Thrill Seekers (11 page)

It was me that found him in the morning, sprawled out on the cement under the house in a puddle of his own spew. His lips blue. I saw the crushed packet of Winfield’s and the empty bottle of sleeping pills. I saw the note with Pete’s name on the front.

I rolled Jacko onto his back and put my mouth over his. Breathed into him, like I’d done before with Douggie, till he coughed and moaned and vomited some more. And then I called the ambulance.

After I’d helped wheel him out to the road and slid him into the back of the van, I didn’t stay to watch as they drove away. I didn’t go to the hospital. I went back under the house and found that note. The one to Pete.

It was full of words of love and broken hearts. Tear stained.

I burnt it.

‘I’ve had it,’ I say to Douggie, but he doesn’t answer. Don’t know if he can.

I’ve come by myself to visit him today, borrowed the car from Mum. I’m back living at home for a while. Trying to sort shit out. Jacko’s rung a couple of times since I left his place, pretending nothing’s changed, and maybe it hasn’t for him but it sure has for me. I can’t do it anymore. He’s still tripping every weekend and rooting anything that moves, boys and girls, but I don’t want any part of it. I’ve had enough of his bullshit. Always being treated as if I didn’t count.

Douggie’s enough to worry about, without Jacko as well. My shoulders are only so big.

‘Doug? Can you hear me?’

He’s sitting in a plastic chair with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. The old Douggie would’ve been racing around the room pretending to be a superhero. This one can’t even focus his eyes long enough to tell who I am. His chin keeps nodding down to his chest, then he twitches. They must have him on super strong meds. Mum said they were trying something new after he tried to escape again the other night. Kind of proud of him for that.

I sit beside him staring out the window at the hospital car park, edged by some crappy dried-out gardens. Crows call to each other on a straggly gum tree.

‘Wha…?’ He turns and sees me at last. I’ve been here ten minutes. ‘Bri?’

‘Yep, it’s me Douggie. How’s it hangin’?’

Head wobbling on his neck like a doll that’s lost too much stuffing, he purses his lips and swallows hard. ‘Been better.’

‘Need a drink, mate?’

He nods so I go over to the water dispenser. I have to step over a woman who’s lying flat on her stomach in front of it, making soft bubbling noises. This place is totally freaky. And it stinks. Even though they’re not allowed to smoke in here anymore the reek of twenty years-worth of chain smoking oozes from the walls.

It’s the closed ward. Like a prison for loons. I have to fill in a form a mile long every time I visit and then be frisked and buzzed through the bullet-proof door that slides open once the guard is in place.

The water I pour into the paper cup is freezing and the air-conditioning is up way too high. No wonder Douggie’s got a blanket. I step over the woman and head
back to Douggie but I spill most of it when a jabbering old man grabs my elbow. A nurse comes and takes him away. I keep my eyes fixed right on Douggie so I don’t have to see the other crazies. There are too many. Some stand swaying from side to side, others watch the midday movie, others sit like Douggie in front of the window. Probably haven’t moved since the nurses put them there in the morning.

‘Here you are.’ I hand it to him and he takes a grateful sip.

‘So, yeah. Like I was saying. I’ve had it with Jacko and all his shit. I just don’t give a fuck.’

Douggie takes another sip and stares back out the window.

‘Mum’s coming tomorrow. She’s doing better now, hey? Don’t you think? Not drinking so much anyway. Trying to cut down myself. Though shit, it’s boring. What’re you supposed to do if you don’t get wasted?’

Douggie wobbles his head back in my direction and looks at me with his eyes
half-crossed
.

‘Saw Beck the other day. Dyed her hair blonde now, looks pretty cool. Not so wasted and Emo like before. She says hi.’

He moves his lips but nothing comes out. He tries again. ‘Beck?’

‘Yeah. She says hi.’

‘Beck.’ He smiles through the dirty glass as a station wagon pulls in across the bitumen.

‘Don’t know if she’s going with anyone. Maybe I should go round and see her, invite her over to watch some footy or something. Reckon she’d like that?’

He rolls his eyes and mumbles something that sounds like ‘hopeless.’

‘So what do you think? I’m looking fit or what?’ I stand up and pat at my belly which
only jiggles half as much as it used to. ‘Been doing pushups and shit. I’m up to fifty.’

He’s back staring out the window at the crap view like he’s forgotten I’m there. I wait a few minutes then say, ‘Reckon I might go then. Mum probably needs the car for shopping. Anyway, congrats about the appeal, you’ll be out of here in no time.’ Well, at least not a lifetime. Lucky he didn’t kill the old bird.

He’s still staring.

I put my hand on his shoulder and speak closer to his ear. ‘I’m going now.’

‘Brian?’ he says like he’s only just realised I’m there. ‘Bri?’

Then he wraps me into a massive bear hug so tight I can hardly breathe.

‘You’re right, Douggie, you’re right.’ I try to peel his arms from me but he won’t let go. He’s clinging to me like I held onto
that log that day in the creek. Hanging on as if I can save his life.

But I can’t. I’ve only ever had enough strength to keep my own head above water.

‘Got to go, Douggie. See you next time, hey?’ I pat his back till his grip weakens and I can slide out between his elbows. ‘Be good. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

My attempt at a joke doesn’t seem funny even to me. I back away, babbling on and on about how Mum really needs to do some shopping, making worse jokes till I’m at the door pressing on the buzzer, signalling for the guard to get the bloody door. Quick. I don’t even flick a glance behind me as I edge sideways through the gap as it slides open.

Back at the car I rev the engine till it screams and reverse out of the car park with a screechy, crash over the speed-bumps and roar out onto the road. With my foot to the metal I drive and I drive until I can’t see any more for fucking tears. I pull over and
yell every swear word I know at God. For what he’s done to my little brother.

And me.

‘Number forty-seven. Number
forty-seven
,’ yells an old guy in shorts and a singlet, a tray of meat in his bulky arms.

I’ve been sitting here in the crowded beer garden of the pub closest to Uni for over an hour. It’s late Brisbane summer, stinking hot and sweaty. My legs are glued to the plastic chair, pools of sweat under my knees.

I’m waiting for Pete. He’s up from Sydney, and though we’ve barely spoken since he decided it was better to fuck Jacko than be friends with me, he says he wants
to make up, that Jacko was a mistake. I knew that already.

‘Last call. Number forty-seven.’

All around the pub, hands fumble in pockets and purses as people pull everything out looking for the lucky ticket. I crane my head searching for the winner.

‘Here! That’s me! Forty-bloody-seven!’

In the far corner near the dunnies, a fella about my own age with slicked-back brown hair, bad skin and heavy eyeliner leaps from his chair, waving a crumpled pink ticket. As he pushes his way through the drinkers his face becomes horribly familiar. Bloody Douggie.

‘Here mate, here! I’m the lucky winner!’

Two steps away from the tinfoil tray loaded with chops and steaks and mounds of sausages, he trips and falls into my lap. I push him off and everyone laughs.

‘Fuck you guys!’ he shouts, struggling to his feet. ‘I’m the winner!’ He shoves his crumpled ticket into the raffle man’s hand. I don’t think he even realises it’s me. He must be having one of his bad days.

‘Yep. Number forty-seven all right. It’s your lucky day. She’s all yours. Don’t eat her all at once.’ The man passes over the tray. Droplets of watery blood fall onto the brick pavers.

‘Shit, it’s heavy.’

‘Ten kilos of top quality meat there, son – better get it home and into the freezer.’

‘You kidding? I’ve got to celebrate. I’ve never won a bloody thing before.’

He looks around like he’s going to give a speech but everyone’s already lost interest and turned back to each other and their beers. I sort of smile up at him. I’m glad he won; he deserves a break or two.

‘Hey you guys, I’m the winner. Me, Doug Spencer, star in the making. On my way up you know, all the way to the top. This is just the beginning. Cool! Who wants a drink on me?’

That gets their attention.

‘Are you for real?’

‘Free beer?’

‘The beer’s on you is it mate?’

‘Good on ya.’

Douggie stands clutching his meat tray, ecstatic, the centre of attention, his eyes darting from the cool guys he wants to impress to all the girls he’s probably dreaming of screwing.

‘Yeah sure,’ he says. ‘Free beer for everyone!’

A roar goes up and the bar is almost knocked over in the rush.

‘You sure you’ve got the money for that son?’ The old bloke taps him on the shoulder.

‘Course I’ve got the money,’ Douggie hisses, pulling a handful of orange
twenty-dollar
bills from his jeans pocket. ‘Got my pension cheque today.’ He holds the money high. ‘The beer’s on me!’

Shirtless, shoeless students bump past my table in the stampede to the bar, pressing into each other, four deep at the counter, waving their arms and shouting orders.

Douggie throws himself into the chair next to me, plonking the meat tray onto the table and lighting a cigarette.

‘Meet a winner,’ he says, smiling his best movie star grin. ‘Douglas Spencer, prize winner and star on the rise, at your service.’

‘Yeah right, Douggie,’ I say. ‘Since when are you a star on the rise?’

‘Know me from the telly do you?’

‘Douggie,’ I sigh. ‘It’s me, Beck. Where’s Brian? Does he know you’re out?’

‘Fuck Brian. Anyway, what’s it to you?’

‘It’s me, Rebecca Roche, Becky. Remember? Russ’s sister? Primary school? All those parties at Jacko’s? Got me now?’

‘Oh yeah, Beck. You look different. Didn’t recognise you with your hair blonde. Anyway, want a drink? Want to get it on with a winner?’ He puts his hand on my knee. ‘It’ll be the best you ever had.’

I lift his fingers off one by one. ‘Hands to yourself, Douggie. I’ll have a drink though, scotch and dry please.’

‘Sure, sure.’ He races over to the bar where the queue parts to let him through. ‘Got your beers everyone?’

‘They got ‘em all right,’ says the barman. ‘Now you’d better cough up. That’s
seventy-three
bucks, mate.’

Even from here I see Douggie’s eyes bulging. ‘What?’

‘Do the words “the drinks are on me” remind you of anything?’

‘Yeah, but shit. Seventy-three dollars?’

‘There’s a lot of punters here on a Thursday.’

Douggie pulls four twenty-dollar bills from his pocket and hands them over. ‘That’s it, but. No more free beer. The rest of my money’s in a Swiss bank account.’

‘Yeah right mate, whatever you say.’

Doug buys my scotch and a bourbon for himself and weaves his way back to the table.

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking a swig. ‘I needed that.’

‘I’m feeling great,’ says Douggie. ‘Deadset unreal, top of the world. I’m a fucken star!’ he shouts, standing up and waving his arms.

‘Sit down, Douggie. Everyone’s looking.’

‘So what’s new, they’re always looking. Price you pay for being famous.’ He sits back down and puts his hand on my boob. ‘You’ve got great tits.’

I slap him away with a laugh. ‘Behave yourself or I’ll call Brian to come get you. Anyway, I thought you were still in lock-up, I mean, hospital. How come you’re out?’

‘Shit. Why’d you have to go and say that? I was feeling so good. Forgot all about
that bloody hole. Hey, I know. Let’s have some music. I feel like dancing. You like dancing?’

Downing his bourbon, he fights his way to the jukebox and grins as he punches in letters and numbers. He stops at the bar on the way back and gets some more drinks.

‘Why are you all by yourself anyway?’ he asks. ‘Where’s Jacko and them?’

I don’t answer, deliberately concentrating on lighting my cigarette.

‘Hey, hey. What do you know? Jacko’s had the boot. Things are looking up. I won the prize. I got the girl. I’ve got an appointment with an agent first thing in the morning.’

‘What sort of an agent? The FBI?’ Best to humour him I reckon.

‘Music, man, music. I’ve been playing the guitar, written some songs. Top ten I’m telling you. I’m a bloody star.’

A Billy Joel song starts up on the jukebox.

‘My song,’ says Douggie.

‘Urgh, Billy Joel, that old fart. He gives me the creeps. What’s that doing on the jukebox?’

Douggie sings along, some stupid lyrics about how even though he’s crazy he might just be the one I’m looking for. ‘Come on. Sing with me. Or do you want to hear my latest song. One I wrote? Yeah. Let’s go down the river and I’ll sing it just for you. A concert for one.’

Have to get out of that one fast. ‘Um. Thanks but no thanks, Douggie. Actually, I’m waiting for Pete.’

‘What? That poofter? When you could have a piece of this arse.’ He stands up and wiggles his bum in my face. ‘What do you reckon? Good arse or what?’

I laugh. ‘Not bad. A bit pointy.’

‘What do you mean pointy?’ He twists his head around trying to get a look. ‘It’s not pointy. It’s perfect. Plenty of people would kill for an arse like this.’

‘Yeah right. It’s perfect. Can I have another drink?’ The first couple of scotches haven’t numbed me like I’d hoped. I need more alcohol to help wrap the steel tighter around me before facing Pete.

‘Sure. I’ll be right back. Same again?’

I stare at the meat tray while he goes to the bar. A pool of blood stained water is spreading out under the foil onto the table and the smell of butcher is wafting through the double layer of cling wrap.

Douggie splashes my drink down in front of me. ‘Here you go.’

‘Do you ever feel like that, Douggie?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like a meat tray?’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘You know. Like you’re nothing but a pile of raw meat with only a bit of plastic holding you together.’

‘Are you stoned or what?’

‘Forget it.’

‘Yeah, snap out of it. They reckon I’m crazy. You’re bloody weird. Anyway, we’re having a great time, aren’t we? This place is raging and I’m flying man. Unreal! The stuff the doc’s got me on really kicks in when I get pissed.’

‘Shit, maybe you shouldn’t be drinking. It could be dangerous.’

‘What? Like I might go crazy?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Don’t freak out on me. I’m cool. Everything’s great’

A Justin Timberlake song blasts out of the jukebox speakers.

‘That’s mine too,’ he yells. ‘Check this out.’ And he jumps up onto his chair and starts doing dance moves from the film clip, pointing and gyrating.

All around the beer garden people look up to watch the show and laugh.

‘Hey look. It’s J.T.’

‘Sit down, ya dickhead.’

I tug on the cuffs of his jeans. ‘Come on, Douggie. Get down.’

Then I see something that stops the breath in my chest. ‘Oh fuck.’

Across the garden, coming down the ramp from the train station is a gang of long-hairs, and in the middle of the group is a boy with dirty hair, torn jeans, and a leather jacket even though it’s way too hot for one. Jacko.

‘Sit down. For God’s sake, don’t let him see me.’

‘Who?’ Douggie asks, clambering down and craning his neck.

‘Don’t look. It’s Jacko.’

‘You want me to sort him out for you?’

I keep my head down but can’t help smiling. ‘Thanks, but it’s okay. I just don’t want him to see me.’

I can’t stop staring though, sneaking my head around Douggie to catch glimpses of Jacko through the crowd. His eyes are bloodshot and at the back of his head his hair is matted into clumpy dreadlocks.
I cringe as he sidles up to a girl and slips his arm around her waist.

‘That’s it. I’ve got to go. If Pete turns up can you tell him I had to go home?’ He and Jacko can have a lovely reunion for all I care. I stand up, sculling the last of my drink.

‘Don’t go yet. Come on, stay and party with a winner. How about another scotch? Forget about that loser. We can make him jealous if you like.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile and muss his hair. ‘But I’ve got to go.’

‘Beck! Rebecca!’ Jacko’s voice tears through the din of the pub. He knocks people out of the way to get to me. I turn my back, close my eyes and hold my breath but it doesn’t make him go away.

He grabs me from behind and spins me around.

‘Hey, mate, let her go,’ says Douggie. ‘She doesn’t want to see you.’

‘What’s it to you? Fuck! Douggie? When’d they let you out of the loony bin? Thought you were locked up for life.’

Douggie shrugs.

Jacko’s fingers are digging into my arms. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Pete? Why doesn’t he answer my calls? He’s here, isn’t he?’

I press my lips tight together and focus on the meat tray. Fuck him.

He shakes me. ‘Look at me. Tell him I’ve got to see him. I miss him something fierce. Where is he? Tell me for fuck’s sake.’

‘Nine chops, sixteen sausages, five
T-bone
steaks,’ I mutter under my breath.

Jacko’s face is purple, spit flies as he yells, ‘Fucken stop it! I love him. I fucken love him. Understand? I’ve got to see him.
I’ve just got to.’ The beer garden crowd grows quiet, suddenly interested.

‘Hey, leave her alone!’ Douggie tries to pull Jacko away but is backhanded into a chip-bark garden bed for his trouble.

‘Come on Beck. Tell me where he is and I’ll go. That’ll be the end of it. Tell me!’ He jerks me so hard my head rattles.

‘Eight rashers of bacon, twelve spare ribs.’

‘Stop it. Fucken stop it. I’m sorry, all right? Is that what you want? I’m fucken sorry. Sorry I ever fucked you and that’s for sure.’

Tears form in the corners of my eyes but I lift my face to his and show him that he no longer exists. ‘Leave. Me. Alone.’

Douggie hurtles across the pub, flying at Jacko with all the strength of drunken fury. He flings himself at Jacko’s waist and
tackles him onto the table, squashing the meat tray. Glass shatters on the floor.

‘Fuck off, Douggie.’

Douggie jabs knotty fists into Jacko’s sides as he flounders on top of him on the table. Jacko wraps him up and rolls them both off, falling with the tray of meat to the ground. The plastic wrap bursts open and pieces of bloody meat and coils of sausages tumble like entrails onto the bricks. Douggie untangles himself, gets up, does a karate yowl and runs at Jacko, kicking him in the chest.

‘That’s it,’ Jacko grunts, taking off his jacket. ‘Now you’re going to get it, you mad bastard.’ He takes his first proper swing at Douggie and splits his lip. It starts to bleed.

‘My face!’ Douggie squeals, putting his hand to his mouth.

Jacko throws another punch and catches him on the ear, hard.

‘Stop it, Jacko!’ I scream. ‘Leave him alone!’

‘Fuck him. Fuck the loony!’

Jacko hits him again and again so I jump onto his back and lay into his head.

A circle forms around us and the chant, ‘Fight! Fight!’ goes up. Douggie gets in one good kick to Jacko’s balls that doubles him over and hurls me to the ground. Jacko struggles up, furious. He smashes his fist into Douggie’s face and sends him crashing into the garden.