Category: Fiction

The apartment was filthy. Cramped. Depressing. Toby hated coming here.

The sink was full of dishes and cockroaches. In the six months he’d known Grace, he’d never seen her clean the place. He dropped his jacket over a chair as she moved through the piles of clothes and shoes and every other item thrown about the place. Toby made his way to the bed pressed against the wall, shifting the bedspread so he could sit. Grace had hastily scooped up a damp towel from the floor on her way to the laundry, revealing an old brown stain in the worn carpet.

Toby stared at it. He’d noticed it in the last few weeks, but still couldn’t tell if it was wine, or blood, or what. He decided he didn’t want to know, and turned his attention to where Grace was now bustling through the kitchenette. Having found a single glass in the cupboard, she filled it to the top from a cheap bottle of wine. He assumed her friends brought their own drinks in bottles when they came over to gossip and fight and dance to awful music, as any other glassware seemed to have been discarded long ago.

As she came over to sit beside him, glass in one hand and bottle in the other, he noticed she was trying to hide her smile. ‘What?’ he asked, taking the glass she offered him. She gave a shy laugh as she looked at him. ‘Nothing!’

Toby gave her a bemused smile in return. ‘You’re weird.’ Grace playfully pushed him, crossing her legs beneath her and arranging her skirt about her with her free hand.

‘So what did you want to do tonight then, lovely?’ Grace asked, taking a sip of wine from the bottle.

‘Well, I was thinking we could go out for dinner. Maybe have a talk? About us.’ Toby shifted his glass between his hands.

‘What about us?’ Grace looked puzzled. ‘You’ve got your serious face on, you know I don’t like it when you’re all serious, Mr. Grumpy.’ Toby looked at the floor.

‘Just some things I’ve been thinking about.’ Grace shifted on the bed, placing her foot across Toby’s leg.

‘We could talk.’ She slid her foot up his thigh. ‘Or we could do something else.’ Toby moved her foot back on the bed, but kept his hand on her leg. She grinned, pleased with herself. ‘And anyway, I can’t really afford to go out to dinner tonight. Mum didn’t leave me any money this week.’

Toby glanced at the half dozen unopened wine bottles Grace’s mother, Lianne, had left sitting on the bench by the fridge. The fridge itself contained almost nothing edible. Toby didn’t even know when Lianne had last been home. According to Grace, she was always seeing a slew of boyfriends, leaving the occasional message for Grace as to her whereabouts or intended date of return. Her absence suited his needs when he felt like staying over, but he thought that Grace missed her mum more than she let on.

‘I guess we’ll stay in tonight then.’ Toby gave Grace’s hip a squeeze. She slapped his hand away in mock outrage.

‘You think you’re getting sex tonight?’ Toby hesitated, but Grace winked. ‘Don’t worry, you are. I’ll just go have a cigarette and you put on a DVD, okay?’ She leapt up from the bed and dug through her handbag before disappearing onto the balcony. Toby felt slightly annoyed at how easily she always manipulated him. He called out after her.

‘We still need to have that talk, though.’ He waited, but there was no reply.

 * * *

Three weeks later, and Toby was sitting at a bus stop, drenched to the bone. The last few days hadn’t felt real. How long had he been waiting there? Traffic sped past, sending up fine sheets of spray from the steaming asphalt. His breath was short and sharp and came out in puffs of white. His phone lay limply in his hand, rivulets of water trickling over the message he’d read and re-read countless times. Those two words glared up at him.

I’m pregnant.

He felt hollow. Bruised, inside. It was as if the rain was washing him away slowly, his insides trickling across the pavement and down into the gutter. He didn’t even know if he was crying or not. He stood up on numb legs and went to lean against the chain-link fence that ran the length of the block. His forehead pressed against the wire, he thought he was going to throw up. He closed his eyes and prayed for the millionth time that it was a mistake; that it was somehow a joke, or a lie, or anything other than the truth.

He thought about Grace. Did he like her? Mostly. Did he love her? He knew he didn’t. Was he being heartless? Maybe, but he’d never made himself out to be her boyfriend. In fact, he’d been quite clear on that several times, letting her know exactly how he felt about their relationship and where he stood. He thought she understood, even if she seemed hurt by his feelings. He’d said it wasn’t personal, but it was. It was as personal as it got. He couldn’t see himself being with her. Not forever. It was just a fling; a casual thing they had that he could walk away from when the mood struck him. They hung out, they had sex, they argued, they had make-up sex. Maybe it had meant more to her than he’d thought. But he’d never lied about how serious he wanted it to be between them.

If she really was pregnant, didn’t he have the obligation to stay with her and raise the child? His child. He would have to move in with her. Where would they live? Her apartment was barely suitable for a grown adult, let alone the raising of a newborn child. What would his parents say? They didn’t even know about Grace. She’d never visited his house. She wasn’t the type of girl he wanted to introduce them to. All the usual interview questions would be embarrassing for Grace, for himself, for his parents. ‘What do you do for work?’ Nothing. ‘Are you studying?’ No. ‘What do your parents do?’ Time to leave.

The clouds had made the sky dark, and Toby realised he was shivering. Whether from the cold or the shock, he couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter. He stared with damp, red eyes at the text message once more. He’d put it off long enough. He’d have to call her. Go see her.

‘I’m not ready for this,’ escaped as a hoarse whisper from his cold lips.

 * * *

The music in the beer garden was loud, combining with the collective din of voices to drown out what Ian was saying. Toby sat and stared at the crowded tables and let his friend talk. He’d convinced himself that he needed just one more night before confronting Grace. One more night to collect his thoughts.

Moisture trickled down Toby’s glass, his beer untouched since they’d sat down nearly an hour ago. Someone bumped the table as they passed, and Toby realised Ian was asking him a question.

‘I said did you want to come up the coast this weekend?’ Ian repeated. Toby looked at him.

‘I don’t know, who’s going?’

Ian took a sip of his drink and licked the foam from his lip.

‘Just you, myself, and I’ll be bringing Cathleen as well, if that’s cool?’ Toby shrugged, knowing Ian would be calling his girlfriend every hour otherwise, confirming their love for each other again and again.

Ian gave Toby a wide grin and raised his glass. Toby lifted his own, and Ian clinked them together, spilling some onto the table. Toby set his back down whilst Ian took another sip. Failing to recognise his friend’s mood, Ian pressed on.

‘Hey, why don’t you invite whatshername, you know, that cute bird you were seeing?’

‘Which girl, what do you mean?’ Toby coughed out. Ian mistook it for defensiveness.

‘Don’t act all bashful. We all knew you were seeing someone. It didn’t take a genius to guess why you were blowing us off all the time.’ Ian gave a playful twitch of his eyebrows. ‘So, bring her along, we’ll do a double date kinda thing.’

Toby stared at his drink. Ian was still waiting on a response, but Toby suddenly felt ill. Slipping off his stool, he made to go for the bathroom. His elbow caught his beer and it fell with a smash on the courtyard floor. Some girl squealed and a few people laughed. Toby was already through the bathroom door and heading for a cubicle.

‘Mate, are you alright? What’s wrong?’ Ian’s voice echoed off the tiles. Toby retched again and vomited thin strands of bile.

‘Toby, you feeling sick?’ Ian sounded concerned now. Toby didn’t reply, but Ian could hear him stifling sobs. Ian crouched down by the cubicle door.

‘Look, I’m sorry if I said something, I was just having a go. I didn’t mean anything about you and that girl.’

Toby retched again, and wiped his hand across his damp lips. He mumbled something.

‘What’d you say?’ Ian leaned closer.

‘I got her pregnant.’ Toby sobbed again. Silence met him from the other side of the cubicle door. Toby waited, his face red and streaked with tears, his hip resting against the cubicle wall as he leaned over the toilet.

‘Ian?’

Toby wiped his face with his hands, and opened the cubicle door. Ian was silent, his mouth slightly ajar.

‘Ian?’

‘When you say pregnant, you mean pregnant?’ Ian’s voice was barely audible. Toby sighed a confirmation. Ian paused, then nodded.

‘Okay.’

Toby wasn’t sure he had heard Ian correctly. ‘Sorry?’

‘I said okay. I know you; you’ll do your best. I’m sure you’ll make a great dad.’ Ian gave a genuine smile.

Toby hastily replied. ‘No, that’s not okay. I don’t know what to do.’

Now it was Ian’s turn to look confused. ‘Don’t know what to do? I don’t understand.’ Toby wasn’t sure how to make it clear to his friend how he was feeling.

‘I don’t want to be a dad, Ian. I don’t want to be with her, with Grace. I’m not going to be with her. I can’t raise that child. It’s not fair.’ Tears pricked at his eyes.

A drunk walked into the bathroom, a swagger in his step. ‘What’re you two gay boys up to, eh?’ he chuckled.

‘GET THE FUCK OUT!’ Ian shoved the intruder, startling Toby. The drunk turned and left, his fly half undone. Ian turned back to Toby, the sound of his yell bouncing off of the walls.

‘Not fair? What’s not fair would be you leaving that girl with a kid and not taking any fucking responsibility.’ Ian wasn’t yelling, but there was anger in his voice. He was breathing through his nose, his nostrils flaring. ‘You know that my dad fucked off before I was even two. It left mum a wreck, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you do that to your kid.’

Toby gave a pleading look. ‘This is different to your dad, mate. Your mum was older and a better mother and her family took care of you.’ He wanted Ian to understand.

‘No, this is exactly the same. You’re a dad now, whether you want to be or not, and you’re going to do your best at raising this kid.’ Ian paced the bathroom, his fists clenched by his side. He turned to face Toby, and his voice softened slightly.

‘I know you’re scared, I’d be fucking terrified. But you can’t run away, not from this. I’ll help out with whatever you need, and you know your parents will too. You’ll get through it, mate, I promise.’

Toby ran a hand across his face, knowing his friend was right. ‘Okay. Alright. I’ll try. I haven’t even spoken to her, though, since she told me.’ Toby realised how awful that was as he said it.

‘You can’t change that. But you can start to fix it.’ Ian stepped over to the door and waited. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up, and I’ll drop you around at her place.’

 * * *

Toby watched the taillights of Ian’s car disappear around the corner, and walked over to the apartment block across the street. Looking up he could see that Grace’s bedroom light was on. She was going to be angry at him, and he deserved it. He hoped she didn’t cry too much. They were going to have a serious talk for once. Maybe things would work out alright. He was nervous, and had no idea what he was going to say to Grace. It didn’t matter. She was part of his future now, and he was going to try to make it work.

They stood in front of door number thirteen. From the hall they could hear the grunting and banging of the removalists in the stairwell as they lugged the side-of-the-road tartan couch up the three flights of stairs. Hugo held their two keys on the tip of his right index finger. With his left hand he squeezed Kara’s sweaty one.

Hugo’s eyes narrowed as he sized up the door. ‘That couch is not going to fit.’

Kara snorted, her hand moving to the handle. ‘That’s why we hired them.’ She jerked her head towards the grunting. ‘Come on, let’s go inside.’

‘Hey,’ Hugo’s hand tugged hers and she turned into him. He smiled, the boyish dimples settling deep into his flushed cheeks. ‘Do you love me?’

‘Of course not!’ Her lips stretched wide, a laugh echoing through the hall. His eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled. His hand left hers and weaved into her hair, pulling her closer, her head coming to rest on his chest. Her eyelids met for a moment as she breathed in the musky scent of him that lived in the fibres of his shirt. He brushed his lips across her forehead as the key went into the lock with a metallic click.

His lips on her ear littered her smooth skin with goose bumps. “Welcome home.”

* * *

On Kara’s first day of kindergarten, the car window hosted raindrop races and the yellow plastic raincoat stuck to the skin of her leg. The school was surrounded by green paddocks filled with horses and cows and a main road bordered by flooring and home-wares stores. Beyond the cluster of moss stained classrooms, the rambling expanse of the school’s sporting fields and playground was visible, puddles of water flooding the grass. The leaf filled rainwater from the car-park ran in rivulets down the path to the kindergarten buildings and collected in a sock-soaking puddle at the bottom where the cracked bricks halted its progression.

Kara’s eyes prickled as she watched the swarming crowd of yellow rain-coated, brown-shoed children spilling off the path and onto the asphalt like a river breaking its banks. A sob finally escaped from deep in her chest as her mother wrangled the umbrella open above them and wrestled the schoolbag over Kara’s shoulders. Finally, her eyes spilled over like the gutters on the brown brick buildings of the school, leaving her cheeks stained with tear tracks.

‘Why are you crying?’

Kara turned to find a small boy and his tall mother standing under their own umbrella, hand in hand. The boy, Hugo, had blue eyes that reminded Kara of the colour of the dress on her favourite Barbie doll. Hugo blinked at her, his hat slipping down over his eyes every few seconds. He pushed it back up with the tips of his skinny fingers.

Finally, Kara sucked in a breath, scrubbing her sleeve across her face. ‘Because.’

He swallowed hard, his cheeks dimpling as his eyes flicked around their sockets, his teeth leaving indents in his bottom lip while their mothers chatted easily beside them. After another moment, he shook his hand free and splashed towards Kara, the brim of his hat spotting with fat raindrops. He paused in front of her, considering, before he threw his arms around her shoulders and turned to the mothers, taking Kara’s hand as he did.

‘Can we please go to school now?’

They nodded. Hugo turned on his heel and, his fingers folded around Kara’s, marched off towards the crowd of crying children, dragging Kara behind.

* * *

Her laptop dinged. She felt her face bloom red. Hugo Jameson has accepted your friend request. Write on Hugo’s wall.

The laptop dinged again and a flashing blue message box popped open at the bottom of the screen. ‘Hey!’ She sighed. What else would you say to someone you hadn’t seen in a decade?

She’d been slouched over her laptop staring at an eyeball disintegrating Word document filled with Modern History study notes for the last hour. Once her eyes had begun to bleed, she’d shifted to the relaxing blue and white of the facebook newsfeed. When his name popped up as a suggested friend, her mind had jumped to the days of throwing rocks at the school bell, missing and shattering the classroom window, doing bombs off the retaining wall into his swimming pool and pulling his labrador’s tail to make it play.

She’d nearly choked on her vegemite sandwich when she’d clicked on his name and saw his profile picture.

Ten years ago he’d been an eight year old with chubby, rosy cheeks and a smile full of gaps that made his eyes scrunch up into small slits that reminded her of the coin slot in a vending machine. His profile picture still showed the same toothy smile, but with a hard jawline and high cheekbones that tapered across to his pointed nose.

Kara stared at the single word in the message box and stole a glance over her shoulder. The bedroom door was firmly closed, the Blink 182 poster tacked to the back still projecting the fuck you visual message. She smiled at the memory of her mother’s puce coloured face after having caught a glimpse of the poster. Her eyes returned to the message window, her pen splattering blue ink over her knee as she tapped it against the skin there.

‘Alrighty,’ she muttered. Hi Hugo, long time no see … what have you been doing for the last decade?

He replied with a smiley face. Then: Well I could tell you here, but it would take forever to type because there’s a lot. How about lunch?

* * *

They’d pulled the dog’s tail too hard. She was sulking under the veranda, whimpering. Hugo’s mum had yelled. She’d locked them in the TV room with Beauty and the Beast. They sat on Hugo’s Batman beanbag together; legs sprawled out in front of them, Hugo’s sock half hanging off his foot.

‘Why do grownups do that?’ Hugo pointed at the screen where, newly transformed into Prince Charming, the Beast was kissing Belle.

Kara made a face, scrunching her nose. ‘I don’t know. Whenever my Mum kisses me, it’s always on the cheek and really slobbery and I have to wipe my face after.’

Hugo nodded vigorously, his hair tickling her cheek. ‘Maybe on the lips is better.’

Kara shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘Wanna try?’ He bounced out of the beanbag and was on his knees on the rug in front of her.

Kara glanced at the screen on the wall again. ‘Okay, but I think we have to hold hands. That’s what my mum and dad do.’

Hugo nodded, his brow furrowing. ‘Mine too. Okay.’ He took Kara’s hand like he had on their first day of school. ‘Do we have to close our eyes too?’

Kara nodded, the end of her ponytail flicking her chin. ‘That’s what all the grownups do.’ Hugo closed his eyes and leaned towards her on his knees, his pursed lips just resting on hers before he leaned back, his laugh escaping through the gaps in his smile where his teeth had fallen out.

A giggle escaped through Kara’s nose. ‘That was silly! I like holding hands though.’

 ‘Me too.’ His small hand still held hers. The credits began rolling on the screen. ‘What do you want to watch next?’

They turned to each other and nodded. ‘Toy Story!’

‘There’s a snake in my boot!’ Hugo exploded out of the beanbag, sprinted to the DVD cabinet, and returned with the navy blue disc case.

* * *

The sun stung their cheeks and made them squint. She reached a finger out and twisted the tip around one of his golden strands of hair. His hand lay lightly on her hip, his other twirling around the end of her ponytail. The grass scratched at the skin on their legs and his cockatoo observed them from the veranda and screeched, ‘What are you doing?’ over the humming of his neighbour’s mower.

His blue eyes transported her away from the pounding sun and the bubble of panic over university exams, immersing her in a cool world of azure that swallowed her and held her in a space where there was only room for her and him. His fingers tangled with hers; thumb tracing the back of her knuckles. His eyes came closer, the tip of his nose just touching hers. Softly her mouth rested on his. Then his lips parted and she breathed in the taste of strawberries and orange juice.

* * *

Hugo slammed the apartment door. Kara was already in their bedroom. Her mascara ran in parallel lines down her cheeks, the tears dropping from the tip of her chin, leaving black spots on her white blouse. She dragged the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and snatched her clothes off hangers and out of drawers.

 ‘Kara, stop!’ Hugo’s hand crushed tight around her wrist. She wondered if it would bruise.

She shook her arm, glaring at him. ‘Let me go.’

‘No.’

‘I said let me go,’ she spat.

‘Kara, please.’

‘Fucking let me go Hugo or I swear to God-‘

His fingers lifted away. ‘What the fuck is your problem?’

She threw a skirt onto the pile in the bag. ‘Your parents just told us that I was a bad influence on you, that I was the one preventing you from doing something with your life. They basically just verbally abused the shit out of me and this relationship and you just sat there.’

‘Well you didn’t-‘

‘They aren’t my parents.’ Kara’s voice was like a training whistle for small dogs. She could feel the vein in her forehead beginning to throb. ‘Why don’t you ever stand up for this, for me? Is this what you want, Hugo?’ She waved her arms around the room, her wrist enveloped in a red handprint.

‘Of course-‘

‘Then why don’t you ever say it is?’ Kara’s hand slapped against her leg as she let it fall to her side.

His face filled with lines; eyes sunken among the dark bags beneath them. ‘I-‘

She waited. Nothing.

‘You can’t even answer me. Maybe your parents are right. Maybe this isn’t the right thing. You don’t know how you want to live your life. I’ve waited long enough. I can’t wait anymore.’ She threw her shoes in on top of the clothes.

He flung his arms out as if he were trying to keep the pieces of his life from severing completely. ‘So what, you’re leaving?’

‘Ooh, got it in one.’ He looked at her like she’d slapped him. ‘Sort your life out, Hugo. Figure out what you want.’

She stomped out of their bedroom. He watched her drag the bag through the living-room and past the kitchen. She dropped her key on the counter and struggled with the deadlock like she always did. She scrambled past the door, her suitcase denting the wall. The door slammed closed. He stared at the back of the door. She’d left her Blink 182 fuck you poster. He wondered if it was on purpose. He felt his knees give way and he dropped onto their bed.

Their bed. Theirs.

His.

* * *

They’d just received final judgment. Her client was howling in the street. In any other situation, it might have been funny: the awkward lawyer, the howling client, and the brooding, grey sky. It wasn’t funny. Kara’s stomach was roiling, bile beginning to rise in her throat. Once she was sure the client wasn’t going to walk in front of the next bus that rumbled along the street, she said goodbye.

It started to rain. Kara didn’t have an umbrella. She’d been on this earth for thirty years and for twenty of those, her mother had been telling her to put an umbrella in her bag, just in case.

‘Fucking hell,’ she muttered, lifting the client folder over her head to try and protect her hair as she made a run for the coffee shop on the next corner.

She dashed through the puddles on the asphalt footpath and half fell up the step into the shop where the smell of roasting coffee beans filled her lungs and made her shoulders sag in relief.

She ordered a large cap and fell into a booth near the barista machine. She dropped the rain spotted client file onto the table in front of her with a scowl and pulled out her phone. She had thirty unread emails from her colleagues offering their condolences. She wondered when the email notifying her of her sacking would arrive.

The coffee arrived in a take away cup and she stood up, shivering as the door to the café opened and blew a rainy breeze onto her legs. Her phone dinged; a meeting request with the managing partner.

‘Joey, small latte please.’

Kara stiffened, her thumb hovering over the accept button on the request. She turned on her heel, coffee shaking in hand.

His shoulders were wrapped in a charcoal suit. His blonde hair was short on the sides and longer on the top, fringe falling into his eyes. He held a black barrister’s file in one hand and dragged a suitcase in the other. He brushed his fringe away as he turned to put his folder on the table beside him. His eyes widened, locking with hers as he turned.

The only sound was the noise of grinding coffee beans for his latte. After a moment, his face split along his mouth like a fault line that transformed the landscape of his face; he had new lines around his smile and a softening to the hardness of his jawline. Her eyes moved to his ring finger. Not even a tan line. She prayed that there wasn’t some bimbo girlfriend out on the town with his Amex in her purse and a Tiffany’s ring on her finger. She imagined the taste of strawberries and orange juice.

‘You, ah … you left your poster on the door when you left.’ His hand ruffled the back of his hair.

He spread his arms a little; an involuntary out-turning of his hands, like a habit. It was like he’d been doing it every day for the last six years. Like no time had passed at all. The gesture folded around her like a blanket, warming her like it used to when she’d had a bad day at university, or when they’d signed the lease for their first apartment.

She moved across the café and stopped, the toes of her pointed shoes centimetres from his. ‘Have you still got that poster?’

He nodded, brow furrowed. ‘Framed and everything.’

She sighed. ‘Thank god. I love that poster.’

‘Me too. I’m not sure I’m willing to give it up.’

She shrugged, brushing droplets of water off the shoulder of his suit. His face fell into the smile that was just for her. ‘Maybe we can share.’

Peace at last. Katharine sat down with a cup of tea in hand and sorted through the mail. The children were playing dodgeball in the backyard: squeals of laughter; an unwelcome thud as a ball hit the glass doors; frequent shouts of victory or – more likely – of outrage. Still, Katharine might have been lucky. She might have just had enough time to enjoy the tea while it was hot. Tossing the junk and laying the bills and bank statements on Julian’s place at the table, Katharine came to the letter she had just collected from the Post Office. It was their Marriage Certificate. Katharine and Julian had recently celebrated twelve years of marriage but only ever had the decorative certificate to acknowledge their communion. Recently however, applying for the children’s Spanish passports, the Consulate insisted on the official version. Katharine glanced at the document, ready to put it aside until later, when she noticed something odd.

Katharine Camila Martín. Conjugal Status. Never Validly Married.

Shaking her head, she skimmed down to her husband’s name.

Julian Ryan Farrell. Conjugal Status. Never Validly Married.

Julian’s part made sense. He had never been married before they met. Yet Katharine had, and this was the Marriage Certificate that was meant to document their details at the time she and Julian entered into marriage.

Katharine moved to the study and sat down at the computer, double-clicking on the website for the Office of Births, Deaths and Marriages.

If you have not been previously married or your marriage was annulled your conjugal status is ‘Never validly married’.

If you have been previously married and divorced your conjugal status is ‘Divorced’.

Clearly, her conjugal status should have been ‘Divorced’. And yet …‘Never validly married.’ What was happening here?

Katharine scanned the webpage again, honing in on the word ‘annulled’.  Annulment was something Catholics asked for. Richard was Catholic. That was one of the few things her mother had liked about him.

Katharine would never forget the sight of her mother that day in the church as she walked up the aisle on her father’s arm. Once tall and athletic, her mother’s shrunken form was huddled into the wheelchair that day as tears streamed down her cheeks. The thin tubes of the nasal cannula which looped over her ears formed an exaggerated smile on her face. This was matched only by her actual expression of joy.

Katharine turned back to the computer screen wondering if Richard had somehow managed to have their marriage annulled. Katharine sat back in the chair, reeling, as thoughts continued to flood into her mind. Richard was a lawyer. Could he really have done this without her knowledge? Katharine heard herself breathing, each intake rapid and deep, as her head began to pulse. How could he still affect her like this?

Then Katharine heard glass shatter. Running towards the rear of the house, she saw one of the stained glass windows in the kitchen had been struck full force in its centre. Splinters of coloured glass held fast to their leaden surrounds, while a few jewelled shards lay hapless on the floor. The glass doors in the adjacent living area burst open then slammed shut as the children pushed past each other in the race to reach their mother.

‘Nicolas did it,’ Amelia accused. Older and more agile, she usually succeeded in getting there first.

‘No, Mum, I didn’t! It was her fault.’ Nicolas was already crying.

Katharine’s legs still felt weak. She forced her breathing to slow down and steadied her voice.

‘That window was precious. It was part of the original house. I’ve told you so many times …’ She looked from the broken window to the children and back again, clenching her hands to stop the tingling. ‘Amelia, do your piano. Nicolas, go to the shower. Now.’ As the children continued to protest their innocence, tears spilled over her eyes. ‘Vamonos!’ she cried. ‘Go, now! And keep away from that glass.’

Later that evening, once the children were asleep, Katharine showed her husband the Marriage Certificate.

Julian shrugged, smiling as he turned back to the broken window, which he had been carefully taping up. ‘It’s better than the opposite.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It looks like they’ve botched the paperwork and lost record of your first marriage, but … they could have just lost the records for your divorce and then I’d be married to a bigamist.’ Julian laughed. ‘Actually, maybe that would be kind of sexy. Come here, Catarina,’ he cooed.

Katharine allowed him to kiss her neck but her thoughts were elsewhere.

‘It is strange,’ Katharine’s oldest friend, Penelope, conceded in the café the next morning, ‘but I don’t understand why you’re so upset. Richard was a controlling bastard from the very beginning. I only wish I’d known at the time what he was doing to you.’ She put her hand on Katharine’s arm. ‘Anyway, Kat,’ she added, ‘you made a lucky escape. Now you’re free of him for good. Even on paper.’

Katharine smiled but inwardly grimaced as she recalled how Richard had belittled her best friend for years, privately referring to her as ‘Penny the pig’ and her husband as ‘Farmer John’.

 ‘Exactly,’ said her friend, Susan. ‘Thank God you didn’t have children together. You should just forget it ever happened.’

But it did happen, Katharine thought. However painful it may have been, she did not want this history, her history, simply erased from record.

Withdrawing from the rest of the conversation, Katharine reflected on Susan’s comment about children. Just months after they had started dating, back in first-year university, Richard had made her promise she would never teach their children Spanish. ‘You’d be able to turn them against me, Kitty Kat,’ he had protested, stroking her cheek. His demand seemed absurd now, but at the time all she could think about was that Richard had just declared his intention to spend the rest of his life with her.

An hour later, kissing her friends goodbye in the car park, Katharine found a parking ticket under her windscreen wiper. Julian was going to enjoy this. Since they had been together he’d managed to get some kind of ticket at least once a year, while this would be her first. Not her first ticket ever though – that had occurred many years earlier, not long after she and Richard were married. Driving down a hill, on her way to work, she had been pulled up for speeding. By the time she had reached the office Katharine was racked with anxiety.

‘I don’t know what I’m going to tell my husband,’ she had said to a colleague, anticipating Richard’s fury.

Lynne had looked at her, puzzled. ‘Just tell him you must have been driving a little too fast. It’s not like you meant to do it.’

The older woman’s straightforward response had made Katharine stop, forcing her to contemplate a question she had been evading: why was it that at work she felt confident and intelligent while at home she felt helpless and stupid? Later, she came to realise that that was all part of Richard’s way.

He was on a graduate salary when he was with Katharine, while Katharine’s career was continuing uninterrupted and even advancing. That was unacceptable to him. He needed a way to face it every day. He used to laugh at Katharine whenever she achieved a rise in pay or received a bonus. That was his way. ‘You don’t think you’re really worth that, do you?’ he would challenge. ‘You wouldn’t get that in the real world. Working for a marketing agency is nothing like a career in the law.’

Thinking of it now, Katharine could not comprehend why she had let him speak to her like that, or how she had simply pushed her conflicted feelings down and out of sight.

Back home, avoiding the study, where the Marriage Certificate lay on the desk, Katharine busied herself with housework before the promise of sunshine drew her outside. She raked the fallen leaves then turned her attention to weeding the well-tended garden beds. As she breathed in the fresh, earthy smell, waiting for the usual sense of calm to follow, she remembered the unmarked seed packet that Nicolas had brought home from school. Taking her gloves and gardening tools, Katharine cleared a small area where the tomatoes had been in the summer and planted the seeds.

The next day, unable to distract herself any longer, Katharine picked up the certificate and sat down at the computer. Making her way through multiple layers of bureaucracy, through websites and automated telephone response systems, she finally reached an actual person.

‘That is a bit unusual,’ said the young woman. ‘And you say you have the original Marriage Certificate for your first marriage and the Decree Nisi issued by the Family Law Court?’

‘That’s right,’ Katharine said. ‘My ex-husband was a lawyer and he handled all the paperwork. Could he have forged documents, or had the marriage annulled without my knowledge?’

‘I don’t think so. I can’t see how. But if you would like the records to be amended we will have to investigate the enquiry formally. It takes eight to twelve weeks and you will need to surrender all your documentation. If you’re ready to proceed, I can direct you to the right form.’

Katharine posted the thick envelope that afternoon.

As the weeks passed and autumn merged into winter Katharine waited for an official response to her enquiry. Outside, the few remaining leaves continued to change colour, deepening in hue and intensity before letting go. In the end, all that remained of their former splendour were the dull, brittle skeletons that lay unswept on the ground. Watching this change of seasons, Katharine too imagined letting go and setting herself adrift.

Amelia was the first to notice her absence. ‘Are you sad, Mum?’ her daughter asked one evening as Katharine kissed her goodnight. ‘Are you missing your Mamá?’ She wrapped her slender arms around Katharine’s neck, pulling her down to the bed. ‘I wish I could have met Abuela.’

‘I wish you could have met her too, Mija. She would have loved you very much. You and Nicolas, and your father too.’

Her daughter’s tenderness brought back memories of her mother’s death; two years after she and Richard were married. Despite years of illness, the end when it came had been mercifully swift, leaving Katharine bereft and shocked. After weeks of intense grieving, Richard had demanded she stop crying. ‘It’s not normal,’ he had accused. ‘Where is your loyalty? This is your family now.’

Stunned by Richard’s callous accusation Katharine had gone to visit her father the following day. Sitting together at the round kitchen table, they had pored over old family photos; images of her mother yielding smiles and tears in equal measure.

‘Do you remember,’ her father had asked, ‘how stubborn you were as a child?’

‘Really?’ Katharine’s tone had been skeptical.

‘Of course,’ her father had insisted. ‘You were so stubborn. ‘Tan terco!’ your mother would complain, although she was no different. I remember one time, sitting here. You must have been about seven. Your mother had cooked your favourite dinner – omelette with potatoes – but you refused to eat it. And no matter what I said, no matter what punishment I threatened, you would not even taste it.’

‘Oh, Papá, I’m sorry,’ she had laughed. ‘I can’t even imagine it now.’

 ‘Do you know that in the end,’ he had continued, ‘I was holding onto your earlobe, twisting it, trying to make you give in? I think it hurt me more than it hurt you. But no, you would not be beaten. Tan terco!’

Later that same evening, in that liminal moment before sleep, Katharine had tried to reclaim this memory of herself as a child. She had found herself recalling the last time she visited her parents before her mother’s admission to the hospice. Her mother had asked Katharine to pick up milk on the way, but Richard had refused. ‘Why should we get the milk? She can send your father,’ he had sneered. ‘And we’re not staying long. One hour max.’

Thus, after being there for an hour, Katharine had dutifully stood up with grave apologies.

‘You have to go already? You just got here.’ Her father had been crestfallen.

‘Yes, Katharine,’ Richard had chimed in, ‘why do we have to go so soon?’

It wasn’t right, she had suddenly thought, lying there in bed. It was normal to bring milk. It was normal to grieve your mother’s death. It was Richard who was not normal. Having finally opened her eyes to all she had been denying, Katharine had scarcely been able to close them that night. Conscious of Richard’s presence beside her she had slept fitfully, disturbed by an insistent voice that asked, over and over, ‘where is that girl now?’ – but in the morning, her mind was surprisingly clear. She dropped Richard off in the city, as always, but instead of driving on to her own workplace she returned home. Filling her car with clothes and other belongings, weeping uncontrollably all the while, she drove to her father’s house, finally revealing what she had kept hidden from her family and herself all this time. From that day, she never saw or spoke to her first husband again.

One cold, grey afternoon, just before it was time to get the children from school, Katharine picked up the watering can and saw that the seeds had germinated. Instead of flowers or even vegetables, as Katharine expected to see, the emerging plants looked like weeds, all khaki-coloured stems and ugly ridged leaves. Katharine eyed them suspiciously and continued on her way to the car.

Finally the day came when a letter arrived from the Office of Births, Deaths and Marriages. Katharine tore open the envelope, unfolding the typewritten letter. They acknowledged the validity of her first marriage. They acknowledged the validity of her divorce. They claimed that, either, she had not provided details of her first marriage to the celebrant when she had married Julian or the celebrant had failed to pass on this information. Irrespective her second marriage was legal and they had therefore corrected their records as requested and were issuing a new Marriage Certificate.

Katharine showed her husband the response letter that evening.

‘Have you been waiting all this time to find out?’ Julian asked, incredulous. ‘Did you try to hide your shady past from the celebrant?’ he teased. Then, noticing her expression, he became serious. ‘Sweetheart, it was just a mistake. Don’t take it to heart.’

She looked away.

‘You do accept the explanation, don’t you?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she muttered.

‘What else could it be? Whatever happened, it’s not important now.’

Katharine met his eyes, trying to draw strength from his confidence.

Later that week Katharine’s father returned home from his annual three-month holiday in Spain. Driving from the airport, she told him of the Marriage Certificate and apparent clerical error.

‘I wouldn’t put it past Richard to have fiddled the paperwork somehow,’ her father agreed. ‘Julian is right, though. It doesn’t matter now. That jerk may have been able to control you once, but it was a long time ago. You’re not the same person you were then.’

 She turned to her father. ‘Do you really think so? Have I changed?’

‘Absolutamente,’ her father affirmed, chuckling. ‘Now you’re back to being that stubborn little girl I always knew. I only hope you give in to Julian every now and then. It’s not good for a man’s self esteem to always be beaten by a woman. I should know!’

That night, watching television together, Katharine asked her husband whether he liked Penelope.

‘Sure,’ Julian nodded. ‘She’s your best friend. Why wouldn’t I?’

‘And what do you think of me speaking Spanish with the kids?’

‘It’s good. The kids are lucky.’ He paused the remote control. ‘Why?’

‘No reason,’ she mumbled.

 ‘Anyway, how was your Dad’s trip?’ he asked, turning back to the television. ‘We should get him over here for dinner.’

The following morning, after contemplating the kitchen window for some time, Katharine went to the computer to search for leadlight repairers. Much to her relief the man on the phone said the window could most definitely be repaired.

‘I wasn’t sure anything could be done,’ she said.

‘Oh no, love, that’s the beauty of stained glass. It might look fragile but it’s stronger than you’d think,’ he reassured her. ‘Your window has plenty of life in it yet. I’ll see you on Monday.’

That weekend marked the beginning of spring. After weeks of waking early, Katharine had finally managed to sleep in. She woke feeling refreshed and content to a quiet house. Julian must have taken the kids somewhere. Leaving the bedroom after a long and luxurious shower Katharine heard the children outside. Her son’s excited face appeared at the back door.

‘We’ve bought some flower seeds, Mum. Strawberries too. Come help us plant them. Come on Mum, please,’ Nicolas coaxed.

Katharine went outside, taking in the blue skies and radiant warmth of the sun.

‘Have a nice sleep?’ Julian beamed at her. ‘Look,’ he pointed, ‘I’ve ripped out all those weedy looking plants already. And the kids have started preparing the garden bed. We just thought you’d enjoy helping with the planting.’

Grasping the trowel from her husband’s outstretched arm, Katharine crouched down in the newly turned soil with the children beside her. ‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘Lets get started.’

Some people say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. For me, I found that to be quite true. The thing that fascinates me is that moment when you’re at the mercy of another human being, and you feel a new attraction that is so blissful it aches. From the first moment you notice him your body tenses up until you’re able to touch him. Then finally, his body and face are so close to yours that you can smell his sweet breath entering your mouth, and all of a sudden, you’re fucking lost. The feeling is so powerful that it sways the unrelenting pain from your heart. During that time the pain is sent out into the wind, so far away, out of reach. And there he lies, right inside the void, filling it completely, filling it to the point that it’s almost stretching it, overwhelming you with infatuation. Like a black hole in your gut, a tear you haven’t let heal on its own, a tear that he has stitched back up.

At first you can’t imagine another man ever being enough to fill it like the last. But soon enough, the Universe pulls him from somewhere you never thought possible to exist, and throws him right in front of you. Then it happens, every inch of you crumbles with pleasure and relief, and your mind and heart don’t spare a thought or feeling for the last man; he is forgotten.

You’re standing there, he’s standing there, you look at each other and you both know that you will exchange everything to fill this void – Glances, smiles, stares, breaths, kisses, laughs, bodily fluids, touch, affection. Hearts.

April 25 2012

Natasha looked at herself in the mirror, her hair dry and straggly. Her skin was pale with dark circles under her eyes. She looked down at her left upper arm, a puddle shaped, green bruise covered the top half. Her eyes met her own for a second then looked away. She pulled her doona to the side and slid into bed, pulling extra pillows to either side of her waist. She reached over to her bedside table and grabbed her iPhone. On her screensaver was a photo of Dave holding her, his big arms wrapped around her, supporting her. She unlocked her phone and started flicking through photos – him kissing her head, carrying her over his shoulder, her piggy backing him, sitting her on his lap, both of them laughing at something, a candid shot of them looking at each other in love, and another of them kissing. Her chest began to feel tight and a tear streamed down her face. Her heart rate started to pick up speed and her breathing got faster, she quickly fumbled through her phone and searched for his number and dialled, it rang, she burst into tears while breathing short breaths. She got his message bank. She stopped crying and looked at the phone.

‘He’s not there.’ She said. Then hung up. She let her hand fall to the side of the bed, the phone dropped from her hand onto the floor.

May 15, 2012

‘The bus came by, and I got on, that’s when it all began’ (Grateful Dead, 1968)

She ran down Columbus Street with her huge backpack strapped to her shoulders. The chilly summer air in San Francisco was sharp on her skin. She looked at her phone, 9:00pm.

‘Shit,’ She picked up the pace and ran faster, in the distance she could see the bus, it was bright green with ‘Green Tortoise’ written across it. She looked around the bus, no one was there, she started sprinting. As she approached the bus a guy with short blonde hair, blue eyes and tanned skin stepped out holding a clipboard, he watched her run.

‘Hey! I’m so sorry I’m late, thank God you’re still here.’ She took a long breath. He looked down at his clipboard.

‘Natasha?’ he looked up at her with raised eyebrows. She smiled with closed lips and nodded.

‘No problem, grab what you need for tonight’s sleep.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Quickly if you can, we’ll be in Oregon around 8:00am if we leave now.’ She grabbed her pyjamas and sleeping bag out of her backpack, and she could feel his eyes burning on her. She zipped it shut and gave him the bag. He grabbed it with haste and put it in the bus compartment.

The only seat left on the bus was right at the front behind the driver’s seat. Charlie walked in and sat down. A waft of sweet cologne and man sweat blew past her, she inhaled silently and closed her eyes. She moved her body closer to the driver’s seat.

‘So Natasha, have you ever been to the fair before?’ He looked at her in the rear-view mirror.

‘No, never. I’m meeting my friend up there, otherwise I wouldn’t have thought to go.’ She talked to the back of his head, then realised she could see him in the mirror.

‘I’ve also never been before, so we’re both first timers!’ He reached his hand back so she could high five him. She awkwardly lifted her hand and gave him a weak high five, almost missing his hand. She laughed, and burned red.

‘Well, I think it only makes sense that first timers go exploring together.’ He smiled at the road this time, then took a quick glance up at her. Her whole body felt like it was overheating. She looked out the window.

‘I think that’s a good idea.’ She glanced up at the rear view mirror and flashed him a huge smile.

May 16th, 2012. 10pm.

Natasha swayed to the band at the main stage of the Oregon country fair grounds while sipping her tequila sunrise. She wore a blue beaded necklace and light green leaf-shaped earrings. Attached to her long brown hair were purple and burnt orange feathers. It was dark, the night festival had started. Glowing colourful objects hanging in trees and lit up candles were the only things that lit the way through the maze like forest. Hippies floated around with their smiles and their guitars singing songs, hugging people and kissing cheeks. Drum circles were booming from three different corners. Natasha saw a bunch of people dancing around a drum circle to her left. A huge umbrella was lit up, resembling a jellyfish, and its bright blue and white lights sparkled from a distance. Natasha’s eyes lit up. Without hesitation she ran over to the bright jellyfish and joined hands with the people dancing. Minutes later, Charlie came up behind her and gently pulled her out. Natasha saw him and closed her eyes, letting her head fall back with a smile on her face as he pulled her toward him.

‘Tash, what are you doing? You keep running away from me, you could get lost and I. . .’ She continued to smile, straightening her head. When she opened her eyes he was looking at her, concerned.

‘I told you to wait right there for me.’ He pointed to a patch of dirt. Natasha couldn’t get the smile off her face. Her caramel eyes glowed a warm glint, reflecting of the candle beside her.

‘It’s so beautiful here, I’m so happy, I’m so happy you’re here with me.’ She leant in and slid her hands over his body and buried her face into his neck, pulling him in for a hug. Charlie stood still.

Natasha felt his body remaining stiff, she slowly released her grip, but then he lifted his hands and slid them against her back holding her close. He moved both of their bodies slowly to the music, gently pressing his cheek against hers. She felt herself sink into him. She lifted her head, breathing in peacefully through her nose with her eyes closed. She opened them, blinking slowly, and he laughed at her drunkenness, then tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘Blue diamonds’ by Rusted Root came on and stole her gaze from Charlie.

‘I love this song!’ She grabbed Charlie’s hand and pulled him closer to the stage. Together they stood arm in arm swaying side to side.

On this hour of the night, we’ll make it love, we’ll make it love

Natasha turned to Charlie and smiled. His eyes caught hers, and she felt him stare hard into her. They stopped dancing. All of a sudden she couldn’t feel, see or hear anything but him. He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers, sending electricity running through her body as her lips curved perfectly onto his. She opened her mouth and felt his warm tongue against hers while breathing in his hot breath. She slid her arms around his back and grabbed the back of his head as she wrapped her right leg around him. He pulled back for a second to look close into her eyes and laugh at her eagerness, then he leant in and kissed her again, pulling her in closer.

‘Cause I found you now, and forever I won’t waste this breath

 May 17. 1am.

‘Where are you going?’ He whispered as she lifted her body off the mattress.

‘I have to pee.’ She threw on her damp jumper that had been sitting by her feet in the tent and shivered. He sat up and ran his hands through her hair, then pulled her close and held her.

‘Ow, your sweater’s all dewy and cold.’ He muffled out a laugh and kissed her on the cheek.

‘I know, I’m so freezing. But I’m fucking busting.’ She said through chattering teeth.

‘Okay, don’t be too long, I need you to warm me up.’ He lay back down and covered himself with the sleeping bag. She unzipped the tent door and stepped out. She tripped over empty bottles of Budweiser as she tried to walk forward, her head starting to spin. A 700ml bottle of Jose Cuervo Tequila was on its side, empty. Chewed up lime wedges and cigarette butts were sprawled across the grass.

She jogged toward the campfire, accidentally kicking empty Tecate cans on the way.

The fire’s embers still glowed. She pulled her underwear down and squatted by the fire ring and peed. She jogged back to Charlie’s tent and dived in, pulling her clothes off and sliding under his sleeping bag.

He slightly opened his eyes and smiled, pulling her close toward him. His warmth hit her cold skin, and she shivered and nestled into him. He lifted his head and kissed her on the cheek, then plonked it back on his pillow. Her teeth chattered for a minute, and he rubbed her back until they stopped. She stared at him as he slept. His mouth slightly parted, looking so peaceful.

‘I don’t want tomorrow to come, Charlie.’ She whispered, with sadness in her eyes. She moved closer to him, her lips almost touching his, she closed her eyes and breathed him in.

‘Me either, I hate tomorrow.’ She opened her eyes. He was looking into hers with sorrow. He pressed his lips onto hers and they hungrily kissed. He ran his hands down her body, roughly grabbing every inch of her. He moved her onto her back and buried his face into her breasts. Gentle moans escaped her lips as he kissed his way up to her mouth and slowly kissed her face, her lips, her cheeks, her eye lids. She grabbed his hair and looked at him desperately. He entered her, staring into her eyes, tasting her breath with each thrust.

May 17. 3pm.

Natasha sat on the grass by the bus, watching Charlie pack up to leave. With each item he packed her heart sunk a little deeper.

She lay down on her back and let the sun bathe her, breathing in deeply, then breathing out. Tears welled in her eyes.

She felt his heavy body slowly squish on top of her, and then he blew raspberries on her neck.

‘Hahaha, Charlie get off, I can’t breathe!’ She pushed him off her, but he managed to pull her on top of him, where she leant up, placing her elbows on his chest. He brushed her hair away from her face and stared deep into her eyes with a small smile. His expression turned sad.

‘I have to leave now. I don’t want to go, and I wish you could come back to San Fran with me. I’ll be your King and you’ll be my Queen, and we’ll get our slaves to make us a massive, human sized mud cake and we’ll wrestle in it!’ Natasha belted out a laugh.

‘Do you really have to go to Portland tomorrow?’ He gave her a frown. She smiled at him, but her eyes started to water, and a tear fell down her cheek. She wiped the tear away and nodded.

‘I have to. My flight leaves tomorrow night. I want to stay, but I can’t.’ Tears streamed down her face. Charlie sat them both up and wrapped her legs around him. He wiped the tears from her eyes and kissed her face.

‘I’ll miss you.’ She said leaning her head on his shoulder. They stood up and held each other.

‘I won’t miss you at all.’ She laughed while wiping her tears. He leaned in and gave her a long kiss, making her knees feel weak. She grabbed onto him and tasted him for the last time. He kissed the tip of her nose and gently slapped her ass.

‘Bye.’ He walked away.

‘Bye.’ Natasha watched Charlie get on the bus. He waved at her for too long and nearly crashed into a pole. They both laughed, then the bus disappeared off the road.

June 1st. 2pm. Sydney.

Natasha stepped out of the cab with and grabbed her heavy backpack. She walked toward her front door and searched for her keys. As she approached her door she saw a bunch of red roses with a card attached to it. She opened it.

Tash,

I’m so sorry for everything.

I should have never left.

I love you, I miss you.

I’m lost without you.

Please come home.

Dave xx

She looked at the card for a few seconds then laughed. She picked up the bunch of roses and threw them in the bush, then ripped up the card and tossed it onto the sidewalk. She laughed under her breath and shook her head. She unlocked her door and entered her house dumping her backpack on the ground.

 June 1st. 5pm.

Natasha got out of the shower, her clothes from traveling were all over the floor. She sat on the floor and started sorting them. She reached over to her laptop to play some music. As she opened it she heard a song coming from the front door. A familiar song.

Now don’t you wait, I feel it in my head

Oh my lady you’re the woman I search

To roam my heart, roam my heart this way.

She got up, still in her towel and ran to her front door, looking out the peephole. She couldn’t see anything, so she opened the door. On the floor was an iPod playing her song very loud.

We go out on the world tonight

With our blue diamonds

That were once our fears pressin’ down on the town

We got out my love.

She leant down and picked up the iPod and looked at it, bemused, then she looked up at her gate entrance and there he was – so tall, big and beautiful. Charlie. He smiled his dreamy smile, which always made her melt, and she ran up to him and wrapped her arms around him. He held her and looked into her face, his smile turned into a pained expression.

‘God I missed you,’ She stared into his eyes with the same expression and shook her head.

‘Charlie, you have no idea,’ She leant in and kissed him, and he picked her up and carried her into her house.

Cause I found you now

and forever I won’t waste this breath

‘No matter how flat you make a pancake, it’s still got two sides.’

My lawyer, Maurits Rollins, didn’t acknowledge I’d spoken. His face remained expressionless and his fingers busy, rifling through a leather briefcase. I could feel wetness gather on my palms and hairline. I glanced at the chair next to me, bolted to the floor, and wished Jane was sitting on it. I imagined how she’d stroke my hand with her thumb, her brow would furrow at Rollins’ rudeness before swinging her blonde hair to look at me, smiling so I could see the dimples that kissed the sides of her lips which would mouth, it’s going to be all right.

And I’d believe her.

Rollins laid some papers on the metal table that separated us and met my gaze.

‘There are always two sides, Mr Jardine, I would be unemployed if that weren’t the case. The problem is that the justice system cares more about certain sides than others.’

‘Juries aren’t allowed to be biased.’ I felt my heart beating, could hear blood pulsing in my ears. If I didn’t get a fair trial I could spent the rest of my life in this concrete hell where privacy is tying your bed sheet to the metal bars that contain you. Even then, it’s collective inmate knowledge that the sheets come up for two reasons; you’re taking a shit or screwing your cell mate.

‘Certain charges can influence jury opinion before they’ve entered the court.’ Rollins must have seen my panic because he began to speak faster. ‘It’s my job to worry about the jury and convince them of your innocence. I have a great success rate and I assume this is why your wife hired me.’ He adjusted his glasses whose lenses were as shiny as the top of his head before continuing. ‘As it stands you’re being charged with grievous bodily harm against a minor so I need you to provide me with full disclosure. I can’t protect you should you decide to conceal any facts or events in your story.’ Rollins looked at me over the top of his glasses and I felt as though he was surveying me, like a headmaster would a child.

‘It’s not a story; I didn’t mean to hurt Kyra. What I’ve done… I didn’t think it was possible to hate a man like I hate myself.’ I took a breath to control the quiver that was edging into my voice. ‘But it was an accident, I swear.’ Rollins’s eyes searched for a lined pad hidden amongst the papers before him and selected an engraved silver pen. I think Dad was written down its length in elegant script.

‘I believe you,’ he replied. Whether it was my innocence or depth of self-loathing I’d convinced him of I couldn’t be sure. ‘Just let me get my facts straight before we commence. You were denied bail after your arrest and have been held here at Bandyup prison where you will remain until the trial?’ I nodded. ‘You were arrested while visiting the victim at Princess Margaret Children’s Hospital on the fifth of July?’ I nodded again, remembering that day.

I was walking back from the hospital café. I had Jane’s tea in one hand and my coffee in the other. The heat of our drinks through the Styrofoam cups was beginning to burn when I felt a tap on my left shoulder.

‘Mr Jardine?’ The female cop was rotund, her face flushed with the red of rosacea.

‘Can I help you?’ I asked, wondering how this woman knew my name. It wasn’t until the cool metal cuffs bound my wrists together that I had the foresight to call out for Jane. I’d attracted a mild audience by the time she was running down the hall towards me. I wanted to shout at them, wipe the look of curiosity off their dumb faces; I wanted to hide my shame. ‘What are you doing? What the hell are you doing, where are you taking my husband? Patrick, what’s going on?’ I could see wetness on Jane’s cheeks as I was escorted into the elevator, and just before the doors closed I saw the fear written on her face. I could imagine her thoughts at that moment; don’t leave me.

‘Patrick?’ Rollins’s voice brought me back to the present. I stared at the cracks and fissures along the cement floor and faked a cough to dry my face. If Rollins was perplexed he did not give himself away;

‘Your relationship with the victim, Kyra Jardine, is biological daughter?’

‘Kyra’s my daughter, yes.’

‘It was the hospital staff that contacted DoCS concerning how Kyra received her injuries?’

‘Yes, Jane and I had to explain what happened and DoCS said their visit was just a routine inquiry because it concerned an injured minor. We told them what happened and they spoke to the doctor treating Kyra. Four days later I was arrested.’

‘Okay, Patrick we have a month until the trial so start from the beginning and tell me exactly what happened.’

So I told him every god damn detail and an hour later my shame and regret was written in neat dot points on a yellow tinged legal pad. I didn’t tell Rollins that a moment of rage doesn’t reflect the father I was up until that moment. I also didn’t tell him that everyone has a breaking point and maybe if he was in my shoes he would’ve done exactly as I did.

* * *

Before I became Jane Jardine, I was Jane Butler, who grew up in suburbia where the only thing whiter than the houses were the people who lived in them. I was a young girl when my father gave me a china doll. She had blonde ringlets and wore an emerald dress for which she was named. Before long her skin was tinged the colour of old book pages, her porcelain face cracked and one glassy blue eye disappeared. A week after Emerald was given to me I was pushing her in a dolls pram to the supermarket, trailing the hem of my mother’s skirt gibbering away about Emerald’s displeasure of mushy peas and bath time. When we came home my father was gone along with his possessions. The only thing he left behind was guesses. Yet I decided I loved Emerald even when I realised she was disguised as a goodbye.

There wasn’t a time when I decided I wanted to be a mother; I was always going to be one. As my coffee ring runs the newspaper ink which condemns my husband as a monster and unfit father I realise that darkness had permeated the kitchen. I must have been sitting at the dining room table for some time but I don’t know when the warmth of the sun left my back or when my coffee became cold.

Our kitchen is a composition of lasagne, pasta dishes and chocolate cake. There are notes accompanying each glad-wrapped good; hand written condolences from neighbours I don’t know by name. I can imagine them sitting on their floral armchairs with matching printed curtains discussing the family on the other side of them. It wouldn’t occur to them that one mistake doesn’t define the beautiful, compassionate acts that preceded it. Patrick is the kindest man I know.

He has ruined our lives.

The breath is knocked from my body and I’m left sitting in my kitchen feeling pain so profound I’m certain it will destroy me.

* * *

I could feel the metal frame of the bed dig in to the small of my back and across my shoulders. The mattress was thin, worn down by the weight of guilty consciences. Jane had visited me seven hours earlier with my ironed suit and the face of a much older woman. We weren’t allowed to touch so she twisted her wedding ring and bit her cracked lower lip instead. I listened while Jane updated me on Kyra’s condition; the swelling on her brain hadn’t alleviated. Jane’s words tumbled over one another as if it would be less painful the faster she spoke.

‘It’s uh, it’s not looking good, Patrick,’ she said, while brushing her hand through the blonde of her fringe to meet my gaze. ‘The doctors are trying everything they can but it’s a brain injury, so…’  Jane’s voice trailed off and we shared the silence. The tip of my tongue held an apology, words wanting to be spoken with paralysed lips. But an apology can’t right my wrongs.

‘This isn’t your fault, Patrick.’ Jane spoke the words so quietly I almost missed them. Her hand searched for mine and grasped it under the table, a quick squeeze and the warmth on my palm left before we were caught.

That night my bed sheet was hung across the metal bars while I wept in private.

* * *

I sat in the witness stand. My suit still smelled like washing powder and vaguely of Jane’s orange blossom hand lotion. I could feel perspiration gather on my top lip and swell in my palms, though the court room was not warm. In total there were twelve members of the jury, some glanced furtively at me, others openly as if to say; hope you enjoy prison, asshole.

This was the second day of my trial. Hours ago I’d sat silently, listening to the testimony of hospital staff and DoCS painting a black and white picture of what the nature of Kyra’s injuries suggested.

Abuse. My nails left half-moon shapes on my palms while I forced myself not to cry out in protest.

Silence hummed in the court room as the prosecution, a waif of a man who paced like an agitated stick insect, rose to begin his half of my cross-examination. A wave of nausea churned my stomach and hot spit flooded my mouth which I swallowed back.

‘Patrick,’ he began, ‘we’ve heard the evidence against you. Several hospital staff claim that Kyra’s injuries are most-likely the result of physical abuse, opposed to the accident you claim it to be.’ I didn’t know how to respond so I remained silent, pressing my lips together. ‘The defence made it clear that you’re a successful landscaper with strong ties to the community, a man of high moral standard.’ I felt dread proliferate from my stomach, this guy was going to undo any good opinion that Rollins managed to create. ‘Yet you have a history of abuse against your daughter, Kyra.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Of course not. I’ve never laid a hand on Kyra.’

‘So on the twenty-third of October last year you weren’t visited by DoCS after Kyra’s teacher reported suspicious bruising along her arms?’

‘That was a misunderstanding. They were from karate classes,’ I spluttered. ‘We hoped they’d alleviate Kyra’s anger issues.’

‘Oh, to help manage her ‘episodes’ as you call them?’ I cleared my throat. I knew I had to tread carefully. One wrong sentence and the little trust that remained amongst the jury would disappear like a breeze in a hurricane. The jury’s eyes were hot on my face so I focused on Jane’s. I knew it was her by the pink, woollen jumper that hugged her body. Kyra and I had bought it for her only a few months earlier on mother’s day.

‘Since early childhood Kyra has experienced what Jane and I call episodes where she loses the ability to rationalise or calm herself down. She’ll throw things, scream, yell, harm herself or lash out until what set her off has been rectified. Uh, for example it can be as simple as a disruption in routine; one time we were out of porridge, which is what Kyra eats in the mornings, and it triggered a rage.’ Rollins gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

‘You said these episodes can be intermittent or as regular as several times per week?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Sounds exhausting,’  I wanted to tell him that he had no fucking clue what it’s like being in a constant state of anxiety. Wondering if you’ll get to work on time or suffer verbal abuse at the hands of the person you’d sacrifice the world for because you used the last of the hot water. I said nothing though, sensing that I’d fuel his next trap. ‘On the night of the first of July you said, and I quote; “It was dinner time, around seven pm. I remember because I smelled lasagne when I stepped out of the shower. I was getting dressed when I heard Kyra’s voice. It wasn’t a yell, but it was raised so I hurried to the kitchen to help Jane. I entered the doorway and saw Kyra spit on Jane’s face. I didn’t think, I just grabbed Kyra’s upper arm and pulled her towards me to separate her from Jane. When I let go Kyra stumbled backwards and didn’t regain her footing. She fell headfirst on the corner of the dining room table.”’  I tried not to think of the blood that stained Kyra’s hair or her limp body that rested in my lap. It was these images that kept me awake at night, they were all I saw when I closed my eyes.

‘That’s what happened,’ I replied. Wondering why I was being made to re-live that night again.

‘You consider these events an accident?’

‘Yes.’ I took a sip of water which stood to my right. It left a ring on the oak surface and did nothing to calm my nerves.

‘Are you aware of the Glasgow Coma Scale?’

‘I am,’ I replied.

‘Then you know that it’s based between the numbers three and fifteen, anything less than an eight is considered to be a severe brain injury.’

I nodded.

‘Kyra placed a seven.’

‘I know.’ I god damn know. I bit my lip until the taste of rust and salt flooded my mouth.

‘Yet the doctors won’t know the extent of Kyra’s injuries until, and if, she wakes from her coma.’ The prick wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. My eyes searched for Jane again and for the first time I wished she hadn’t come. Seeing her daughter covered in tubes and bandages was enough, she didn’t need to hear Kyra’s injuries spoken about like facts from the ABS as well. I could see her arms wrapped around her stomach as though she was literally holding herself together and I loathed myself completely in that moment for hurting her.

‘Yes.’

‘Caused by your excessive use of strength against a sixteen year old girl?’

‘I didn’t mean to hurt her.’

‘But you did. When your daughter is learning to talk again, is that what you’ll tell her, that you didn’t mean to hurt her? When your wife has to take her thirty year old daughter to the bathroom will that be a consolation? Intent or not, Mr Jardine you should be held accountable for your actions.’ He gave me a look that said, ‘tell me I’m wrong.’

I couldn’t.

* * *

I took Kyra’s hand and placed it in my own so I could paint her nails the colour of blood. For a moment the smell of nail polish replaced the scent of sterility and I could almost pretend that we weren’t in the children’s hospital. The bedside table is littered with yellowing, dog eared books, stained by hot chocolate drips with damaged spines. We’re halfway through Pride and Prejudice, I read to Kyra for half an hour each night before the nurses part the privacy curtains and delicately tell me visiting hours are over. I arrive at seven am every following day with a charged music player so Kyra can listen to Billy Joel and Pink Floyd, like she would if that night had never happened. Some people say comatose patients can hear when you talk to them. The expression of pity worn by the nurses tells me their opinion, but I hold strong that they’re wrong. When Kyra wakes, whatever state she’s in, she’ll recognise my voice and know that everything will be okay.

I’m applying the second coat of polish when my phone rings. It’s Rollins.

‘The juries back,’ he says.

The hallucinations began after the car crash, on the day I should have died. I’ve done stupid stuff while being on the piss in the past, but what happened that night caused my world to come to a complete halt. I was driving my wife Annie and I home from a night out at our local pub. I insisted I was fine to drive.

‘Typical Dave’, Annie said, giggling drunkenly as she handed me the keys. Those words became like a catchphrase to her when talking about me, and you can be sure they always followed something bad.

‘You still haven’t taken out the trash? Typical Dave,’ Or,

‘I can’t believe you forgot to get milk. That’s so typical Dave.’

She tripped over her feet as we stumbled towards the car.

‘Oops!’ she chuckled to herself, her laugh sounding like a cute, fuzzy cartoon character.

Annie sang along to the radio as the rain continued to fall and blur my already limited vision. I pushed the button for cruise control, allowing the car to continue driving at 90kms.

‘Dave! Look out!’

Glass shattered as our heads sprang forward before being punched backwards by airbags. The car’s bonnet crumpled from the impact of the tree. I turned to see my wife balanced half way out of the smashed windshield, blood trickling from her nose. Staring from a car opposite us was a person. Through the beaming headlights, and the concoction of water and blood that was now pooling on the remainder of the front window, I vaguely saw a face- the face of a woman.

She will help us. She will help Annie.

Instead I watched as she reversed her car. Screeeeech! The smell of burning rubber wafted up my nostrils. I watched her turn her wheel and accelerate towards the road; the road she had just caused us to drive off in order to avoid crashing into her.

* * *

I’ve had trouble sleeping ever since the crash. I am now a prisoner of guilt.

‘Dave! Look out!’

I jolt up right at the sound of Annie’s screaming. She screams like that in my mind all the time. The doctor suggested I’m having a post-traumatic reaction to the stress of the accident. It makes sense but it doesn’t feel right. I know Annie is purposely haunting me, and that I deserve it. The alarm clock glares at me, my eyes trying to focus on the numbers that are at this moment a blurred, ball of light – 5:37. Before the crash I had always been an alarm guy- 6:30 AM, usually. But ever since the crash I had become a man of uneven risings – 4:58, 6:12 and now 5:37.

I walk to the kitchen, focusing on coffee to convince myself I want it more than a scotch. Annie’s miniature garden sits on the windowsill, now only full of soil and death. It had been like a project of hers, but I failed to take care of it. Typical Dave. I don’t have the heart to get rid of it. I rub my bloodshot eyes as I recall what day it is. Tuesday.

Today is doomsday, as I have taken to calling it. The day my transformation begins, I think, as if trying to reassure myself that change is possible. Annie had been hassling me for months to give up drinking. You’re doing this for her, I remind myself. One year after the crash I finally signed up to the local AA meetings. It’s funny how it takes losing the most important thing in your life to realise what a fuck-up you well and truly are. But the thought of losing alcohol seems almost as painful as losing Annie. Not being able to feel the cool sting of a spirit hit my lips, or the warm taste of beer bubbles slipping down my throat ever again makes me feel sick. You’re doing this for her. You’re not going to be ‘typical Dave’ anymore.

 * * *

Later that afternoon I walk into the local church. I haven’t visited this place in years, yet the brick building with its stained-glass windows and overgrown garden hasn’t changed a bit. I walk through the wooden door of the church and over to the only room, where a middle-aged man wearing a grey suit greets me.

‘Welcome, are you here for the meeting?’

He grips my hand and I feel like it is being crushed by an eagle’s claw.

‘It will begin shortly. Please help yourself to any coffee or biscuits.’

He reminds me of the Wall Street, rich-boy type: the tailored suit and firm handshake. The kind of guy that carries himself like he went to an Ivy League school and knows that he is better than you.

‘Go on in, sweetie, you’ve already made it this far.’

I am used to Annie whispering words of advice to me now. I realise that she is not really there, but the hallucinations of her, her silvery voice and her flowery scent, still linger. I walk straight over to an empty, plastic chair, before becoming aware of one face in particular that keeps looking over at me. She has an interesting face. That’s not to say it’s unattractive, quite the opposite, she just has noteworthy features: the elongated shape, the ski-slope nose and bright, green eyes that take up more room on her face than any other feature. She is quite slender and sits slouched as she twists a lock of brunette hair around her finger.

Bang!

The doors to the tiny, isolated room slam shut, separating us from the rest of the world.

‘Welcome guys,’ says the guy that greeted me earlier, ‘my name is Greg and I’m here to help you. You’re all here because you’re battling your addiction to alcohol.’

The douche really does think that he is better than us, as though he is some god-like figure sent here to ‘save’ us. Asshole.

‘It’s a safe space and I welcome you all to share your stories,’ he continues.

‘Lisa, would you like to start?’

The girl I noticed earlier stands up.

‘Hi, my name is Lisa and I’m an alcoholic.’

‘Hi Lisa,’ the rest of the people murmur.

I watch her talk as she says her piece. Her tongue rolls over her lips every couple of words, as if she is thirsty for a drink then and there. It makes me thirsty, too. A few more people get up, give their story and sit back down before everyone looks toward me, indicating that it is my turn. Annie caresses my hand while sitting in the seat next to me.

‘It’s okay, Dave. Don’t be afraid.’

‘Pass,’ I mumble.

 * * *

At the end of the hour Greg thanks us and once again invites everyone to have coffee and biscuits.

‘I wouldn’t try the coffee if I were you,’ a singsong voice says. The woman I spotted earlier is suddenly beside me. She comes across confident, as though she can have any man she wants and she knows it.

‘Seriously,’ she continues, ‘it’s horrible. I’ll show you a café on the next block that does decent coffee instead. I’m Lisa by the way, if you didn’t catch it earlier.’

Yes, she’s definitely confident. She’s probably slept around a lot, too. My hands grow clammy as I feel a shimmer of sweat spread across my forehead. How would Annie feel about this? Would it be disrespectful? What if Lisa tries to kiss me? Would I let her? I wonder what she tastes like. I battle with my thoughts internally, contemplating her offer.

‘Go for it Dave, heaven knows you need some company,’ Annie whispers.

I tug at my earlobe like I’m ringing a bell, a nervous habit I have developed over the years.

‘Dave,’ I reply, ‘and sure, I guess a coffee would be fine.’

Alarmingly I catch myself smiling at her. Since when did I start smiling again? She is just so . . . gorgeous. Distractingly gorgeous, the type of looks that lead even the most loyal of men astray and make even the most secure women jealous. I feel guilty just looking at her.

 * * *

The bell above the glass door tingles as Lisa pushes it open with her fragile arm. The trinkets on the bracelet wrapped around her petite wrists jingle at the movement.

‘How do you take your coffee?’ she asks. ‘I’ll go order if you go grab one of those window seats.’

‘Black, two sugars please.’

I go to give her some money before she slaps my hand away.

‘Don’t be silly. I dragged you here, it’s my shout.’

Annie would have never paid for coffee. She would have insisted that I be a gentleman and not give in so easily.

‘Letting the woman buy your coffee. That’s typical of you, Dave,’ she would say.

Lisa places the two steaming mugs on the table before taking the seat opposite me.

 * * *

Each week that month I return to the local church. Lisa has started greeting me at the entrance. Today she is dressed in a flowing, teal maxi skirt with a plain white singlet, her long, wavy hair covering her shoulder, collarbone and breast. Various coloured beads dangle around her neck and the trinkets on her bracelet jingle as she waves at me. When I reach her we hug, electrifying my whole body. Since having coffee that first week, I can’t get her out of my mind. It is so great having someone to talk to who knows exactly what I am going through. She understands me, she can relate. When I’m around her, I’m not the monster of a drunk my guilt makes me out to be. Tuesday evenings have become something that I now look forward to. I make the effort to get dressed up. I have even started wearing cologne. I’ve been attending the meetings for over two months now, and I’ve been talking to Lisa and seeing her more and more each week, both in and outside of the meetings. The coffee place down from the church has become like a routine of ours. Her hand fits perfectly in mine. Annie has been talking to me a lot less frequently. There’s still some guilt, but the pull Lisa has on me is just too strong.

Walking into the church on this particular Tuesday, however, feels different for some reason. But I can’t put my finger on why.

‘Hey Dave!’ Lisa calls, waving me over.

 * * *

‘Ok guys, this week we are going to talk about something different,’ Greg begins. ‘Today we are going to each share what caused us to come to these meetings, what was the tipping point that made you want to seek help? Lisa, would you like to start?’

She grabs my hand, her cherry red nail polish contrasts against my pale skin. Her eyes stay fixated on the floor as she sighs heavily.

‘I made the decision to drive home from a bar one night,’ she starts. ‘I hadn’t had my regular amount to drink, so I thought I would be okay. On the way home I . . . oh god . . . I drifted onto the wrong lane of the local highway and there was a car there, and I, I caused it to swerve off the road.’

Her grip tightens around my hand as our palms pool with sweat.

‘I pulled over and watched the car hit a tree. I knew that I had to get out of there before the ambulance arrived, so I did. I fucked up. I fucked up and that’s when I knew I needed help.’

She shakes her head as if trying to rid it of the bad thoughts. My hand releases hers as she looks up at me, confusion showing through her tears. I tug at my earlobe vigorously. It has to be a coincidence. It has to be. It could have been a completely different accident, right? Fuck. What the fuck!

The contents of my stomach threaten to escape as I get up and leave the room.

 * * *

Bzzzz Bzzzz Bzzzz! My phone buzzes with excitement as Lisa’s name illuminates the screen for the ninth time that night. I still need time to think.

‘Hi Dave, just me again. I’m really, really worried about you. Please call me back.’

I listen to Lisa’s voice on her latest voicemail. I did want to call her back. I did want to tell her what happened, but what would I say? Instead I sit on my couch, drinking straight from the bottle of vodka I got after leaving the AA meeting that evening.

 * * *

At 6.30 PM, four nights later, I pull up out the front of Lisa’s. I sit in my black Toyota; the exact make and model as the one I crashed. After I was released from hospital I had to watch Annie lay in the intensive care unit. Various tubes and devices were attached to her, making her look like an alien octopus. I ran to the car dealership that day and told them the exact car I needed, the exact car that I had written off. It had to be the same. If it were the same it would be like nothing ever happened. And then Annie would recover, and everything would go back to normal, or so I thought. I debate whether or not to go inside. Lisa practically begged to see me. I want to see her too, that’s why I’m here, but I feel so god damn guilty doing it.

‘What are you going to do, Dave? You’re not actually going to go inside, are you?’ Annie whispers from the passenger seat.

‘Oh Annie,’ I say, ‘it’s been so long. It’s the way she smiles at me, Annie, like she knows exactly what will happen between us but doesn’t dare say it. It’s the small of her back, Annie, and the way my hand fits perfectly when holding it. It’s her lips, Annie, they’re always begging to be kissed, she tastes so sweet.’

I exit the car as the chunky door swings open. Walking up the driveway I can feel Annie’s presence. Waiting. Watching. Wondering. But it doesn’t have the same effect on me as it usually does.

I ring the doorbell.

The door opens and all too quickly Lisa is in my arms, embracing me, consoling me. I hold her close, inhaling the smell of her freshly washed hair. In this moment nothing else matters. But I still feel guilty. She pulls back, carefully studying my face, searching for some indication of what might have been wrong. But she knows better than to ask questions. Instead she leads me through her door.

We sit apart, watching the television. You can feel the tension, especially when Lisa goes to cuddle up to my arm and my whole body stiffens. I sigh.

‘I need to say something, Lisa. If I don’t it’s just going to keep eating away at me.’

I take another deep breath, reaching for my earlobe.

‘Last night when you told me about that accident you caused, it sounded really similar to the accident that I was involved in . . . when my wife died.’

I see the tears immediately spring to her eyes as her hands jump to cover her mouth.

‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot,’ I continue, ‘and I don’t want to know any more of the details, I don’t want to dig too deep into this. We don’t know for sure it was the same accident, and even if it was, I want you to know that I forgive you.’

‘Dave . . . you, you can’t-’ she starts before I cut her off.

‘The fact that I was drinking that night makes it just as much my fault as anyone else’s. I forgive you, and I forgive myself. Just like you need to do.’

The tears are now streaming heavily down our faces. I pull her in and hold her trembling body tightly. There are no more words to be said.

 * * *

That night my hallucinations of Annie stop, the hallucinations of her silvery voice and her flowery scent. The next day, as I walk past the miniature garden on the windowsill of the kitchen, I notice the most peculiar thing. Where once only soil sat, a joyful, green stem has begun to peek through.

Roah sees in the foggy distance the overgrown ruins of a place he has travelled long and far to find. He sees the nests of glass and metal reaching up into the sky. He sees the grey-black stones beaten into a smooth flat floor. He sees the Toyotas and Mercedes rusting in their masses on the road, with the shrivelled rotting corpses inside. He sees the Petronas twin towers and knows that this must be Kuala Lumpur. By the time he reaches the city the sun is setting and in this humid amber twilight Kuala Lumpur comes alive. Thick roots shatter the road and pavement into black grey shards. Vines strangle the towers. Trees cleave their way through the structures where the floors and walls are weak or rotten. The putrid stench of the Rafflesia blossom is thick in the air. Thick layers of moss and lichen smother every surface and every crevice. But there are no people. Just room after room of husks, with their bleached bones and shrunken brown flesh, each of them begging Roah to hear their stories from the sunken pits of their eye sockets. There are the ones who curled up and waited for the end, racks of empty ration packs still beside them. There are the ones who met the end on their own terms, the guns still locked in the cold grip of rigor mortis. There are the bodies strung up from the overpasses, the red crosses and winged staves peeling off their tattered uniforms. These were the medicine men who either couldn’t or wouldn’t. Roah is overcome by the urge to check everything. The bullets in his rifle, the lighters in his pocket, the food in his pack, even shakes his clothes off for insects. A lifelong fear buried deep within him now rises to the surface. He might be alone after all.

His search can begin tomorrow. In the hollow of a smaller tower, with his fire bright and crackling, Roah flops down onto a nearby couch. Sleep is instant. Colours and sounds come to him and leave just as quickly. Two vague figures linger, their faces blurry through the haze of years, a man and a woman, a room and a storm. His father, Sai-Wen, grilled whole fish on a steel sheet over a makeshift propane fire pit. His mother, Kurang, placed fruit offerings to the biological hazard symbol stencilled in dripping white paint on the wall of the hotel room. Outside their sixth floor room the monsoon rains rolled across the Hong Kong skyline, flooding the gutters with warm stormwater. All three wore surf shorts coloured in bright pinks, blues, and greens, their ox-leather sandals, kneepads, gloves and accessories thrown in a pile to the side. Kurang pulled her tributes from a massive back pack twice her size. Many times Roah would see her appear over the horizon with a full pack of vegetables taller than herself, standing straight like her shoulders weren’t hurting.

‘The trick,’ she would say with pride, ‘Is I tell myself: the longer I spend out there, the less I have to go.’

He was only five years old then. This was their home, the Hong Kong Sorrento Towers, a home they shared with almost a hundred others. Sai-Wen turned the fish and spoke.

‘You should pray more to Contagion. I hear clan Grand Promenade has one man sick.’

Roah felt a grudge in his father’s cold, measured words. Sai-Wen kept an assault rifle by his side at all times, which he now loaded and unloaded and loaded and unloaded. Kurang had finished her rites and was playing with Roah’s hair, who could only think of how sharp and lethal Contagion’s many spikes looked on the wall.

‘Huang is still your brother,’ Kurang reminded, because it disgusted her to see insincerity in her mate. As the years went on Roah would choose to forget who was related to who, who shared a father with who, who was a cousin to who, and all that webbing which humans seemed obsessed with untangling. Sai-Wen spat.

‘If Contagion has got to take someone, better him than us.’

Roah felt his mother’s fingers scratching his scalp, tilting his head left and right. She was choosing her next words carefully.

‘Huang has been marked for Quarantine.’

She kissed the back of Roah’s head. Sai-Wen stopped loading the rifle. Fish began to burn. That same night Roah ran across the rope and plank bridge between towers to the home of Grandma Sorrento. What was Quarantine?

Grandma Sorrento lived in the penthouse and rarely left. She hobbled from a broken shin which had healed into place long ago. By her fire she kept the skull of the last panda, which she wore to the gatherings of the matriarchs and patriarchs of the clans of Hong Kong, or to pull pranks on small children, depending on her mood. Grandma Sorrento was wide awake when Roah came to visit. Her answers to Roah’s questions were too neat. Too clean.

‘Your uncle Huang fell through the floor. He was cut by a needle, and Contagion must’ve been waiting in the needle,’ and Grandma Sorrento paused for effect, ‘Because now he is sick.’

Another pause. Long enough that Roah knew it was his turn to speak.

‘But the cure-’

‘Retrovirus’, she corrected, then repeated to herself in contemplation, ‘Retrovirus . . .’

Clan Sorrento had rules. A child was told they would die one day at three years old. A child was told how babies were born at four years old. A child was told about Quarantine whenever they were ready, that Quarantine happened when there were two in the sick room and only retrovirus for one. In that penthouse Grandma Sorrento gave Roah the whole routine, asked him rhetorical questions and allowed him to invent the right answers, so that Roah knew, felt, and believed: Quarantine is a decision.

Roah wakes slowly. It takes a moment for him to remember who and what and where he is. He spends the day following a cassowary. The bird shows him the fresh water springs where rain has pooled in recesses in the ground, it takes him to nests of crunchy insects and verdant groves of exotic fruit. It doesn’t seem to mind sharing so long as Roah shares when it isn’t looking. As he maps the city in his mind he keeps an eye out for signs of human life, even dares to hope for a clan to appear and welcome him officially into this place.  But all he has are husks, and their company is unrelenting. The medicine men from the overpass are not alone. The world before Contagion came had its own brutal form of Quarantine, and Roah runs from them, runs into the darkest shack he can find and blocks out the windows so he can’t feel their gaze on his back. He escapes into sleep.

In his dreams there is a grove, the overgrown Kowloon train station. Its ceiling was collapsed and sunlight gleamed off the rails. In this grove there was a zone, marked by four large concentric circles in red paint on the floor, warnings of Contagion’s many vectors at each threshold. In these circles, at their centre, in the cool shade where no light reached, was a rusted train car draped in seventeen layers of plastic curtains, reeking of antiseptic. In that train car there were four figures. Three of them wore thick yellow rubber clean suits, their breath dragging thin through the gas masks. The last figure lay naked on the seating. The small one was Roah, six years old, come to watch his father say his goodbyes. The second figure was Sai-Wen, assault rifle at his hip, breath caught in his throat, mortified by the writhing brown mass which was supposed to be his brother. The third man was the Keeper of the sick room, a man with no clan. A tiger skull helmet and the shotgun in his lap reminded others of his authority on neutral ground. They were to have their goodbyes and nothing more. He kept a respectful distance.

The dehydrating body spoke: ‘Long time, brother.’

‘Long time, Huang.’

It felt to Roah like all the heat and humidity in Hong Kong was trapped in that car, the rubber of his suit clammy against his skin.

‘Huang, this is my son.’

‘This is Roah? Come closer.’

Roah felt thick rubber fingers on his shoulder.

‘Roah,’ his father cautioned, ‘Stay where you are.’

In the corner of his eye he saw the Keeper’s fingers wrap just a little tighter around the shotgun. Roah struggled with the situation. There were supposed to be two in the sick room.

‘The other sick man is you. Me. All of us, at any time. Your uncle Huang wasn’t our clan anymore. He did nothing with his life, didn’t hunt, didn’t craft, or cook, or gather, or even breed, and the men can barely claim glory for that. He did nothing,’ and now Grandma Sorrento dripped with venom Roah never knew she had, ‘just grew fat and drank and slept in his own piss and shit.’

Kurang was standing in the doorway. Roah looked to her.

‘You’re old enough to know, boy. Grandma Sorrento is right.’

It didn’t feel right. Not to Roah, who was six again and whose father was leaning over the dying man and straining his ears to hear the words being whispered to him.

‘I was always a burden.’

‘That’s not true. Not always.’

‘Did you think Contagion was right to take me?’

Sai-Wen was silent for a while.

‘Yes.’ Sai-Wen swallowed hard.

‘Huang, I didn’t know they’d-’

‘Ah, brother,’ the vowels rattled in Huang’s throat, ‘Thank you. For the truth. Come closer. I have something I need to tell you.’

Sai-Wen looked to the Keeper.

 ‘Don’t be so coy. You owe me a dying wish, don’t you?’

The Keeper nodded. Sai-Wen brought his face closer. With a hideous wheezing, Huang channelled the last of his strength into his arm and wrenched the gas mask off Sai-Wen’s face. Sai-Wen gasped; inhaled. Huang cackled:

‘We meet it together,’ and continued to cackle as thunder cracked and a shotgun slug splattered red on white. Roah dropped to the floor; body flat, hands on head, waiting for an adult. Sai-Wen froze. The Keeper levelled the weapon at the back of Sai-Wen’s head.

‘Roah,’ Sai-Wen’s voice quivered as he thumbed the safety on his rifle, ‘Are you down?’

‘Don’t do it, Sorrento man,’ warned the Keeper. ‘We can still get your boy out of here.’ He held the shotgun steady.

When the thunderstorm in the sick room was over Sai-Wen was dead, his body slumped over his brother’s and two slugs in his chest. Wisps of gunpowder wafted in the still air. The Keeper clutched a bullet wound in his thigh. Roah lay on the floor, his ears were ringing, his face was hurting, still waiting for an adult.

‘Get up, boy.’ Roah got up.

‘Are you breached?’ Roah didn’t move.

‘It’s okay. It’s okay, I wouldn’t. I’d never. Not to a child.’ He panted the words, tossed his shotgun to the side. Roah turned around slowly with both arms raised. The Keeper laughed.

‘No breaches. Oh, that’s good, that’s really good. I wasn’t ready. I could never.’ he closed his eyes and breathed the words to the ceiling.

‘Go home, boy. Tell Grandma Sorrento the sick room is compromised. And give thanks to Contagion for your good fortune.’

When Roah closed the plastic curtains behind him he heard one last dull, muted thunder crack.

Roah was pulling potatoes from the earth again, sixteen years old and alone with his mother. They found the bodies in the sick room and for the last ten years Kurang and Roah had carried Sai-Wen’s failure, his inability to meet Contagion with grace and dignity. Grandma Sorrento would visit just to lecture them when she was feeling malicious.

‘That wicked man had something to prove. He wanted to show that even the best people, even Sai-Wen, could be wicked too, when faced with Contagion.’

She chewed on a stem of sugar cane for a moment, relishing the gravity of the conversation and her position in it before she finished.

‘And he was absolutely right.’

As Roah shook dirt from carrots on the hillside he sensed his mother had something to say.

‘Roah, let me tell you a secret.’

They watched the ocean lapping at the feet of the harbour.

‘The longer I spend out here, the less I have to be back there.’

She had a fine Swiss army knife and handgun with her, which she now placed in Roah’s open hands. Roah wasn’t at all surprised. Sometimes someone, somewhere, would start running and never stop. They ran and ran until they either fell over dead or they found a place where they belonged, and this is how clans were born. Kurang gave Roah one last push.

‘These aren’t your people anymore.’

So Roah was running, running through the thick jungle, cutting his ankles on thorns and not once looking back because he knew from all the fireside stories that it was harder for her than it was for him. He ran through Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand and into Malaysia, he ran for years.

The embers in his fire are cold; he has overslept. As Roah climbs the Petronas towers he finds the story of clan Petronas long finished, a story told in overturned tables and bullet holes and broken, charred husks, some with their arm around a hostage and a bullet hole through both from those who didn’t care. At the top of the tower is the last husk, hiding in its penthouse behind a barricade of furniture, clutching a small metal suitcase to its chest. The suitcase bears the winged staff in red and the words in clean block letters, ‘VIP Only’. All the time he is haunted by his image in the mirrors, thrown back at him with such awful clarity, every wrinkle and pore of every wiry limb, flesh sagging off the bones under the arms, cheeks, and eyes. Even as he wrestles and hacks the suitcase away at the brown wrist joints, even as he opens the case and finds a single, flawless glass capsule resting in grey foam, all he cares to do is to guess on one hand the years remaining.

Kissing sound, kissing sound – that’s what you want to hear. Don’t let the steam wand sound like it’s screaming in pain. The art of frothing milk should never be rushed. I walk past the window where there’s a small group of people standing outside the café. They stare at their phones and wait for their takeaway coffees to be served as I enter. I love coming here to Jabberwocky. The first thing I see when I walk in is the kitchen, right in front of me; it’s not hidden away behind a door that says ‘staff only.’ The table tops are wooden with a weak wash of blue paint that has soaked into the timber. Their legs are recycled from old sewing machines. On top of each of the tables is a tiny brown bottle with a dried sprig of white heath. The chairs are old and industrious, with rusty steel frames and upholstered in fake white leather. Behind the cash register is a mirrored wall with bottles of spirits along a shelf that multiply in a rainbow of colours. There are shelves around the top of the walls that have old books resting on them, along with white rabbit statues. Their table numbers are old books with numbers clear contacted onto the front covers. I like the idea of reading while you wait for your order. But what makes me feel like I’m home is the resident brown cat that has adopted Jabberwocky.My cats are back home in Melbourne. Her name is Arabica and she sits out the front of the café every morning for scraps that the staff give her. The staff; the chef Aaron wears a blue apron and a ginger beard. The barista Louise, clad in black with her tied up brown hair and the waiter Viggo, all greet you with a smile and take in all the strays that come off the street, furry or otherwise.

‘Hi Phoebe, cappuccino, one sugar?’ asks Viggo from behind the counter.

Viggo is your typical ABBA-inspired Scandinavian with blonde hair and a pronounced jawline, surrounded by stubble and just a few too many muscles.

‘Yes please,’ I say with a smile and hand him four dollars.

‘Sure, I’ll bring it out to you. Take a seat.’

I go back outside and sit at a table where Arabica sits on the opposite chair. We’re doused in shade from the awning jotting out from the front of the building. Arabica enjoys her pats from me as much as the breakfast she gets from Jabberwocky.

It’s my treat of the morning, the calm before the storm which is the rest of my day. I work in an office as a photocopier. Multiple floors of cubicles, twelve-by-twelve wide and long. The office has no distinguishing features; it is there to be an office and an office only. I have been reduced to photocopier mule but enjoy the coffee run as I get away from the printers and the grey and harsh fluorescent lights. There is life in the building but nobody living it. Although my colleagues are pleasant they’re porcelain white zombies who haven’t seen the sun in about twenty-five years. My supervisor Judy, who is a lot older than me, has frizzy red hair and massive purple glasses. She loves me and doesn’t want me to go, maybe because we’re the only two that aren’t life-sucking zombies.

Plus the money is great. I can afford to rent a terrace house in quirky old Newtown all to myself and who in their mid-twenties can say that? I can walk down the street to Jabberwocky anytime I want. I love to walk past the charity shop which has high-waist jeans that were cool fifteen years ago on display. I can go to the organic market and the newsagent where I can pick up a copy of ‘Sustainable Living’ magazine. I pass the cat shelter and look at the photos of all the cats for adoption in the window and fall in love with all of their faces. I don’t dare go in because I’ll walk out with the whole shop. But it would be nice to have somebody to come home to as it’s very lonely in Newtown.

I moved here from Melbourne for my Arts degree, taking the photocopier job to pay the rent, plus they asked for ‘creatively wired people’ and I thought that’s me! I graduated a year ago and I’m still here! I’m completely torn. Living out of my parents’ place wasn’t as magical as I thought it would be. I do love Newtown but I have found myself just doing grocery shopping, constantly! I’m always reduced to that last mouldy piece of cheese in the fridge and I don’t even eat cheese! I don’t even have friends to invite over to eat the cheese. I talk casually to the people in Jabberwocky, but I don’t have the courage to invite them over for dinner or something. I think that might be a bit of a stretch. I’ve found that adulthood is just another word for guessing and making it up as you go along.

I used to love bragging to my friends back in Melbourne how successful I was in Sydney. In the beginning, it was great making them jealous, but now…it’s not enough. They’re all doing well back home and I’m feeling a little forgotten up here. Some getting married, some even having babies, some traveling all over the world with their partners and climbing the career ladder…and then there’s me. I’m stagnating.

Judy, with her hair positively sparking with electricity, was so excited after a heads-of-department meeting yesterday,

‘Phoebe, guess what? Upstairs is shuffling people. I’ll put a word in to promote you up next to me in photocopying. Wouldn’t you like that?’

I feel so conflicted because I don’t want to let her down but I think it’s time to leave. I don’t care about a promotion; I didn’t want to be working here as long as I already have been. What I want and love is the idea of owning my own café, and starting that dream by becoming a barista, a good place to learn the ropes and find out if hospitality is for me. I’d like my café to be an oasis for people to escape the daily grind by absorbing another kind of grind that is wonderful fair trade organic coffee. The drink that turns any zombie into a sociable being.

But this dream might mean sacrificing my apartment, my freedom and moving back to Melbourne, living with my parents for a while, but not for long. Mum keeps saying I’m always welcome back home but I think Dad has already turned my room into a music studio and she just wants the peace and quiet back. Maybe a café would do better in Melbourne anyway.

‘Here’s your cap.’ Viggo says as he brings out my coffee and puts it on the table.

‘Thanks!’ I say. A beautiful Rosetta leaf is crafted in the milk foam on top of the cup.

I have my first mouthful of coffee and it is like a warm hug. From what I’ve learned from Louise, the barista, this coffee is the result of an amazing blend that came from Brazil, Honduras and Venezuela. The little green beans travelled across the sea in hessian bags to end up being roasted, grinded and crushed to produce this liquid gold in front of me. Its’ not just me enjoying it. I look up to see the line of people at the window isn’t getting any shorter just yet. It’s amazing how many people go on pilgrimage and ritualise this little seed every morning. It all starts with the farmers who grow the beans, to the roaster preparing the coffee, to the barista lovingly crafting a made-to-order delight. It’s the seed that changed the world and I feel like it can change my little corner of the world too. Viggo comes back out with a small bowl of cream for Arabica and places it on the chair she’s on. She sits up and drinks. Viggo goes back inside with orders up, thick and fast. I pat Rabby on the head and she purrs. She’s friendlier than my own cats.

Just then a mass of white fur comes pelting out of nowhere, barking and growling like a leaf blower. Arabica growls back in fear and before I can grab her she’s off down the street and around the corner with a Maltese right behind her. I abandon my coffee and run after them. There’s a lady in lycra running in front of me, calling out,

‘Rocky! Come back here! Rocky!’

I can hear the dog barking and snapping, the lady shirking at the dog to get it under control. The cat yowls in pain and I run faster so I can see them around the corner. The lady has gotten hold of the lead, dragging the dog away, but the cat…Arabica is cowering in a corner. The fur along her spine is upstanding like a row of pine trees and her pupils are dilated, swallowing the darkness.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask the dog lady.

‘Yes, yes. I’m fine, Thanks. Come on, Rocky, come on. Bad dog, bad dog. We’re going home right now and you can forget your pig ears tonight.’ She pulls the dog away and smacks him with her freshly printed herald. She leaves me with Arabica. I go up close to her and kneel down but she’s growling at me, scared out of her wits. The cat curls up in the corner and is blinking heavily. Before I know it she’s passed out. Crap. ‘Rabby?’ I take my jacket off and wrap her up in a bundle. I don’t know what to do with her. I take her back to the café because maybe they can help me. They’re the closest thing to her home.

‘Viggo? Where’s Viggo?’ I walk in as the crazy cat lady.

Louise is busy frothing milk but she’s able to point to the bathroom. Viggo comes out and sees me there, confused. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.

‘Rabby got attacked by a dog. I don’t know what to do with her.’ I show him Arabica, curled up like a cinnamon scroll.

‘Take her to the cat shelter down the road. My shift ends in twenty minutes, I’ll meet you there.’ he says.

‘Okay…’ I say. How did this become my day? I quickly pace down the street, passing the organic market and the newsagent to get to the cat shelter. I press the buzzer with the finger I can manage to get free.

‘Please, please can you help me? This cat was attacked by a dog.’ I tell the lady at the reception desk, probably wondering why I was carrying my jacket in a bundle.

‘Oh the poor thing,’ she says, taking my bundle. She’s a short, stocky lady who looks like she wrestled with a hair straightener for two hours this morning.

‘I’ll take her through straight away,’ She scoops it up, ‘Is it your cat?’ she asks.

‘No, it’s not, but it hangs out at Jabberwocky. She’s a stray.’ I say and she bustles out the back door.

She comes back in a couple of minutes with my jacket.

‘Here you go. Doesn’t look like there’s blood on it,’ she says.

‘Thanks. How’s the cat?’ I ask, putting my jacket back on, realising it has now been cat-furred.

‘Not sure. Our vet is looking at her now. She’ll do her best. So you think it goes to the café down the street?’ she asks.

‘Yes, I think so. The waiter is coming up to see her.’

‘Okay, if you could just fill in this cat admission form, just your name and number, plus the cat’s name. We’ll do our best.’

I scribbled something of a signature and with that I say thank you and run off to work without seeing Viggo coming up the street.

My day was long and relentless, there were copying orders coming out of my ears. Judy was again so happy with my work on her five-hundred-and-thirty-five page major development proposal and paid me back with a coffee. I can still feel the caffeine sparking in my blood five hours later. I kick off my shoes, put the kettle on for my two-minute noodles and flop down onto the mattress on the floor. Just then my phone rings in my handbag. I really, really hope it’s not the office.

‘Hi Phoebe, Its’ Hannah from the cat shelter. How are you tonight?’ she chirps.

‘Oh hi, I’m good thanks. How’s Arabica?’ I say, the words spilling from my mouth.

‘She’s doing really well. She was really malnourished and dehydrated. The vet couldn’t find a microchip so we’re pretty sure she doesn’t have an owner. We were wondering if you would consider adopting her when she’s recovered?’

‘I uh…I’m not really in a position to have a cat, I’m sorry.’

‘Oh okay. Look, that’s fine. I’m only asking because the waiter down the road did come by after you left this morning and said you seemed keen to take her because the café can’t keep offering food to her. Health and safety, you know.’

‘Oh, right. Yeah, of course,’ I say, lost for words.

‘So that’s fine, I’ll put her up for adoption then. Thanks Phoebe!’ she hangs up before I can say anything else. I stare at my phone for a moment and the screen goes dark. Hmm. I think at least Arabica will now have a proper home. I get up to pour hot water onto dehydrated noodles. My life is as exciting as choosing between chicken or oriental flavour.

The next morning I am relishing in just staring at the ceiling because it’s my day off. Not having to go anywhere or adhere to the emotionally sensitive printers and having to deal with their breakdowns and paper jams. Twenty-four hours that are completely mine. I get up eventually and go to the fridge. That mysterious block of mouldy cheese is still there. I throw it out and decide to go down to Jabberwocky for breakfast.

Breakfast at midday! I’m relishing it. I sit at a table outside under the awning. I look down at the chair where Arabica would sit and something doesn’t feel right. Viggo comes out to take my order but surprizes me by asking eagerly,

‘Phoebe! Did you take the cat?’

‘Oh…no,’ I say.

‘Oh,’ he says, deflated. ‘Well, can I get you a cap with one sugar then?’

‘Yes please.’ I say. But then more words spill out of my mouth, I hold up my hand to make him pause. ‘No, wait. Can I get the cap to go? I’m on my way to pick her up.’

It was one o’clock in the arvo, and ‘Gab’s Golden Curry’ was full. Its plastic chairs and tables accommodated the same group of worn men who trudged fifteen minutes every day along the high perimeter walls of Sector A from the interface factory to the cosy restaurant, for its five dollar lunch special: a mountain of fluffy rice and a moat of caramel-brown Japanese curry with islands of carrot, potato, mushroom, chunky beef and sliced chilli. Only one factory worker, Frank, looked up at the sound of Gabby, the owner, slapping a wet dishcloth onto the front counter as she argued with Mike, the wombat-faced chef. Georgie and the rest of Frank’s co-workers were too busy gulping down curry to notice. Besides, a bit of a barney was nothing out of the ordinary here – Gabby had capsaicin on her voice and was as fiery as the curry she served.

‘Mate, we’re not bloody putting any more chilli in the curry.’

‘But Gab, it needs it. Trust me! Don’t you want the best curry shop in Sydney?’

‘I don’t need the best, Mike, I need to survive. I want my kids fed, mate, not a damn title.’ Gab swung her arm out towards Frank and Georgie’s table.

‘Look. Look at Georgie.’

The iceberg of a man had tears dripping off his chin and a pile of rice and curry waiting on his spoon. He snorted a droplet of snot back into his nostril and filled his mouth. And Georgie wasn’t the only one. Each customer, all well-muscled men from the factory, had teary red eyes and were sniffling like sick children.

‘These are hard times, Gab. Can’t a man cry?’

Gabby tossed the dishcloth into the sink and leaned forward over the register.

‘Aye, Georgie!?’

Georgie looked up and took a deep sniff before replying.

‘Yes, Gab?’

‘Why’re ya’ crying, mate?’

‘It’s your curry, Gab. It’s tasty, but the spice does make ya’ tear up a bit.’

Gabby turned back to Mike, her arms crossed under her bosom.

‘What, Gab? He said it was tasty.’

‘No more chilli, Mike.’

‘Look, I’m the head chef here-’

‘You’re the only bloody chef, you shit-wit.’

‘That makes me the head chef.’

‘It makes you chef. No more chilli, you keep it as it is. For some reason, these idiots like having bushfires in their mouths. But, no more, I don’t want anyone spontaneously combusting in my restaurant.’

 * * *

That night, with the restaurant cleaned and closed, Mike lit up a burner under one of the tall curry pots and stirred the last few servings congealed at the bottom. As the heat freed the scent of the curry sauce, heavy with tangy cumin and robust turmeric, Mike drew it into his nostrils. The day’s leftovers were always the best. The garlic, ginger and chilli all filtered to the bottom, giving each spoonful chunks of spicy sharp flavour. Mike refused to deseed chillies. The seeds and heat had to be present. The bubbling of the stew dispersed the seeds and they would show up in odd places – stuck in some marrow, imbedded in a chunk of carrot and floating elegantly on a glossy patch of oil. The seeds and heat of the chilli tied the entire curry together through a sensation of sensual pain. If Mike could serve his ‘end of day special’ to every customer he would, but only his most important customer would ever taste it.

The kitchen window rattled as leather knuckles rapped on it.

‘Hold on Steven! Almost done!’ Mike danced across the room and shovelled rice into three bowls. He opened the back door of the kitchen which led into a tight alley and placed one of the bowls next to the shaggy pile of man who was sitting outside on the cracked step.

‘That’s for Roger.’

‘Thanks, mate.’

After slopping curry into the remaining bowls Mike sat down on the step next to Steven, who had deep dirty wrinkles, cauliflower ears and a scraggly white beard which touched the crotch of his stained jeans as he sat. Steven’s fingers poked out of his tatty grey coat to accept the bowl that Mike passed him, and he paused for a moment with the bowl cupped in his palms so that the flesh of his hands could embrace the warmth. Mike extended his hand to Roger, the bulldog-cross-something-or-other, who had already finished his bowl and whose snout was freckled with rice.

As the mutt wobbled over Mike said, ‘How’s things, Steven?’

‘No good, Mike. There’s been more licensed hunters about in the sector. They almost saw me the other night. You’re taking a big risk feeding me with them around, mate. You know they’ll kill you too if they find us together?’

‘Don’t worry about it, Steven. I’m a chef – we feed people, homeless or not, right? Serving hot food to anyone who needs it is my hypocritical oath.’

‘Hippocratic, Mike.’

‘Yeah, that. I don’t care if helping a feral is tantamount to being a feral and all that garbage they spew on the streams. I’m not letting you go hungry just because you can’t get a job or afford rent. It ain’t right.’

Steven raised the first spoonful to his mouth and gingerly blew on it before slurping it in. His grey eyes smiled a second after, and he lifted the bowl to start pushing the rest of the meal into his mouth. Mike watched while scratching Roger’s chin. While Steven finished his meal, Mike picked up his own bowl, but the curry was too hot to eat, so Mike blew on it and stirred while waiting for the verdict.

‘Mate, your curry is the best I’ve ever had. You’re still not putting in enough chilli, but you’re getting there now.’

‘Still not enough!’ Mike laughed, ‘The macho factory workers sniffle their hearts out for this stuff! You should see Georgie, real mountainous bloke, tough guy, but we feed him this stuff and he’s crying like a newborn. My curry was already bloody hot before I started taking your suggestions!’

Steven chuckled and said, ‘Well you know how to give a feral a little happiness, mate. Thanks.’

‘Don’t worry ‘bout it, Steven. Just be careful out there, mate. And make sure not to let anyone see you when you come here. Gab is a great lady, but she’ll fire me if she finds out I’m helpin’ ya’. She’d have to; she’s got a husband and kids.’

‘Yeah, you can’t blame ‘er. You’re one of the last places that don’t pull a cricket bat, or knife on me, you know? There just isn’t a place for ferals anymore. Is there, Roger?’

Roger had flopped onto his side while Mike rubbed his belly. He was panting and trying to catch whatever grains of rice were within his tongue’s reach.

 * * *

After hearing a glass smash and the usual bustle of lunchtime become silence Mike stopped chopping vegies and walked out of the kitchen to see what had happened. Nausea strangled his stomach when he saw a tall teenage boy in a hunter’s uniform standing at a table with a face of enraged pink and a mess of broken glass on the floor next to him. Three other boys sat at the same table, all in the same uniform – a thick brown button-down, deep red overcoats, dark olive trousers and shiny black combat boots. The standing boy had the mohawk from that old Robert De Niro movie perched on his head and wore stylish glasses. Two of the others had shaved heads and the last had a greasy mane.

The boy grabbed his plate off the table and held it in front of him towards the front counter where Gabby and Mike stood side by side.

‘The hell’s wrong with this food!? Are you taking the piss? Did you put all that chilli in it to have a laugh at us?’ He raised the plate above him and flung it at the floor. Rice and gravy exploded over the cream tiles. ‘Well, ya’ had your joke.’

‘Gabby, shall I call the police?’

Gabby pulled open the till and yanked a twenty out of it.

‘Mate, do I look like I have police insurance?’

As Gabby stepped around the counter, Mike hissed, ‘Gabby, it’s not worth it; they’re hunters. They’re killers. I’ll call the police, we can split the visit cost. You’d make it back in a few months.’

‘We can’t afford what they charge, Mike. Let me handle this.’

Gabby strode towards the boy in the stylish glasses holding out the twenty dollar note in front of her.

‘Look, lads . . . ’

The boy kicked over his chair and stomped over the brown explosion on the floor towards Gabby with his head cocked.

‘If you don’t like it, you can have a refund and leave.’

The boy slapped Gabby’s hand away and grabbed the belt of her apron, pulling her towards himself.

‘We don’t want to leave, and I don’t want my money back. You Sector C turds need to learn to respect us hunters.’

Georgie stood.

‘Take your hand off me, lad.’

‘What’re you gonna do if I don’t?’

Gabby leant her upper body towards the boy, leaving enough room to swing her right knee into his groin. In the instant of brain-wrenching pain that followed, the boy’s hand loosened, and he saw Georgie’s shoulder speeding towards him. The impact flung him back towards his fellow hunters, whom he saw open their mouths before a black flash of unconsciousness took him when he hit the cream tiles. The long-haired boy shouted ‘Theodore!’ as he watched his friend hit the floor and stood up, reaching for the knife in his coat pocket. The two boys with shaved heads hurried to help Theodore, who was writhing on the floor unable to remember how to stand.

‘Georgie, thank you. That’s enough,’ Gabby said, placing her hand on Georgie’s back.

With the help of the shaved boys Theodore managed to get up and started swaying towards the doorway.

‘Boys. Sorry this happened like this. Here, take your money back; no hard feelings,’ Gabby said, stepping forward and with the twenty in front of her again.

The long-haired boy flicked his knife out, but Frank and the rest of the factory workers stood, so the boy hissed and retreated with the knife in front of him, following his friends out the door.

 * * *

The claxon wailed over the factory floor for the lunch break just as Frank tightened the last screw into the back of the glass charcoal-black interface. He wondered what exactly it would be used for. Light Touch Interfaces had hired the factory to assemble these highest-tech boxes, but no one in the building, from their gas bladder boss down to the warehouse kids knew what they did. When the software was loaded into them they could be anything from a Sector A housewife’s bathroom console to the controller console for a tank.

UNIVERSAL. MODULAR. UNRIVALED.

Frank ran his fingers over Light Touch’s embossed catchphrases at the bottom of the glass front panel. Whatever it was for, he knew he’d never see one running.

‘Hey Frankie. Let’s go get some curry, I’m starved.’

‘Alright, Georgie.’

Frank and Georgie were the first to leave for lunch and walked alone along the outside of the graffiti covered Centre Sector wall, which partitioned Sector A’s south from Sector C, a couple of minutes ahead of the other sixteen men who were the ‘Gab’s Golden Curry’ regulars. As they walked, Frank asked Georgie how many interfaces he had got done today.

‘Fourteen. Boss isn’t gonna be happy, but I’ve been getting some splitting headaches this week.’

Frank had worked damn hard today and popped twenty out, which meant he was still in the running to get the fortnight’s high productivity bonus of two hundred dollars. The problem was: Georgie usually got thirty done by lunch. Word must have gotten round about Sally’s hand, Frank’s wife’s hand, getting crushed at the government weapons factory. Georgie and the boys were lagging behind to make sure Frank got the bonus. Even though the doctor and ambulance fees alone were going to put Frank into debt for a couple of years, and how he was going to keep Sally and his daughter, Rebecca, fed and under a roof he didn’t know, but knowing the boys were looking after him, the knot in his chest loosened slightly.

The two men were almost at ‘Gab’s Golden Curry’ when they heard shouting and stamping feet coming around the corner of a sharp intersection in front of them. An old man in a grey coat rushed around the corner and crashed past Frank, stumbling but not stopping.

‘Hey! Ya’ idiot! Watch it!’ Frank shouted after him, before Georgie quieted him with a ‘Frank’ and pointed towards the corner from which the man had come. Frank heard the clattering feet around it and in a second the hunters from the day before burst from the alleyway sprinting after the man.

‘Where’s your papers you feral fuck?’ screamed the fastest one, mohawk flapping as he ran ahead of the pack. When he recognised Frank and Georgie, he stopped in front of them. The boy spat and flicked his fingers towards them as the other boys dashed past, and then he snatched a rock off the ground and sprinted after his comrades. They had almost caught up with the feral who had stumbled as he ran across the empty road. The boy warned his friends before he hurled the rock at the old man with a practised swing. The Cricket ball sized chunk glanced off the side of the feral’s head hard enough to make him finally lose his balance. The boys quickly caught up and began the procedure.

Frank saw Georgie’s muscles tense and grabbed his shirt before he could move to help the feral.

‘Georgie. Phillip needs you. You can’t let him lose his husband to helping a feral.’

Frank and Georgie stood for a few seconds. They were unable to halt the gurgling cries of the man because they were needed. They could not afford to go to prison or get killed for interfering with hunters doing their lawful duty. So they paid their quiet respects.

‘These hunters are animals. They’ll have their day. Let’s go,’ Frank said, tugging again on Georgie’s shirt.

As they left the scene, Georgie looked back. The boy in the stylish glasses made eye contact with him and grinned as his boot heel mashed the spongey flesh of the feral’s right kidney.

 * * *

The two bowls of curry on the tabletop had started congealing. Mike passed his spoon through the middle of his, pulling the skin formed on the top and pushing it down into the sauce. He ate a spoonful of the cold curry and took a bite of one of the oily tempura prawns he had cooked an hour ago. After hearing a whine outside the back door he opened it and found Roger curled up on the top step.

‘Hey buddy. What’s wrong?’

Mike squatted to pet the whining mutt before getting him his food. When he placed the bowl of rice and prawns in front of Roger, the dog didn’t move.

‘That’s odd. I guess you’re a tough customer aye, Roger? If it’s not hot, send it back! Where’s Steven? He’d eat it, cold or not.’

Mike sat down on the step and started to eat the cold prawns and rice himself. Roger whimpered and flopped his head on Mike’s knee.

‘In a bad mood tonight?’ Mike petted the small dog again.

‘What’s that brown stuff you’ve got on your face, boy? Did something happen? Where’s Steven?’ Roger whined against Mike’s leg.

‘I’ve never seen you without him.’

When Mike got up to wash up, Roger followed him, limping more than usual, into the kitchen keeping his head against Mike’s leg whenever Mike stood still. Mike had washed the curry pots earlier, so all that was left were the bowls for him and his most important customer. He sighed as he scooped the curry and rice into the bin.

‘Where’s Steven, Roger? I hate wasting food.’ The dog kept its head against Mike’s ankle.

‘I guess you’re staying for the night then. You can sleep in my room. I’ll make you a nice blanket nest on the floor, alright? Come on, let’s go to bed, mate.’

Ella staggered through the snow, the shackles around her wrists rattling as she pushed against its frozen grasp. Men were yelling somewhere behind her, but their words were lost, scattered on the wind that burned through her torn brown dress. She wiped drops of the gaol warden’s blood from her cheek and recalled the cracking of his head as she crushed it with her chains. She gagged and stumbled, flattening a patch of white icepetal flowers.

A bang like a crack of lightning sounded, and then another and another. Ella stopped. Fresh blood dribbled from her chest, layering the flowers beneath in red. Intense pain hit her, as if her whole body was screaming, and she faltered, clutching at the bloody wound in her chest. The pine-dotted landscape blurred and she fell backwards into the flower patch.

‘Please,’ she begged to the sky. Tears ran from her eyes, freezing against the dirt on her face. ‘Please, Great Goddess, don’t let me die.’

‘Then I will save you.’ A woman in a white dress materialised before Ella. She stood with the posture of a noble woman, unaffected by the whipping of her long fair hair in the wind. Ella tried to focus as she stared into the woman’s bright green eyes; eyes coloured just like her own.

‘Please,’ Ella whispered.

The woman stepped closer and, kneeling down, laid her right hand on Ella’s forehead. ‘When the seed blooms, your time is up.’

A tornado of snow and petals enveloped Ella, shaping a flower bud of blood-laced snow around her body. As the barrier solidified and the world disappeared from view, she thought she saw the woman smile.

 * * *

Ella gasped and dropped the pile of books she was carrying. The snowy landscape was gone, replaced by an enclosed area with wooden furniture along the walls.

Her room. Home. Safe.

Orange sunset shone through the window beside her bed and, straining her hearing, Ella could make out the sounds of the street-side stalls closing for the day as horses clip-clopped on the cobblestones.

She hesitantly touched her chest. No blood, no wound, not even a scar.

The bookshelf in front of her was empty, though she had filled it yesterday before her arrest. Vibrant orange and yellow lilies, her favourites, sat in pots along its top.

Feeling an itch on her shoulder she pulled up the short sleeve of her dress. Curled around her skin was a thin green vine topped by a shrivelled white flower bud. She yanked at it, but it wouldn’t budge.

A knock sounded on the front door downstairs.

Ella slipped out of her brown dress, no longer torn or stained but covered in the memory of her death in the snow, and threw on a green one from her cupboard. Taking a deep breath, she proceeded from the wooden stairs to the front door and opened it.

Three men stood on her doorstep. Two guards wearing metal armour with muskets slung over their shoulders flanked Sir Caleb Horncraft. The young captain wore the official green and brown uniform of the law and stood with shoulders straight. His short brown hair was slicked back and a handful of thin scars lined his cheeks, but there was a kindness in his eyes. A gentleness Ella had fallen for years ago.

‘Ella…’ he said, his face softening.

‘Wait… Caleb? What’s going on? Why are you here again?’

‘Again?’ He pursed his lips. ‘El-Miss Rosebane, you are under arrest on charges of witchcraft. We will take you to a cell while you await trial.’

Gasps and murmurs could be heard from a small crowd of passers-by who had gathered around.

Ella blinked. ‘W-What? I’m not a w-‘ she leaned in closer and whispered, ‘witch.’

‘We have substantial evidence to suggest that you are. For now, you will need to come with us.’

Neighbours and friends began to call out, soft at first, then louder.

‘Witch.’

‘She’s a witch!’

‘Kill her!’

‘Burn her!’

‘N-No, I have done nothing wrong,’ Ella replied, backing into her house.

Caleb quickly stepped forward. ‘Miss Rosebane, if you’re innocent then you have nothing to fear.’ His deep blue eyes smiled softly.

One guard produced chains and cuffs and locked her wrists together. The familiarity of the weight was unsettling. The other reached for a strip of cloth that Ella had seen them use to gag women they feared would cast spells.

‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ Caleb said and waved it away. He turned back to Ella. ‘While you are held, my men will search your house. Follow me.’

The streets filled with people who whispered and pointed as Caleb and Ella walked by. Women on balconies of tightly packed houses clutched their babies to their chest, while young men on the streets scampered backwards, uttering prayers to the Great Goddess.

Caleb opened the door to a small stone building and led Ella down the stairs. Moss and grime covered the walls, and the stench of unwashed prisoners hung in the air. He unlocked one cell door and motioned Ella inside, locking it behind her. Only a tiny window at the top of the wall let in any light or fresh air.

‘They’ll look for evidence this afternoon and have a trial tonight,’ Caleb began. ‘You know women accused as witches aren’t allowed to defend themselves, just in case they curse the judge. But I promise I’ll do whatever I can to get you out of this cell soon, Ella. Try to endure the smell until then.’ The corners of his mouth turned up into an almost-smile.

She nodded and slumped down against the uneven wall, head in her hands as he left.

‘How can this be happening again?’ she whispered, scrunching her eyes shut. Her sleep was restless and filled with nightmares of the cold snow and bullets piercing her body.

Ella jumped, woken by a clanging metal sound that reverberated around the stone basement. An old man was unlocking her cell; the same man she had bashed over the head yesterday in order to escape. Dim light of an overcast morning shone through the window, and she could hear the sound of rushing wind. She shivered. The snowstorm would be moving in soon.

By the time it hit, Ella was led to the stake.

She’d seen women accused of witchcraft before; the whole town would turn out, even children. Witches were tied to a tall wooden pole in the town square, kindling and logs at their feet, and then set alight. The fire was only put out once their bodies were charred and their screeching silenced.

In the burning cold and screaming wind the square was empty. Two guards escorting Ella pushed her towards the stake, tying her to it with a rough hemp rope.

‘Please!’ she begged. ‘I’m not a witch! I haven’t done anything!’

The guards said nothing. Once they had secured her they stepped back and a third man, Captain Caleb, came with torch in hand.

Their eyes met for a moment, and then he looked away. ‘Ella Rosebane. You have been found guilty of witchcraft and are sentenced to death by burning. May the Great Goddess have mercy on your soul.’

‘Caleb! No! You know I’m not a witch!’

He looked at her and his face hardened. ‘My men found a magical circle etched into your bedroom floor. It was splattered with blood and crushed icepetal flowers.’

‘What? I don’t know about any of that! Please Caleb! You have to believe I didn’t do that.’

He shook his head. ‘You are a witch and you will face justice.’ He bent, unable to meet her frightened eyes. ‘Goddess forgive me.’ And then he lit the wood.

Ella struggled against her bonds. ‘Caleb! Caleb, help me!’

He stepped away from the pyre and stared at his boots. Regret? Disappointment? Ella couldn’t read his face.

‘Caleb!’

An intense heat crept slowly upwards. She screamed as the fire consumed her feet, slowly melting the skin away. The fire caught her dress, setting it alight and engulfing her body in a blistering pain. Smoke entered her nose and mouth, choking her.

Over the next hour, Ella slowly burned to death. The wind would put the fire out, only for a guard to come and light it again. Her skin blackened and the stench of burning hair and skin enveloped her senses. The fire and wind competed against each other as Ella drifted in and out of consciousness.

As her eyes shut, she heard a female voice carried on the wind. ‘Return again.’

Unaffected by the fire, a second flower bud on her shoulder shrivelled up, and then the world went dark.

 * * *

Ella screamed when she opened her eyes, brain still overwhelmed by a pain that no longer existed. She was on her bed, alive and unharmed. Orange light filtered through the window and a knock sounded at the door.  Sweat pouring down her face she began to hyperventilate, coughing with the sudden intake of air. Turning on her side she vomited in the floor, gasping through watering eyes.

‘Miss Rosebane?’ she heard Caleb call from outside.

Trying to steady her breathing, Ella saw the reason for her guilt. In front of the bookshelf on the floor was a trail of blood in the shape of a flower. As she stood, she spotted a bud out of the corner of her eye and pulled up the sleeve of her dress. Beneath it, the vine-like flower had grown, wrapping its way down her upper arm. Two shrivelled buds sat on its side, while a third living one adorned its top.

‘Miss Rosebane?’ The knock was louder this time.

Wiping away traces of sick, Ella climbed onto her bed and yanked open the second-storey window. She looked over the edge to the back alley below. Empty. A moment later, she jumped, landing on the hard stone below. Pain exploded in her left leg.

‘Hey! There she is!’ A voice called from the street.

Ella hobbled down the alley, away from the main road. She ducked around the corner and pushed past the crates and barrels that littered the tight passageway. Residents peered out their windows, watching the chase unfold.

‘Stop!’ A guard behind her yelled.

Men and women with surprised faces edged away as Ella stumbled onto a back street. As she glanced back, someone stuck their foot out and she tripped, sprawling face-first onto the rough cobblestones. She rolled onto her back, blood obscuring her vision. Struggling to her feet, she limped down the road. The crowd retreated as the blood-covered woman moved amongst them.

A bang sounded, then screams.

Ella fell forward as the bullet penetrated her back, smashing her face into the ground again. Blood flooded from her forehead and nose, swimming into her eyes and painting the tips of her fair hair.

‘Move aside!’ she heard a familiar voice yell. Caleb.

A woman in a white dress knelt down beside her; the woman from the snow.

‘Don’t give up. Try once more.’

 * * *

Ella sprang to action. She threw open the door to her bedroom and ran down the stairs. Taking a left, she entered her small kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife she owned. A knock sounded.

Caleb. The man who burned her. She approached the door, weapon at the ready.

Ella swung the door open, the faces of two guards and Caleb greeting her again. Without hesitation, she leapt forward, jamming her knife into the captain’s chest.

‘Ella…’ he spluttered, eyes wide.

‘Why didn’t you help me!’

A woman passing by screamed.

For a moment, the two guards were stunned. Ella reached for the sword at Caleb’s side as he fell limp, and swung it at one guard. He side-stepped her clumsy, untrained blow while the second guard drew his own weapon, jamming it into Ella’s back.

Her eyes widened and she fell forward, her blood and Caleb’s trickling together between the cobblestones.

‘Please… just let me die…’ Ella sobbed as her consciousness slipped away.

Ella awoke in bed, staring at her wooden ceiling.

‘Why is this happening to me?’ she whispered.

Her eyes wandered to her right arm. The plant growing there had extended its reach, twirling all the way to her wrist. Four shrivelled buds had sprouted from the central stem, but one that touched the back of her hand had flowered with petals red like blood.

The seed had bloomed. Her chances were over. Finally, she could die.

Eyes heavy, she pulled herself from bed and wandered down the stairs. She returned to the kitchen, grabbing the same knife she had killed Caleb with, then plodded back up to her room.

She heard a knock from downstairs, but closed her bedroom door. She placed her knife on top of the dresser and, with a grunt, shoved it in front of the door. Picking up the knife, she sat down on her bed and felt its weight in her hand. With a deep breath she raised it, pointing its tip at her stomach.

‘You can still escape!’ a soft voice spoke and a familiar woman materialised in front of Ella. ‘The seed has bloomed and my magic is at an end, but you have this final chance.’

Ella’s hand began to shake. ‘Who are you?’

The woman smiled, lips pressed together.

‘Why didn’t you help me? You could have rescued me!’

‘I can’t interfere directly, but I know you can do it. I know you can.’

‘I don’t care. I can’t go on like this.’ Ella raised the knife.

‘Stop!’

Ella hesitated and stared at the hair-breadth distance between the knife and her heart. A moment passed, and she lowered it. The woman released a breath and knelt down in front of Ella.

‘Did you put that there?’ Ella asked, pointing to the bloody flower on the floor.

‘Yes. It was a result of my magic when I first saved you in the snow and bound the flower to your body.’

‘W-Why did you do this to me? Why couldn’t I just die?’

‘I need you alive in the future when your powers awaken. What you’ve been through is unfortunate, but necessary.’

‘Unfortunate?’ Ella trembled. ‘This is all your fault!’

She turned the knife around and stabbed. It entered the woman’s chest and blood bloomed across her white dress. The woman staggered back, clutching the blade. A tear fell from her eye as she pointed to Ella before collapsing to the ground. Ella felt a sudden pang of pain and saw a hole open in her own chest, right where she had struck the woman.

Her head span and she slumped onto the bed. The woman’s eyes went blank and the flower around Ella’s arm crumbled to dust. Ella could see it now, the reason for the woman’s familiarity. The woman looked just like her. Older, but the same. Ella gasped, struggling to pull air into her lungs and instead coughed up blood.

As her eyes closed, Ella wondered if she could turn back time too.