with alarming regularity. She hadn't seen him since the hospital. Maybe he'd moved and left his car. She hoped not. She wanted to know someone, someone who lived here; and he'd been so close. And she hadn't been able to stop thinking about him at all. And the fact that he lived so close — actually in this same block of unattractive flats — was driving her wild. She'd felt so confused, and then depressed, after that day with Raz. It'd been, as she predicted, the last time they spoke, let alone spent time together. For a while she thought she might love Raz, because she couldn't stop thinking about him. But eventually, and a bit disappointingly, she realised it was simply that — although she'd never ask him — she wanted to know what he thought of her, why he'd acted so bizarrely. But since the day of the hospital, any thought of Raz was totally eclipsed. This new boy had cured her of him. And filled her with a new set of feelings that burned
hotter, but were much more positive than those Raz had caused her to suffer.

So she climbed the steps — uncomfortably identical to the ones leading to her own door — and knocked, wincing with what could be such a naive act. She could see no movement through the peephole, but could sense it. The door opened.

—Hi, he said, and then, as though the gods were watching, she thought, Sonja, is it?

He didn't seem as tall, but darker, and with much bluer eyes than she'd remembered from that day in his car.

—Yeah, hi. I don't actually know your name, she said, and was unexpectedly pleased with her response which seemed so mature and clear.

—Oh, it's Patrick. Sorry, I thought I told your mum.

—You probably did. She forgets Australian names.

—Well, I hope there hasn't been another accident. He smiled with one side of his mouth.

—No, no. I, um, just wanted to thank you, you know, properly, and to get you something, but I didn't know what to get.

—No, nothing. You don't need to get me anything. We're neighbours, right? he said, maybe reddening a little, Sonja saw.

—Please. My mum insists, Sonja lied. We thought maybe a case of beer.

—A
case
? No. Maybe a bottle, he said, leaning further out the doorway.

—What about a bottle of wine then?

—No, no, it's all right.

—Please? she laughed, bending her knees in mock frustration.

—Okay, but ya really don't have to.

—Red or white?

—Um, red. The cheapest. Honestly.

He rubbed his stomach, maybe nervously, under his T-shirt, and she saw the trickle of hair running from his navel into his jeans.

—Okay, well, I'll see you soon, Patrick, she said, and backed away.

—Okay, bye, Sonja. Nice to see ya well, too.

—Thanks.

She hit the bottom of the steps and suddenly thought that maybe she'd left too quickly, like a schoolgirl. Maybe she should have stayed a while more, extended the conversation. But then, Patrick did seem to be a man of few words.

 

People he didn't know always seemed to drive him to politeness. Now he would have to accept a gift from this girl, which would have to lead to more politeness, which made him a little uncomfortable. But as he sat back down on his two-seater, and sifted some heads and tobacco between his thumb and index finger, he realised that the polite exchange he'd just had was more satisfying — he could still feel a lingering burn of endorphin — than the unchanging lump of words he and his mates (customers) dropped at each other's feet.

Someone knocked on his door. Westie, after two sticks and a half-weight.

It was a risk, driving around in an unregistered 1979 particoloured — thanks to several transplanted panels — Commodore with bulk drugs. He only felt this on his third pick-up though, because he was only just beginning to get over the authority that went with driving again. It was probably more of a risk walking with the drugs anyway. He picked them up from Ronnie's place. And Ronnie got a quarter oz — which he sold — for letting Whitey use his place for the exchange.

Waldo, who always brought along his dog, was — at least as far as Whitey knew — the source of the drugs. The heeler-cross sat and examined his fleas and the damage they'd done to his sheath. He relaxed everyone. Helen mimicked the counting and weighing, right down to the dipping and licking. And the ignition and blowing-out-the-window of the bong smoke.

Waldo and the heeler were happy. One drunk and speeding, the other thoroughly content. Ronnie stood with his beer, maybe ready to run — if there was a cop-knock. Whitey drank, because the freshly opened case on the floor looked so inviting, with its photograph of a crisp-looking, perpetually full beer bottle. They
laughed about school. But Whitey didn't really remember Waldo from those days, except that they'd both shared unfortunate acne and an English class. There were no laughs between them then. But now, there was micro-capitalism. Laughs of the small-businessmen.

Waldo left after a phone call from his missus filled him with doubt and his speed hit visibly skipped a beat. Whitey and Ronnie drank the rest of the case with speedy, flared nostrils. And were amazed at each other's power of chemically sharpened mimicry of mutual acquaintances.

 

Afterwards, he dropped Ronnie at the bottleshop, but Whitey had to get back to Brunei because of the promises weighed and bagged under the back seat of the car.

The act of getting drugs from the car to the flat had to be covert, but the best he could manage was an outdated sports bag. The bag was quickly dropped and unburdened, the stash of drugs replenished in their various locations in the toilet/laundry. Not so much hidden from a bust, but from customers. Pot in the toilet-brush holder; goey under the twin tub.

He dropped another fingerful of speed, then tidied up. Clothes, dishes — which made him realise that he hadn't been eating for the last couple of days. And he wouldn't eat today. Hot doubt rushed with the speed of speed through his chest — a side effect of the drug he could never get used to. But someone knocked, a bit lightly, on his door.

Looking through the peephole, wondered who told this girl from up the next stairs, Sonja, that he sold. The speed allowed for quick, if not accurate thought. Maybe she isn't here to score — like last time.

—Hi, Patrick, she said. It sounded a bit like a question, so he answered:

—Yeah, Sonja.

—I just thought I'd bring this over. She held out the thickness of a bottle in brown paper.

—Cool, thank you. He motioned for her to come up the step she'd backed down.

She handed him the bottle her mother had bought.

—Do you wanna come in? he asked, because the stairwells at Brunei reverberated, and sound became like the graffiti — random and coarse.

—Okay.

He took the bottle out of the paper bag and looked at it, as if he knew something about wine. He was not sure how long he should keep looking at it.

—Thank you, he said. And thank your mum, too.

—I will, she said and leaned on the bench in his kitchenette.

—So how've you been? Head okay?

—Yeah, thanks. I started feeling better the next day.

—Good, good. So, how long have you lived here?

Sonja appeared nervous, and it was making him a little edgy too. But when she spoke his unease evaporated. Her voice was like nothing he'd heard — it was young, but not really a girl's voice, and that accent, whatever it was, it was so cute. He wanted to hear it more.

—Too long, she said. About two years. My dad's in hospital. But we're able to keep the flat.

—Oh. I'm sorry.

—That's okay.

—You like it here? Whitey asked.

—Nah. I don't know, it's a bit —

—Yeah, I know.

—Actually, I've got another favour to ask you, she said, looking down at the bench.

—Yeah, okay, but I've, um, got friends coming over, maybe.

—Oh.

—But ask me, he said, and leaned on the bench next to her.

—Okay. I've, um, got this assignment from school, for English. We have to write about our community. I was hoping I could ask you some questions about, you know, living here, in these flats.

—Sure, I guess, but I'm not sure I'm what you're after.

—But you're easy to talk to, I mean, think I can talk to you. Is it okay?

—Yeah, why not? Be fun to do some homework!

He opened the bottle while she went back home to get her assignment book. He drank half a tumblerful of the metallic wine and spat out some cork. The drink was quenching but hot. He found the soaked cork piece and put it in the sink. He would have to think of something to say to Sonja if anyone came to score. Or maybe he should just tell her the truth? He wanted to be honest with her. But he also wanted her to like him. Because he liked her. She kept getting prettier every moment he glanced at her. He had never been able to tell when girls liked him. It always seemed to come out of the blue. And when girls he had been into weren't attracted to him, it didn't really bother him. Of course it stabbed at first, but he was able to lose interest fairly quickly. But he wanted Sonja to like him. Did she? Or was she just a friendly girl, thanking him for the lift to the hospital? That seemed more likely. But he hoped that it was more. He hoped that she would come back with her assignment, like she said.

They sat at his coffee table, she on his two-seater, he on a cushioned milk crate. Maleness had shocked her nostrils when she'd come right into his flat. But it wasn't offensive. It was so his. And she hoped she wouldn't get used to it — it made her feel alive. She'd had to quickly draw up the English task, because it was a lie that had come to her in the moment. It was reasonable though. Her English teacher, and the careers counsellor, had told her to write about anything that she felt she should write about. Of course, they were encouraging her to attempt several scholarships when they'd suggested it, but this
would
be something she really wanted to write about. Since the hospital, Patrick had become such an inspiration. He was handsome, but not egotistical — as far as she could tell — he was independent, but looked quite young. He seemed a bit shy, and she found this so appealing when she thought about how the boys at school acted. And he lived here, in Brunei Court, where she thought only people with financial and social problems lived — Loserville, the kids at school called it. But Patrick wasn't a loser. He was an angel.

While she got ready to ask her first invented question, Sonja and Patrick smirked at each other. He poured another glass of wine.

—Would you like one? Oh. Sorry, are you old enough?

—No, um, not really, but I would like one.

He got her a glass.

—Will this be all right with ya mum?

—Yeah, she said, because it was too late now, and maybe her mother wouldn't care anyway. Maybe.

The bottle, a deep vein, was between them. Like cherries, or blood, the wine was on her lips and her teeth.

—So, she began, reading from a hastily manufactured script: where were you living and what were you doing before you moved here?

—Okay — And he told her.

His story was proved almost immediately when two guys came knocking. Bought some marijuana. Sonja witnessed a criminal act. But it seemed far removed from what she'd expected of a transaction deserving of jail time.

She asked to look at the drugs. She had never seen them before. They looked appealing, like food. She asked for another glass of wine.

—Now, you see. I don't think you can use me as your, um, interviewee.

—Well, no. I guess I can't tell my teacher. I don't want to get you in trouble.

—Sorry. I know it's probably heavy for you. I don't know why I agreed to talk to you. But I did want you to come back. So —

—Thank you, Patrick. And it's not really heavy. I mean, it kind of is, but now that I've seen it, you know, drug dealing, it's not heavy at all.

—Ya know, I don't usually like people calling me Patrick, everyone calls me Whitey, but I like the way it sounds when you say it.

He poured them each a glass of wine.

—Patrick, she said.

—Jesus, now we're getting too deep, he said, and they both laughed.

He took another sip of the still-coursing wine. He leaned back on the crate, supporting himself with his arms behind him, his hands, veined with dark wineblood, spread on the floor. She saw
the trickle of hair below his navel again. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open. She was a little drunk. She'd never felt drunk before. She'd had wine, even vodka, but it had just made her sleepy. This was the opposite. This was an awakening. Patrick looked so beautiful. He smelt so delicious. She knew she could fall in love with him. She knew she already had. Whereas an hour ago it was an intense but unidentifiable feeling, now it was omnipresent, and nothing could be more right. She leaned across the two-seater and had to drop a bare knee to the floor. She kissed him on the mouth, quickly, and then again, long enough to taste his wine. He brought himself forward and looked at her, maybe a bit shocked, but he smiled and kissed her back. He moved so his arm was around her waist and she between his legs. He kissed her again and the wine, separated into tumblers a few minutes before, was re-flowing in their mouths.

His breath was hot, and his body so hard and strong. His face was soft as he moved from kissing her mouth to all over her face. And her neck. It drove her crazy. She was no longer drunk.

Her little black-and-red dress had bunched up on her thighs, and she could see him looking at her panties.
Tutti-frutti
they said. She wondered why she'd worn them. They were so little-girly. She took them off — she felt like they would burn if they didn't come off — and pulled the dress over her head between his kisses.

—Take your shirt off, she demanded. She couldn't believe she'd said it. A new her had taken over. One that she hadn't even met an hour ago.

She saw that the trickle of hair on his stomach was alone on his skin. Until he rolled off his jeans.

—Are you sure? he said.

—Do I feel it? she said.

She rubbed her readiness on the top of his thigh. And he was inside her, and kissing her. It hurt. He pushed it so hard and fast. But the pain was soothed as he kept pushing. Slower, but with a passion she would never have imagined a man could have.

—What about — should I stop? he asked.

—Please, no, she said.

He lifted her body up to him. And breathed hard in her ear. He said her name. And eased her back onto the floor. He stayed on top of her. Moving much slower now. It felt incredible, and she wished it would last forever. But after a few more minutes he took it out. It hurt more when he took it out. But he hugged her until his breathing slowed again.

—Jesus, he said, running his hand through his hair while leaning on his elbow. I'm sorry.

—Why? Can we hug again, please?

He lay back down next to her, and she could feel his arm.

—I'm too, um, old for you, he said. Sorry, I like you. Really like you. But you don't want to know how old I am, and I don't want to know how young you are.

—I'm sixteen, she said.

—I'm twenty-six, he said.

They were able to hug some more then, and even kiss. And finish the wine, and have sex again.