Capricorn Moon

‘The moon rotates on its own axis a hundred times slower than the earth.’

‘Really,’  she says. 

She seems interested, but logic tells the selenologist that he has insufficient experience with women to correctly determine her level of engagement. He continues because he’s afraid of silence. ‘The dark spots are craters filled with basalt which is a very dense material.’

She picks up the salt shaker and jiggles it. ‘Is basalt like table salt?’

Hoping the smile he squeezes out does not reek of condescension, he answers, ‘Basalt is a dark-colored, fine-grained, igneous rock composed mainly of plagioclase and pyroxene minerals.’

With no response, other than a quizzical stare at the salt shaker, to guide his next words, he’s lost for a moment. He resorts to knowledge because he knows that knowledge is interesting, powerful, even intoxicating. Intoxicating? Really? Whatever its effect, he has a plenteous supply, and he knows he must play his strong suit. Before he speaks, she asks a question. She’s hooked. She must be.

‘How big is the moon?’ 

Although he knows the exact figure, he doesn’t want to show off so he says, ‘The moon is roughly 3.8 billion hectares’ He lets the words float in the aromatic air between them. He’s an expert on the moon so he knows what he’s talking about. There’s no question of his superior intellect, nor any doubt that she will yield to its force. But she’s so beautiful he can hardly breathe and he fears his normally irresistible attempts to assert himself via intellectual assault will fail. Shipwrecked by the storm of his emotions. The lighthouse of her eyes pulling him closer rather than warning him away from the rocks. He feels, and it’s like the first time he has felt. What is it exactly? Extraordinary. He wants to be wrong. Why? Will she seize on his vulnerability? Will she be seduced by his weakness. He wants her to.

‘What star sign are you?’

She’s leaning forward across the table but he doesn’t know if it’s because she wants to be closer to him, or because she can’t hear properly over the noise of the busy restaurant. Her blonde hair falls around her face and onto her shoulders in soft fragrant curls. The question she asked is backed by bright green  reptilian eyes which grip him and cause him to tremble. He doesn’t want to talk about pish posh astrology. It’s so unscientific, it’s positively offensive. Yet he’s compelled to answer. Her liquid voice is truth serum. Her sexuality overwhelms him. She radiates seduction.

‘Capricorn.’

The woman bounces in her seat and her head moves around. She’s smiling, tittering. She’s excited by him being a Capricorn. This is so stupid. Insulting, but dammit if beauty was brains she’d make Einstein sound like Britney Spears after a night on the tiles.

‘Okay.’ She takes a melodramatic breath. ‘Let’s see. Moon in Capricorn means you don’t like taking risks so you plan ahead, and you feel safe when you organize things, and try to cover all eventualities.’

Apparently, she’s waiting for the selenologist to respond in awe to her astrological sagacity. He’s amused rather than awestruck, so he holds his tongue.

‘You come across as a bit cold because you aren’t comfortable with your feelings, and especially avoid sharing them with others. You also don’t like others pouring their hearts out to you. It’s just way too messy.’

He realizes, as he watches her elegantly sip her cocktail, that he doesn’t know her name. She asked permission to sit with him, and he consented out of courtesy. Despite feeling the onus was on the woman to initiate conversation due to the fact that she had invaded his space, the selenologist had spoken first. That had surprised him. This astrologer was right when she identified his need to control situations. That was why he started talking to her. He couldn’t stand the awkward and potentially embarrassing quiet. She had seemed perfectly at peace, and he found that disturbing. Remembering the onset of their discourse, he realized he had forgotten the pleasantries: simple greetings, introductions and mandatory small talk concerning the weather. The selenologist had dived straight in to his comfort zone: his area of expertise.

‘Look, Miss…?’

‘Call me Angel.’

He reaches for his glass of whiskey and recklessly empties into his mouth. It burns his throat and he coughs. When he feels confident that he can speak, he can’t bring himself to call her Angel.

‘I…’ he begins but can’t continue.

Undeterred by his sudden dysphasia, Angel leans forward once more and says, ‘Moon Signs help define our emotional development. They express the unconscious side of our personality. It explains why we do what we do.’ 

The selenologist musters his resolve and decides to attempt to regain control. ‘The moon is a satellite which orbits our Earth in twenty seven days, seven hours, forty three minutes and eleven point six seconds.’

‘Moon signs are a very accurate description of what a person is like,’ Angel counters. ‘People born under a Capricorn moon are usually very intelligent, with a deep respect for knowledge, and are adept at using it for their own benefit.’

‘If you could drive a motor vehicle to the moon, although obviously you can’t, it would take one hundred and thirty days of continuous driving.’

‘Authority and knowledge help you to feel more in control. You are afraid of rejection, and rarely at peace with yourself.’

With a stalemate thus established, the selenologist and Angel gaze into each other’s eyes, and are swallowed by the poignancy of the moment. He’s aware of blood rushing to his head and experiences breathlessness, so he looks for any similar signs of discomfort in Angel’s pretty face. He warns himself not to lower his eyes but the warning itself is enough to cause the action. If Angel notices his quick peek at her chest, she manifests no awareness. The war within him is exhausting. There is no sensible reason for him to resist her commanding charm. The pleasure he feels is terrifying and Angel offers nothing to suggest she means him any harm. Quite the contrary. Every word she said about him was true yet her tone is devoid of implied criticism. He could infer it if he wishes, but Angel completely lacks malice. He knows emotional vandalism: God knows how many times he’s been on the receiving end. This beautiful astrologer is the epitome of enigmatic. The selenologist intuits the significance of his next words so he chooses them carefully: editing and revising in his head as Angel persists in holding his gaze. It seems as though she worries that if she releases him, he will fall and shatter on the floor.

Finally, as the suspense threatens to detonate his conflicted mind, Angel averts her eyes and fumbles for her handbag which sits beside her feet. The selenologist slowly releases the breath he has been holding. He suspects every patron in the restaurant hears the hurricane howl as he exhales. Angel rummages in her bag and he watches, wondering.

She’s holding a business card which she places on the table in front of him as she stands. Smoothing down the front of her blouse draws his attention again to her chest but she’s not looking at him anymore. The spell is broken. Free of the enchantment, the selenologist reaches for his glass but he’s forgotten that it’s empty. He clings to it nonetheless. He glances at the business card then at Angel. Although ready to leave, she waits. What’s she waiting for?

‘We should talk again sometime. I’ve really enjoyed it,’ she says. ‘Call me.’

The selenologist watches her leave. He’s dazed. His head spins as he picks up the business card and reads it. He’s drawn to the large font overlaying a photograph of a full moon. It says Capricorn Moon. He orders another whiskey and stares at the card. An unfamiliar rumble inside his heart shakes him and produces a strange sound which he hopes no one else hears. He recognizes the sound now. He’s heard other people refer to it as laughter. 

A Sympathetic Interlocutor

A Sympathetic Interlocutor

by

D.A.Cairns

Decorated was the word that first came to mind when he noticed her cheeks. Breaking eye contact only very briefly because he wanted to hold her gaze as long as possible, the strange patterns on her cheeks caught his attention. They might have been scars, burn scars or, had they been located somewhere else on her body, the kind of scars left after a surgical attempt to remove tattoos. The thought intrigued him and suspended the moment of greeting in time.

Suddenly aware of her soft hand inside his, he let go and stepped back gesturing for her to take a seat. When he had settled himself opposite her, he saw that she was watching him and he instinctively stiffened. Her eyes were huge, round and dark chocolate. Adorned with lid liner and shadow, her lashes were spruced and unnaturally thick, and she would have elicited a comment in his mind about her being overdone had she been someone else. Had they been somewhere else. Everything seemed different. He felt different. She shifted her weight slightly and tilted her head to the right, apparently waiting for him to speak.

Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and summoned sufficient strength to concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing. But even as he spoke, those funny marks on her cheeks wrestled for his attention. They could have been freckles, although they were lightly coloured in contrast to her olive complexion, but not single freckles gathered together in clumps. More like thousands of them packed into adjacent rooms for all night dance parties. This thought amused him, and his accidental smile was returned warmly and sincerely. This woman was breathtaking. Not classically beautiful because of her cheeks and the way her thick black hair was held away from her face in a clumsy ponytail -she looked like she had spent all her preparation time on her face and not left enough to do her hair properly. She was indisputably stunning nevertheless.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked her. ‘Why have you come here today?’

‘Well,’ she began slowly, finally looking away and thus releasing him from the spell she was casting over him. ‘I think I need to improve my reading and writing.”

A perfectly constructed sentence delivered in a languid Middle Eastern accent. Improve, he thought, how could you improve on perfection?

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Is not being able to read and write as well as you would like to stopping you from doing something you want to do. Like further study, for example?’

She thought for a moment, averting her eyes and thus giving him the chance to study her more closely. From her full lips dressed in red, over her chin and down her slender neck, his eyes stopped when they reached a golden angel sitting astride her cleavage. The line of the thin chain which suspended the angel matched the low vee cut of her white dress.

‘I would like to go back to work now that my children are older.’

He loved the way information was revealed slowly during these interviews, morsel by juicy morsel, peeling away the layers of protection, the walls people built around their personal lives. Those walls invariably crashed to the floor as the interview progressed. Whether verbally, in their speech or their writing, or non verbally in their body language, they communicated their lives to him, their hearts and minds and he was an avid reader.

‘How old are your children?’

‘I have three. Thirteen, eleven, and nine. All girls.’

It was impossible not to stare as the enchantment grew, filling the room like fog. He had thought she was probably aged in her early thirties. It was hard to tell sometimes, especially with women who were able to hide their age so much more efficiently than men. However with children that age she was more likely to be in her late thirties, even early fortes though that was scarcely believable. Desperately curious to confirm his suspicions that she was older than she looked, he selected a piece of paper from the pile on the desk which filled the space between them and placed it in front of her.

‘Please fill in this form.’

Date of birth was the fourth question so he watched eagerly as she wrote, his eyes glancing occasionally past her hands with jewelled fingers, to her breasts which seemed to have risen higher, threatening to spill out of her dress. Maybe it was the way she was sitting, leaning forward with her arms pressed tight into her sides.

She wrote 11/9/64. He wanted to tell her how surprised he was that she was forty three and how beautiful she looked but he couldn’t. How could one compliment a woman without her thinking that you were a pervert at worst, or a sleaze at best? The words would always be construed as flattery with intent, no matter how politely you phrased them. How could one be sure in himself that the words were merely a genuine compliment and not expressions of desire, or worse: lust? How could he be sure? There was a place, an inside world where he could be alone with his thoughts and feelings, where he could sift through memories and adjust them as necessary and use them however he wished. A place to fantasize and twist reality to feed his insatiable lust.  It was a place of both refuge and repression. A haven and a hell.

The interview proceeded normally; she answered questions, did the tasks, the reading, the writing and the mathematics while he filled in forms, ticked boxes, interpreted and analysed both her and her work, made her laugh, made her blush, made himself blush with his boldness, noticed the delicate chain around her ankle and her painted toenails, and averted his eyes when she needed to adjust her clothing to recover what was being gradually, conspiratorially revealed. All the while he wondered whether the chemistry he felt between them was real or imagined, and whether the way she tilted her head and played with her hair was flirtatious or merely absent minded. He even went so far as to suggest they could go on talking for the rest of the day, and she had agreed, and although the exchange was light hearted he felt the words expressed genuine sentiment. He really did enjoy her company. This admission was followed by a fist of guilt jabbing him in the ribs a few times. He was married and so was she.

‘The interview is finished now. You can go and have a nice cup of coffee. Thanks for your time and good luck,’ he said, slowly standing up.

She smiled as he took her soft hand in his and he wished her well a second time.

They stood behind the door in the small interview room savouring a ridiculously long good-bye. The truth was he did not want her to go and she was in no hurry to leave. In the pregnant silence, he began to feel dizzy and was still holding her hand when he opened his mouth to speak. Nothing but air escaped his nervously dry lips, and soon he felt as though he was drowning, like he had fallen into the deep, deep pools of her eyes and they had magically stolen his ability to swim. Seconds passed recklessly into what felt like long minutes as they stood there. Still, no words were spoken and the door to the outside world remained firmly shut.

Finally he released her hand, more from the carelessness of drowsy enchantment than deliberate action, and she looked away. The moment was over. The spell, shattered.

‘Goodbye,’ she said quietly as she opened the door. ‘Thank you.’

He swallowed and managed a very faint, ‘You’re welcome. Good luck.’

Then she left the room and walked away down the corridor. Away from him, away from the mysterious connection they had just undoubtedly shared. He smiled. She was now a new resident in his inside world. A traveller who had landed on his planet and not been allowed to leave, despite wanting to. A fellow prisoner, though not consciously aware of the fact, or even vaguely impacted by the reality of her incarceration.

‘Liliane,’ he breathed wistfully. ‘Goodbye Liliane.’

He sat down, and when he had completed the paperwork and written in his comments and recommendations, he collected all her papers and placed them neatly together inside a red manila folder. He closed the folder and read her name one last time.  

Flight. Fight. Fix. Part 3

Part 3: The Fix 

by D.A.Cairns

Rhys had never told Rhonda why he had perpetually resisted pushing her to go all the way with him. She didn’t understand him, and that was his fault. He’d never told her that he wanted to wait. He had said that, but never in such a way as to make it plausible or acceptable. It didn’t make sense to her. The culture clash left her crippled, bleeding but unrelenting. He chugged on his beer draining half the bottle. It was cowardly the way he had handled this relationship. Rhys saw that now, felt the sting of remorse, of self-recrimination. He had not been honest with her, but that was not the worst of it. Rhonda had loved him despite his unwillingness to tell her the truth. What was the truth?

The sun began to set over the sea brightening the room, making it glisten here and there, throwing random slivers of blinding light into his eyes. Rhys stepped out on to the balcony and looked down to the pool below. He could see Rhonda in the water. Gliding, diving, surfacing, shining. What was the truth? She was beautiful. A beautiful person; so full of life and irresistible positive energy and so full of grace. That word again. It was an irritating quality to those who lacked it. An aggravation born from subconscious envy. The truth was he was a bloody idiot.

Dashing for his suitcase, rummaging for his boardies, stripping faster than he ever had, after a few frantic minutes, Rhys was ready to hit the pool. Ready to dive in. Ready to quit the stupid game he’d been playing. Ready to be the man Rhonda had fashioned him into courtesy of unrelenting patience and love without strings; without visible limits. Once he left the room, he began to rehearse his apology en route to the elevator. Several versions came to mind, but in the end he was left with a choice between exuberance and humble contrition. Both of these were out of character for Rhys and when this realization struck him fully, he panicked. Pressing buttons on higher floors to reverse his course, to give himself more time, but the lift proceeded stubbornly to the lobby. The doors opened. There were people waiting to get in, waiting for him to get out. He was stuck.

‘Coming or going mate’, said a man with a large rose coloured and unshaven face. He stopped the door as it began to close and entered without waiting for Rhys to answer or move. Others followed. Among them was a fragile looking woman who appeared to be with the redneck Aussie. The doors closed and up they went.

‘Are you scared of water or sunlight,’ said the man without looking at Rhys. ‘Or both?’

For reasons unknown to Rhys even years after this moment in his life, whenever he regaled audiences with the magnitude of the moment, he said to the man; ‘Neither. I’m scared she won’t accept my apology.’

The man turned his huge bull head and stared at Rhys as though he might be insane. ‘Well you’re not gonna find out by riding up and down in the bloody lift, are ya?’

Rhys held the man’s gaze, marveling at his temerity, envying his conviction. ‘I guess not.’ He shifted his gaze to briefly meet the eyes of the man’s wife who smiled knowingly. She smiled from her eyes and it was genuine; simultaneously warm and wise. Rhys looked away, embarrassed by the attention.

‘What’d ya do?’

It was too late to escape now. Rhys wished like hell he had simply strode confidently out of the lift as soon as the doors parted. Marched to the poolside and quickly do what he had come to do. Damn the theatrics. No more charades. Just straight up, sincere remorse which was exactly what he felt. He could have been in the cool clear water now, playing around with Rhonda working up his appetite, stoking the fire which would eventually lead them exactly where they both wanted to go. Instead, he had baulked and now he was trapped. These were not the kind of conversations he had with anyone, especially not with complete strangers in elevators. Yet, some weird compulsion pushed words from mouth. ‘I’ve been acting like a dick.’

The woman laughed politely; self-assured, but not arrogant. ‘Pretty standard behaviour for boys, isn’t?’ Surprisingly, nothing happened in the deliberate vacancy she left at the end of her question. ‘Care to be more specific?’

‘Playing around with other girls?’ suggested the man.

‘Ignoring her for the sports feast on satellite TV?’

‘Planning the whole holiday around what you want to do?’

‘Drinking too much?’

‘Okay,’ said Rhys, raising his hands in surrender. ‘Okay. Okay.’

The elevator stopped. ‘Why don’t you come and have a drink and tell us all about it,’ said the woman. ‘I’m Jean by the way and this lovely big oaf is my husband Jack.’

Rhys was trying to politely refuse the invitation and share his name as they bustled him out of the lift and into the hall. ‘Come on love,’ said Jean. ‘We’ll sort you out and get you geared up for your big moment.’ She walked away as Jack’s heavy hand fell on Rhys’s shoulder, causing his knee to buckle. ‘You wouldn’t wanna go off half-cocked, would ya?’

Soon they arrived at an open door. Jean had already retrieved three beers from the fridge and loaded them all into stubby holders. 

‘Have a seat Rhys. Tell us all about it.’

One hour later, Rhys left Jack and Jean’s room and the security of their not so gentle wisdom, prepared, he hoped, for his encounter with Rhonda. Doubt jumped on his back as soon as his closed the door. Fear landed on his shoulders from a great height. His throat once again craved the sweet bitterness of cold beer. The elevator met him. He pushed the button and waited. The counsel of his new friends rolled around in his head while he fought to put everything in order, to bring some discipline to the chaos. His mind was a playground filled with children hyped up on sugar.

The door opened. Rhys entered. His feelings did not change at all as he watched the descent of illuminated lights on the display panel. The lift stopped. The door opened. He stepped out.

‘You changed your mind.’

Rhys looked up to see Rhonda’s radiant smile and was instantly paralysed from head to toe. She entered the lift, pushing him back in as she did. Others followed her in and was trapped. It seemed he was destined to never reach the lobby.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Rhonda.

‘I’m really sorry,’ said Rhys without looking at her as they stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder. At least he though he spoke those words.

‘What did you say?’

Rhys finally turned to look at Rhonda, only to discover she was already staring at him. ‘I said I’m really sorry.’

Rhonda looked away, mysteriously silent. The silence persisted all the way back to their floor where they exited the lift, at the same time but not together. This was going to be much harder than Rhys had imagined. He hadn’t counted on the longevity of Rhonda’s antipathy. Surely, the pool had cooled her temper as well as her body. She looked refreshed, she smelled fresh. Shed smiled at him when she entered the elevator. Had his first pitifully soft and ineffective apology destroyed any chance he’d had at earning her forgiveness. It was unlike her. Rhys didn’t feel like himself, and Rhonda was also askew; out of character as well. Had he fallen into a parallel universe? Did he unwittingingly step through a portal somewhere? What was going on? Rhys felt an urgent, nagging and tension in his stomach as he followed her along the corridor. She said nothing. He might as well not have been there. He wished he wasn’t.

At the door, Rhonda turned and looked at him. She seemed surprised: unsure what to say; perhaps conflicted within herself. Rhys attempted a smile. Rhonda turned away, pushed open the door and entered the room without waiting for him. Rhys stood still. He thought for a moment he’d be well advised to go back to see Jean and Jack and give them an update on the situation. They’d be able to boost his flagging spirit; redirect his reconciliation efforts. Or they would just say the same thing. F=Give him another beer and a kick up the backside and send him back to Rhonda to sort out his problem. The problem he created.

He didn’t want the relationship to end. In fact, now as he stood, helplessly trapped in Rhonda’s rejection of his words, even his presence, he knew he would do anything to keep her. Anything to make it right. Summoning hidden reserves of courage from the four corners of his mind, Rhys opened the door and walked towards Rhonda who was sitting on the bed staring at the wall even though she’d switched the television on.

Sitting beside her, Rhys carefully lifted her hand and held it firmly in both of his hands. Rhonda didn’t pull away. Thus encouraged, Rhys began, this time in a contrite but intelligible tone. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said.

After a very long pause which caused Rhys to again wonder about whether he had actually spoken the word aloud, Rhonda said, ‘It’s okay Rhys. I understand. It’s over. I’m in love with someone else.’

Flight. Fight. Fix. Part 1

Part One: The Flight

by

D.A.Cairns

When the key broke off in the door, Rhys knew it was an omen. The key could have been old and soft like his body, or he could have been unaware of the new power he had found at the gym whilst trying to pretend his body was not old and soft.

A face greeted him, yellowed teeth protruding from within a bushy grey beard. ‘I timed that well,’ said the old man who owned the beard.

‘You did indeed, mate,’ replied Rhys, giving serious thought to the issue of timing. He was ahead of time and would arrive at the airport early. Instead of being sensible and allowing him to pick her up, Rhonda insisted on making her own way. She’d burst into the cool of the terminal like a westerly blast, looking all flustered, desperately searching for him. That was Rhonda’s style and although he criticized her for it, it was almost as endearing as it was frustrating.

The two men smoothly swapped positions in the gateway, and Rhys proceeded to his car without another word or even another thought for the old man who lived in unit one. Rhys lived in number eight, also on the ground floor but on the other side of the expansive foyer which featured an tacky side table adorned with old paperbacks, and a kooky array of plastic vines dangling from the fenced promenades above. To the left of the elevator was the staircase. To the right the laundry. Rhys had moved in three weeks ago and had only in the last few days managed to expel the toxic fume left behind by the cats who previously shared the unit with their human. The eye watering stench should have been enough to deter him from taking on the lease in the first place, but there was something about the unit which spoke to him.

Rhys was halfway inside his white i30 when his phone rang.‘Hi baby.’

‘Are you there yet? At the airport?’

‘Just leaving home now.’

‘Okay. See you there,’ said Rhonda. ‘Love you!’

‘Love you too.’

Based on instinct, Rhys had chosen to live in the former cat parlour; convincing himself everything would be okay if he could survive the detoxification period. As the days passed, thankfully carrying away vestiges of the former occupants, he convinced himself he had made the right decision. Even as he battled the headaches and nausea brought on by necessary visits to the laundry, he remained patient and positive. On the other hand, his relationship with Rhonda was wearing him out. He turned the key in the ignition, fastened his seatbelt then changed the radio station. Community radio with its extremely limited playlist and terrible news and advertising copywriters was also wearing him out. Rhonda was a lot like a community radio station. Something different, somewhat intriguing, occasionally entertaining. He had discovered over time, six months now, that she too had a limited playlist and her scriptwriter should have been fired for lack of originality, excessive use of cliché, and basic grammatical and factual errors.

The trip to Bali was her idea. He’d resisted to the point of rudeness, risking the relationship in a game of brinkmanship, before backing down. Bowing to her will, bending apologetically. Now he was on his way to Bali where every second Australian holidayed at least once, usually multiple times. The Indonesian island of beaches and clubs where the government had introduced a law against fornication in an attempt to deter troublesome antipodean visitors. Where the predominately Muslim local population tolerated the boorish behaviour of Aussie tourists because they depended on their money to feed their children. Rhys had raised the fornication laws during their holiday discussions knowing full well Rhonda would not be deterred. On the surface she had to agree with Rhys that it didn’t matter because they were not going to be having sex. Rhys had knocked Rhonda back numerous times, but not because he didn’t want to. He did. In fact, it was an almost unbearable strain to fight against his natural instinct. The reason he didn’t want to go that far with her was simply a choice he made to protect them both. Introducing sex into a relationship was like stirring up the mud at the bottom of a clear pond. He simply wasn’t sure their relationship had legs, so he didn’t want to complicate it.

Rhonda accepted his rebuffs although he knew they hurt her, but Bali doubtless represented opportunity in her mind. This was how Rhys saw it. She had to agree that the fornication laws were not a hindrance to them, but for sure and certain she was thinking Rhys would finally surrender to her. As this was the first holiday together and they would be sharing a room, there could be no other conclusion to draw. Rhys had not yet considered how to deal with the inevitable seduction, the pressure, the power of sexual desire, but he felt confident he would find a way out.

It was mystery why Rhonda stayed with him. Women being the perceptive and intuitive creatures they are know when things aren’t right. Either she was delusional or she was hopelessly hopeful. Rhys smiled. Same thing right?

Turning off Bagot Rd onto McMillians, Rhys worked on his exit strategy. It was time to end the relationship. If he could, he would encourage her to walk away, to see reason if such a thing were possible. He would need to make himself less attractive in every way. The problem with that idea was he didn’t know what she found appealing about him in the first place. They met by accident at the Intercontinental Hotel in Sydney. She was working there. Something happened which led to some other things happening; the first of which being a dinner date at Red Lantern on Riley, the last of which being Rhonda relocating to Darwin and scoring at job at Manta on the Esplanade. It had been fun for a while.

Rhys parked at the Long Stay plus where he’d snagged a five day park for only $75. From there it was a three minute walk to the terminal. He checked his watch. Just after eight. More than two hours until the night flight direct to Denpasar. Rhys was never late anywhere. His definition of late included on time. The disparity between his punctuality and Rhonda’s complete lack of it was just one of the little cracks which she always managed to laugh off. Rhys was keeping score. He had told her to be at the airport no later than ten thirty. Now, as she stepped through the sliding doors to the cool interior of Darwin International Airport, he imagined how fun it would be to run a book on what time Rhonda would arrive. He amused himself for a few moments, picturing himself laying odds, running around taking bets. An excited crowd gathering just inside the terminal doors holding their breath every time a single woman approached. The wrong woman would then have to deal with the cloud of disappointment at her arrival. She’d push through the crowd, trying to throw off paranoid thoughts, oblivious to the fact the punters had long ago lost interest in her.

After buying an overpriced coffee at Giancarlo, Rhys found a seat, pulled F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button from his backpack and began to read.

‘Hi baby!’ Her familiar voice was quickly followed by an exuberant kiss.

Startled, Rhys placed the open book on the table, cover up, and stood. Rhonda latched on to him before he was properly balanced and they nearly fell together. Rhonda laughed. Rhys frowned. She kissed him again.

‘Made it on time,’ she said. ‘Are you proud of me?’

Rhys looked at his watch. Eight twenty five. He cursed inwardly, then remembered to return her smile and congratulate her. Their second hug allowed him time to smell her hair. So fresh, and her body so soft against his, so relaxed inside his arms. Blood moved to a certain part of his anatomy in response, forcing him to break the embrace. ‘Brilliant!’ he said a little too loudly. ‘Well done.’

Rhonda kissed him again and he suddenly felt like dropping to the floor with her immediately. Admonishing himself for this weakness, he focused attention elsewhere. ‘Would you like a drink? We have time before we need to check in. Or we could check in now and have a drink upstairs. Up to you,’ said Rhys, unable to stop despite sounding ridiculous to himself.

‘Are you okay?’

‘What?’ Rhys looked at the floor, then at The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. ‘Yep.’ More words bubbling at the back of this throat, splashing on to his tongue. ‘Just nervous about the flight. I’ve never been overseas.’

She laughed as though he had made a joke. ‘The flight to Sydney is longer than this one, silly.’ She playfully slapped his arm. ‘Don’t worry baby. I’ll take care of you.’

In the headlights of Rhonda’s piercing, mirth filled blue grey eyes, Rhys had an epiphany. She was too good for him. Too clever. Thinking he had any control over her was foolishness epitomized. He’d been trying to keep his distance, guarding his heart, avoiding not only sex, but intimacy. Not even sex. Intimacy. He was afraid of her openness, her generosity of spirit, her tolerance, her lack of ambition. He had been wrapped around her finger since the first word. That something in her eyes at the reception desk at the Intercontinental. Surely, he had mistaken her professional friendliness for something more. He lied to himself then, maintain the denial even as he asked her out to dinner, fostering the falsity all the way from the Harbour City to the Top End. He was still doing it. The revelation sparked in that instant when he wanted to make love to her right there and then. Not that he wanted sex. He wanted to be close to her. To let go. To be vulnerable. The fight against his natural impulses had been premised upon a need to clarify the strength of the relationship before making a commitment. However, the evidence supporting this war was as strong as the evidence against Saddam Hussein which led to the Second Gulf War.

‘Baby?’ Rhonda placed her hands on Rhys’s cheeks and searched his eyes. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You’re acting pretty weird. I thought you were excited about this trip.’

Did she really think that, or was it more self-delusion? Rhys’s heart was racing. He felt like a little child separated from his mother in a massive mall. Eventually, he squeezed out some words which seemed to reassure Rhonda who turned away and walked over to the bar; answering his earlier question. Rhys sat down and concentrated on his breathing. Now what? He was planning to force a break-up. To either push her into dumping him or doing so to her. He couldn’t do that now.

The subsequent two hours passed quickly albeit drenched in awkwardness.

‘Watch it mate.’

‘Sorry.’

It was a classic way to avoid paying for checked baggage; bring a suitcase on board. Bring a bag and a small suitcase. Add a handbag. Use up all the allocated space in the overhead locker and under your seat. Hit everyone in the arms and legs as you shuffle along the aisle.

‘That’s pretty big carry on you’ve got there.’

‘Pull your head in mate.’

‘Maybe I should,’ said Rhys to the man’s back. ‘That way I can avoid having it knocked off by oversized carry on luggage.’

‘Sit down Rhys.’

He hadn’t even realized he was standing. Rhonda’s admonition united with an urgent downward tug of his belt forced him to resume his seat.

‘I hope there’s no one in the window seat,’ said Rhys. ‘Then you can slip over and have it.’

‘You could slip on over with me.’ She traced the length of Rhys’s arm with her fingertips.

Rhys’s throat went dry; instantly parched as though exposed to flames. ‘I prefer the aisle seat you know.’

Rhonda laughed. Rhys turned away. Why did she always have to laugh at his factual statements? Why couldn’t she tell he was not playing her game.’

‘Mate,’ said Rhy to the passengers across the aisle. ‘Could you speak up? I can’t hear you.’

The two men frowned; simultaneously screwing their faces. The one nearest Rhys spoke. ‘What?’

‘I said you are talking too loudly. Be quiet. I’m not interested in your conversation.’

The first man looked at the second who said: ‘that’s not what he said, is it?’ The first man turned back to face Rhys. ‘That’s not what you said, is it?’

‘Flied lice’ said Rhys. ‘Keep your voice down.’ Placing his finger on his lips, he added. ‘Speak quietly please. Flied lice.’

‘What is flied lice?’ said one to the other as they exchanged puzzled looks.

Pleased the joke had gone over their heads, Rhys turned back to Rhonda. ‘The Chinese are so bloody rude. They talk as loud as they want in their own sing song ching chong language.’

Rhonda stared at him. The stare became a glare. Rhys swallowed, then averted his gaze, suddenly finding the back of the seat in front of him highly fascinating. She was a tough nut to crack and for that Rhys admired her. His behaviour was more overflowing frustration rather than deliberate belligerence. It seemed an appropriate time to try out a few things he’d often fantasized about doing. Although he was good at practicing restraint, Rhys was also good at letting go. When he let off steam he was no wimpy kitchen kettle. He recalled a former girlfriend breaking up with him with a torrent of criticism of Rhys’s sarcastic wit. She did not think he was funny, and she’d made sure Rhys knew that before giving him the finger and slapping his face. It was quite a spectacle that bust up.

As Rhys mulled over these matters silently, Rhonda returned to leafing through the inflight magazine. She’d evidently burnt out after bending Rhys’s ear right up to and including the time they took their seats on JK162. Taking advantage of Rhonda’s silence, Rhys considered his strategy. He was definitely viewing this holiday as a last hurrah. The broken key was an omen. Rhys didn’t believe in portentous signs except when it suited him to do so. This was one such time. The key snaps off in the lock, locking him out, preventing his entry without the help of a locksmith. He’d walked away as though it was of little consequence, and for the moment it was. For the next five days it was completely irrelevant. Five days in Bali. One hundred and twenty hours until the end of Rhys and Rhonda.

‘What are you smiling at baby? Finally starting to relax?’She kissed him on the cheek. 

He took her hand in his, raised it to his mouth and landed a butterfly kiss on it. Rhonda snuggled against him, filling his nostrils again with her shampoo and the intoxicating scent of her skin. Again, he became aroused; a feeling which was fortunately interrupted by an announcement from the flight crew manager.

It was a familiar spiel requesting the attention of the passengers for the safety demonstration. Rhys always paid attention and noted very carefully those around him who did not. On this occasion, the two oriental gentlemen to his left were carrying on their conversation in more hushed tones as per Rhys’s directive.

‘Hey!’ he said. ‘The lady requested your attention.’ He pointed to the flight attendant who at that moment was fumbling with the demonstration safety belt. ‘Watch the safety demonstration.’

The men once more exchanged curious glances; one even allowed a smile to bend his thin lips.

‘Dammit,’ said Rhys, noticing an unfastened strap hanging from the side of the seat. ‘Fasten your seatbelt.’

‘Mind you own business,’ said Rhonda.

The flight attendant twitched ever so slightly, ironically embarrassed by the attention. A deep voice came through the back of his seat, piercing his spine with menace. ‘You should listen to her.’

Without turning, Rhys replied, ‘That’s what I told Chairman Mao and Jackie Chan there.’

‘You’re an arsehole mate.’

Rhonda had moved right away from him, pressing herself into the curve of the inner wall of the plane, attempting to create as much distance as possible between them. The flight attendant finished her performance and was busy checking the overhead compartments were secure, seats upright, window shades open and handheld devices switched off. Mao and Chan resumed their conversation until they were interrupted by the flight attendant telling them to fasten their seatbelts. ‘Told you so,’ said Rhys, adding a theatrical clucking sound.

‘Shut up dickhead!’

Although he knew it was extremely childish, Rhys felt excited by the attention; feathers had been ruffled. He was the chief ruffler. He wasn’t afraid of the man behind him. Words were like paper airplanes.

‘Why don’t you have a drink?’ suggested Rhonda. ‘Or maybe a few. Help you chill and stop making such a pest of yourself.’

‘Good idea,’ he said. Rhys pressed the call button, then immediately called out ‘excuse me miss! Excuse me.’

The flight attendant dutifully arrived and leaned closer to speak with him in a sensible tone of voice. As she spoke Rhys enjoyed her perfume. ‘Please wait until we are in the air, and the seatbelt sign has been switched off before placing any orders sir.’

'Probably not the smartest idea to give him anything unless it’s a heavy sedative.’

‘The sound of your voice will have the same effect mate.’

Rhonda sighed heavily while the flight attendant fought against smiling. The guy in the seat behind held his tongue so Rhys congratulated himself. Once the flight attendant had walked away, the seat in front reclined into Rhys’s lap.

‘Hey!’ said Rhys as he shoved his palm against the back of the seat. ‘You can’t recline now. Don’t you listen. Put your seat up. And keep it all the way forward for the duration of the journey.’

Rhonda sighed. Deep voice behind said, ‘Arsehole.’ Mao and Chan babbled on. The reclining seat offender immediately did as requested and not a peep did they utter. Rhys sat calmly, looking forward to that drink and devising ways to annoy everyone all the way to Denpasar.

The Back of the Bus

The Back of the Bus

by

D.A.Cairns

There are sufficient seats at the front of the bus so he doesn’t need  to sit anywhere near the back. A stolen glance as he boards and presses his Darwin bus card against the scanner while greeting the blank faced driver, confirms this. Relieved, he walks through a curtain of fetid air and takes an aisle seat so he can move at least one of his legs. The buses are rarely crowded, in fact on a number of occasions he’s enjoyed their cavernous and frosty interiors in solitude. The bus pulls out into what passes for traffic in Australia’s northern capital, before he’s settled, so he’s forced to grab the handrail and swing his backside down onto the seat.

Stony faced passengers stare out through the windows if they don’t have mobile devices, as he allows the icy air to cool his skin. After a five-minute walk to the bus stop he was sweating already. It’s only seven thirty but the mercury is already poking thirty and the build up humidity draws sweat from the skin as though squeezed from a sponge.

He watches them through the window, meandering through the park in a loose herd formation. The front runner is dressed in a hi-vis shirt and King Gees. Thongs adorn his feet, but he’s carrying a Coles shopping bag in which he probably has a pair of boots. He reaches the bus stop seconds before the bus pulls in, having received its command via a long high pitched beep instigated by a passenger wishing to disembark. The bus stops. Two exit through the back door as hi-vis enters via the front. He shuffles down the aisle without making eye contact with anyone, and makes his way to the back of the bus. The back of the bus is dark and it smells. It’s noisy too and with the arrival of a hi-vis guy, the hubbub ramps up. They appear careless of the presence of others as they chatter loudly in a language he doesn’t understand.

So far, his curiousity has not compelled him beyond speculation. He’s still disappointed that the stereotype he hoped would be destroyed by his actual experience in the Top End, has instead been unambiguously reinforced. Hi-vis guy is a rarity for two reasons: he has a job and he’s sober. Listening to the back of the bus jabber makes him wonder why hi-guy sits with them. The reason strikes him quickly, making him feel stupid. He is one of them. He looks like them and speaks their language although as gainfully employed citizen he is inhabiting a different world. There are many worlds on the bus. Individual planets in which people sit in safety, enjoying their self-imposed isolation. Darwin draws people from all over the world, but no matter which piece of geographical space one occupies it is always different from others. Everyone experiences the world through the lens of their own culture.

The bus stops again, relieving itself of another burden, before proceeding along the Stuart Highway towards Palmerston. He becomes aware of other conversations taking place, but they are not in English either. All of his fellow passengers can speak the local language with varying degrees of proficiency, which makes it an unsecured mode, and besides it is infinitely easier to converse in one’s own tongue. Even though there’s no need for discretion when no one else can understand what you’re saying, most people, mindful of others, speak as quietly as they can. The mob at the back of the bus are boisterous, loudly calling to a couple of their members as they leave the bus at the next stop. Perhaps, it’s the parting shot of an argument now severed by circumstance, or maybe it’s a hearty wish for health and happiness. It’s impossible to tell. They always sound angry. The disembarkees, don’t smile as they gesticulate towards the back of the bus on their way out.

Others takes their place, dressed in the uniform dirty rags of their tribe, and set off nicely by an assortment of bandages and plaster strips. They fight all the time. He’s seen them in the parks, staggering around in an alcoholic fog hurling curses and fists at each other. He studies one of the women and realizes that she might have been beautiful once, before her lip had been split a dozen times, and her nose broken. She’s shrouded in weariness, her dull dark face framed by thick unwashed hair. The back of the bus waits for her: a broken and battered woman bearing ten extra years of life in every crease of her face. They are not a good-looking race. Oversized noses, brows and lips. He quivers with disgust at himself, but this latent racism has been nagging him ever since he arrived. They are more different than any other people and yet this land is theirs. They belong while everyone else, in one sense, does not.

He wishes it was different. That his only conversations with them hadn’t involved humbugging. That making eye contact meant being hit up for money or cigarettes. He wishes he had not seen them sifting through handfuls of cigarette butts looking for a smokeable remnant or staggering around the streets of Darwin in the middle of the day, menacingly intoxicated, or sleeping in the middle of footpaths and on bus shelter benches and in parks, flat out on their backs and oblivious. The awful statistics are on the news every night, as they valiant efforts of community leaders to rescue their people from despair. He would rather not have seen or heard any of this. The rampant racism and typecasting he heard back was easy to refute when distanced from actual experience, and nothing is more powerfully influential than an individual’s own experience.

It was becoming a torment for him to endure this increasingly undeniable awareness of his own prejudice. He wanted desperately to do something about it, to transform himself, instead of merely joining the eye rolling and long suffering majority who with differing degrees of tolerance shared the city with its minority of resident natives. His stop was approaching, and he would soon be at work, fully engaged mentally and unable to give consideration to the troubling thoughts he suffered on every bus ride. He often thought of purchasing a car, but it made him feel sick to think that was his best and only solution to the festering problem of how to live with his Indigenous brothers.

He presses the stop button and shuffles in his seat. When the bus stops, he rises and walks to the front  door. Fifteen minutes have passed but the stench of the back of the bus passengers still hangs heavy in the air and it drapes him as he exits the bus with a nod to the blank faced driver.

As he walks, he thinks of Rosa Parks: a champion of the American civil rights movement in the 1960’s. Her particular brand of protest focused on ending the restrictive and racist law which saw negroes forced to sit at the back of the bus. More than half a century later, black Australians choose the back of the bus. It’s their territory, as they travel around aimlessly, resenting the white invaders who stole their land and their children. The same invaders who pay for their pitiful, violent and alcoholic lifestyles. The irony takes his breath away, makes him feel dizzy and despondent.

Quickshift

This is the third and final post in the series of "commemorative" stories. Billy buys the car of his dreams, but it drives him into a nightmare. Quickshift was published in Alfie Dog in 2013.

Shout out to Alfie Dog's chief, Rosemary Kind. Thank you and good luck for the future. Check out Rosemary's novel The Orphan Train. I highly recommend it. Here is the first in a series of my short stories which she loved, and made available to short fiction fans around the world.

Quickshift

 by

D.A.Cairns

‘Are you kidding?’

‘What?’

‘Look at that!

My eyes followed Billy’s finger into a ramshackle jalopy shop packed to the gills with overpriced rustbuckets.

‘Buzz boxes,’ I said.

‘Dude. Look harder. Up the back.’

On the back row of the lot crammed up against what was apparently an office were three old cars. Some might have called them classics but I had already told my mate Billy exactly what I thought of the whole wretched lot.

‘The yellow one in the middle.’68 Monaro coupe. 1-2-3 on the Mountain. Same age as me, Cam. I gotta have her.’

‘You’re in the head Billy. A track version of that car won an endurance race 38 years ago and you want to buy it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Billy with his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a hungry dog. ‘Come on.’

Three weeks later, Billy called me and told me he was having some trouble with the car. I told him right off the bat, as good friends should do, that he had blown his dough on a lemon and I had told him not to buy it in the first place. He told me I was wrong then and I was still wrong because it wasn’t the kind of trouble one might have expected from an old car. Then he told me this fantastic story.

The Monaro’s bargain basement price of five hundred dollars was due to the fact that it was unregistered and undriveable. Still, Billy saw a body in rust free pristine condition albeit a little dull and dirty, and knew he could bring her back to life and out on the open road where she belonged.

A mechanic mate of Billy’s, named Matt, rebuilt the three hundred and fifty cubic inch Chevrolet engine, replaced the old transmission with a ratio quick shift, for forty percent more efficiency he reckoned, upgraded the brakes to discs all round, and whacked in a limited slip differential. Every day after work Billy called in to see the work in progress and happily hand over whatever cash was needed to finance the Monaro’s resurrection. I thought it was like flushing money down the toilet but every day his excitement grew as he anticipated her maiden journey. There was one problem though. Dust.

Billy’s mate, Matt,  kept a clean workshop; as clean as garages can be anyway, but each morning when he opened up, he discovered a thin layer of dust all over the Monaro. It was grey and silky looking like soot though much courser in texture but because it wiped off easily he never bothered telling Billy. He was curious but not enough to investigate the problem.

One morning when Matt arrived at the workshop, Billy was waiting for him.

‘You’re here early, Billy. What’s up?’

‘You’re getting’ close, right?’

‘Damn, you’re impatient. I’m not going to go any harder just because you’re here every bloody day checking up on me.’

‘I know. I know. I’m just asking.’

Matt nodded and Billy clapped him on the shoulder.‘Give us a quick look before I go to work.’

‘Nothin’s changed since last night, Billy. I don’t live here.’

‘Give us a quick look.’

His mate shrugged in resignation and pressed a button on his keyring.

Billy was in, scrambling under the roller door before it was even half way up. He was dumbfounded when he saw her.

‘What the hell?’ he called out as he ran his finger through the coat of greyish dust which covered the whole car. ‘How?’

‘She must have been out for a spin during the night.’

Turning quickly to stare hard at the mechanic who was now right behind him, Billy jabbed his finger angrily and said, ‘Not funny, Matt. If you drove it without my permission…well that’s bad enough, but where did you take her for God’s sake? How the hell did she get so dirty.’

The mechanic threw up his hands. ‘That was a joke. The bloody thing has not left the workshop since you rolled it in here last week.’

‘How do you explain the dust?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Is this the first time?’

‘No. Every morning when I come in it’s like that.’ He pointed at the car. ‘I clean it off and then get to work and it’s still clean when I leave.’

Looking first at Matt and then at the car then back at his friend again, Billy was speechless. In silence they wiped all the dust off the Monaro and when they finished, Billy said. ‘I’m going to stay here tonight.’

The mechanic shrugged. ‘See you tonight then, Billy.’

Billy walked out of the workshop without saying another word.

He returned just before five thirty as the sun was being sucked under the horizon and Matt was closing up. The latter only hung around long enough to wish Billy luck, before leaving him alone with his prize possession.

Just to hear the sound of her voice, Billy kicked the engine over and allowed it to run for a minute or two. The rhythmical deep throbbing of the mighty v-eight was music to his ears but he didn’t want to gas himself, so he shut her down.

Matt had set up an old cot for Billy in front of the Monaro, but after thirty minutes of tossing he gave up on getting comfortable and decided to sleep in the car. Billy opted for the back seat, hoping that he would be able to sleep despite not being able to stretch out to his full six foot one. Fully clothed and smothered in blankets, he peacefully drifted off to sleep with thoughts of driving Mon, as he now called her, clear across the country filling his head.

He was jolted awake when the car seemed to hit a dip and bounce out the other side. At first he thought he was dreaming, but no dream had ever felt this real, and another violent bounce convinced him he was awake. Sitting up on the back seat after throwing off the blankets, Billy noticed that he was alone in the car but she was definitely moving, and motoring very fast across a desert landscape. At least it looked like desert except for the colour of the sand which was grey. Billy stared out the window at the world rushing by and wondered where on earth he was. He felt hot too, sweaty and sticky but when he tried to wind the window down it was stuck. Looking ahead, he saw they were approaching a small hill, or was it a pile of rocks. Quickly it loomed larger in the windscreen and Billy could see a black opening at the base of the hill. In an instant, darkness swallowed him and he held his breath, waiting.

Light crashed through the windows and onto his face causing his eyes to flicker behind stubbornly closed lids. It was the light of a new day and Billy was covered in blankets lying on Mon’s back seat, dry mouthed and disoriented. He sat up slowly and looked out through the window. The walls were lined with tools and other equipment while drums and car parts covered the benches and the floor.

Next he heard shouting.‘Hey, what are you doing in there? Get out? Who are you?

More demanding questions than Billy could keep up with. He wiped his eyes and saw a familiar face. ‘It’s me.’

‘I said get out of the car or I’m going to pull you out and bust you up!’

‘What? Matt, it’s me. It’s my car, Mon. It’s my car!’

‘This car belongs to a mate of mine. Get the hell out of it. I won’t tell you again.’

Billy carefully opened the door and climbed out of the back seat. When standing in front of the mechanic, he said, ‘What’s going on? This is my car. You let me stay here so I could find out where the dust came from.’

‘The dust? What do you know about the dust? Did you put it there?’

‘What?’

Billy twisted around and put his hand on Mon’s roof feeling the dust fluff through his fingers as he did so -it was thicker than before- a tiny cloud of it puffed up and made him sneeze.

‘Get the hell out of here! Now!’

‘But…’

Billy did not know what else to say as his friend obviously did not recognise him. Did he look different? He cautiously felt his face. He needed to see a mirror.

‘Last chance,’ said the angry stranger, ‘go or I’ll call the cops.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Billy retreating as he spoke.

The next thing that happened, according to Billy, was that he telephoned me. I don’t remember that call but he swears he called me right after he left the garage. This is how that conversation went down, according to Billy.

‘Cam, it’s me Billy. Something weird happened.’

‘Sorry who is this?’

‘Billy.’

‘Billy who?

‘Billy Kavanaugh. Stop stuffing around Cam. I need your help.’

‘Billy Kavanaugh? Bloody hell, there’s a name I haven’t heard in years. Since…what? The last year of high school?’

‘Cam, cut the bloody jokes will ya. I’m sort of in trouble.’

‘No joke, Billy. I’m stunned. Can’t believe you’ve called me after all these years, and what? You need some help?’

‘Cam, come on man. You were there when I bought her.’

‘Bought who?’

‘The car!’

‘What car? I haven’t seen you for years, I told you. Are you all right?’

Billy hung up by almost pressing his thumb right through his cell phone, then walked further into town wondering what to do. A little boy waved at him, ‘Hi, Mr Kavanaugh.’ Billy waved back and smiled faintly without the slightest idea who the boy was. He bought a Coke and wandered over to a park where he sat on the grass and drank thoughtfully. The commemorative plaque in the centre of the reserve said Civic Park which made Billy scratch his head.

‘I thought this was Stanley Park,’ he mumbled.

Deciding to return that night to the garage and his car, Billy needed to kill eight or nine hours so he went to the local cinema and watched a few movies and then to the library. Billy liked sci-fi movies but after an hour in the library he realised that the only explanation for his situation was that he must have been in a movie. His town was in some ways just the same as the day before but in many other ways, completely different. Of course he wasn’t in a movie and surely he could not have been still dreaming, so what then?

‘Alternate realities,’ he said out loud and laughed to himself before an old lady silenced him with an angry ssshhh!

That night back at the garage, Billy waited until closing time and managed to sneak in behind the mechanic’s back and hide under Mon until he left. Squirming out, he stood and noticed light from a streetlamp poking in through the workshop window, and dancing on the Monaro’s clean, smooth lines. He decided to stay awake if he could and besides he did not have any blankets or a pillow. As he was not planning on sleeping, he sat behind the driver’s wheel. The radio came alive at his touch and he scanned through the stations to find something to listen to. He felt very tired and from time to time his heavy eyelids closed in drowsiness but he was determined to stay awake.

Rattling. Rattle, bang! Rattle, bang! Billy jerked forward and shook his head. He had slept.

‘Damn it!’

He heard a chain rattling as though it were twitching and bouncing on a hard surface. A road? Yes, a road. The grey desert extended to the horizon in every direction. Billy recognised the scene but the sound was different. Rattle, bang! Rattle, bang! Bang! Bang! It stopped suddenly and Billy turned to look out the back window but they were moving too fast to see anything properly. He supposed that something had been caught under the car and had eventually broken free. Whatever, it didn’t matter. When he looked forward again, he saw the hill, and the black hole coming up quickly, and this time when darkness engulfed them, he did not hold his breath.

Back in the garage, Billy coughed himself out of sleep and watched some grey dust dance around his face. He was content to accept the alternate realities concept despite knowing it to be impossible, and Billy wondered what sort of reception he would receive from the owner of the workshop this time.

‘Billy? What are you doing here, man? How’d you get in?’ said Matt.

Recognition. Beautiful, thought Billy.

‘I snuck in late last night.’

‘Snuck in?’ The mechanic slapped him on the back. ‘You could have just asked if you needed somewhere to stay. You and Kelly have another fight?’

‘Kelly?’

He laughed. ‘Your wife, stupid. The hottie you share your life with now.’

‘Yes, I mean no. No everything’s okay.’

Kelly? Did he mean Kelly Aspinall? She married Cam. Billy did not know any other Kellys.

‘So what gives?’

‘Huh?’ said Billy wondering how he ended up marrying Kelly and what effect that might have had on his friendship with Cam.

 ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Checking on Mon. You know to try and find out where the dust is coming from.’

‘Look, Billy,’ he began but paused and winced briefly.  ‘I don’t know how much longer I can keep it here. If you’re not gonna fix it up…I mean it’s just taking up space.’

‘How long’s it been here?”

‘Months. Mate you really shouldn’t have bought it without asking Kelly first. You know what some girls are like with cars.’

‘No.’

‘They get jealous.’

‘So you’re not fixing it up for me?’

Matt shook his head.

‘And she’s covered in dust because she’s been sitting there for months?’

The mechanic nodded, before saying, ‘Are you all right? You really must have hit the cans hard last night.’

After a brief telephone conversation with me again allegedly, although like I said, I don’t remember- that afternoon, which included a very large collection of very strong words with some accusation of ‘you stole my girl!’, Billy had decided that this life was all wrong, so he arranged to stay another night. Matt agreed on the proviso that Billy would allow him to get rid of the car the next day.

Borrowing blankets and pillows, Billy made himself as comfortable as possible knowing full well that he would fall asleep whether he wanted to or not.

The intense heat woke him this time, not the bumping ride through the desert. He sat up casually and looked out the window at the blurred panorama of grey sand and then forward to where he expected to see the hill and the hole, and he yawned and thought about how this part of the journey had become a bore. So flat and featureless it reminded him of a hospital hallway. Where was it? What was it? Perhaps, mused Billy, I will never know the answer.

When his world went momentarily black he sat there calmly knowing it was temporary, and anticipating with some very faint wisp of anxiety the next adventure.

Sirens wailed. Loudly, they were close. Billy ducked down behind the front seat, pressing himself as far into the footwell as he could. He tried to suppress a cough but it forced itself out through his hands covering them in grey dust. His throat felt parched and sore but someone was banging on the roller door and soon they would be banging on the car door. No time to think or feel. They’re after me but why? Do they even know why I am here or that I am? Irrational thoughts churned in his mind. Questions led to more questions but never to answers. There was one immediate need; to decide what to do. To stay and protest his innocence whatever the charge may be, or run and virtually proclaim his guilt. There was no way of knowing whether or not his presence in the Monaro was expected or acceptable. Would the Matt in this world know him?

‘Billy, come one. I’ll help you get out of here. Quick! The cops are out front and they’ll be in here any tick.’

Looking at the friendly face of the mechanic, Billy wondered why the police were after him and how they knew he was here.

‘How did they know I was here?’

‘Mate, I didn’t tell them. I don’t know what you did but I’m not going to turn you in, okay. Hurry up and get out, will ya?’

Matt led him into the office where he pushed the desk to the side and peeled back a large square of worn carpet. Pulling up the trapdoor, he motioned for Billy to quickly jump in and when he did so, he shut the door over his head. In the quiet darkness, Billy heard the desk moving again and then his friend calling out to someone as he left the office.

‘Just a minute guys. Sorry the door’s stuck. Hang on.’

The banging stopped and Billy waited. Voices became louder carried by approaching footsteps, and he heard every word.

‘Billy Kavaunaugh? Where is he?’

‘Not here. I haven’t seen him for ages.’

‘That’s his Monaro in your workshop.’

‘Yep.’

‘So where is he?’

‘I told you. I haven’t seen him for a long time, not since he dropped the car off here and asked me if he could leave it here for a while.’

‘Why’d he want to leave it here?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘You didn’t ask?’

Silence. Billy presumed a shrug of the shoulders or a shake of the head.

‘So when was he here?’

‘Two weeks ago.’

‘Did he seem okay to you?’

‘What d’ya mean?’

‘Did there seem to be anything wrong with him? Was he upset or agitated at all? Was his behaviour normal?’

He laughed. ‘Billy’s never been normal.’

Billy imagined a scowl spreading over the policeman’s face, before he said, ‘Next time you laugh, it’s gonna be followed by pain. Understand?’

Silence then another question. The tone strained. ‘Do you know Kelly Aspinall?’

Billy gasped and hoped like hell it wasn’t loud.

‘Yes. Kelly’s married to Billy’s best mate, Cam. What’s she got to do with anything?’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘I don’t remember. I hardly see her at all.’

‘Bulldust,’ spat the angry cop.

‘What about her anyway?’

‘She’s in the morgue.’

More silence and Billy bit his hand to stop him crying out. There were probably more questions but he had stopped listening because he knew that either he had killed Kelly or Cam had, and whichever the case, Matt was not very likely to extend his help once he knew the truth of the matter. Profuse denial, swearing on his mother’s grave and anything else he could think of would perhaps steal some time for him. Maybe.

The voices stopped, so Billy assumed they had left the office and carefully tried to push open the trapdoor. It gave a little but the weight of the tables still held him prisoner. It seemed a jail cell might be exactly what he deserved.

When the mechanic finally returned, Billy had convinced himself of his own innocence and was therefore well prepared to persuade Matt.

‘Look,’ said the mechanic. He was obviously disturbed by the encounter with Officer Unfriendly. ‘You can stay here until dark but then you have to leave okay.’

Billy nodded thankfully.

‘Stay out of sight too!’

A quick phone call to Cam was enough for Billy to realise he had done nothing wrong except fail to protect Kelly. Cam’s pathetic pleading for help through an alien and obviously inebriated voice was to Billy’s mind, a confession. Billy couldn’t wait for night fall.

On the fourth night, Billy decided to call me before he went back to ride in his weird time machine. He explained to me that the possibilities were endless and his intention was to keep searching the different parallel universes until he found the perfect one and then he would stay. I told him he was a lunatic.

‘Think of it, Cam,’ he said with almost irresistible enthusiasm. ‘I can see the outcome of different choices I have made, or will make. Which one is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, playing along because he was my friend and I loved him despite his madness.

‘In the last one, you killed Kelly.’

‘Kelly Aspinall?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What for?’

‘I don’t know but you were married to her and the police came after me as the prime suspect. But you confessed to me.’

‘How the hell would I, in any world, in any time, ever have ended up marrying Kelly Aspinall? Same planet, different world, me and her.’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t had time to work through all the intricacies, but I’m taking notes and I’ll put it all together later.’

He coughed a little, then a lot, to the point where I began to wonder if he was going to be able to stop. Finally he did.

‘Bloody dust,’ he croaked.

‘What dust?’

‘It’s from the desert, the in-between land or purgatory or whatever you call it. It covers Mon every time we travel. Anyway, you gotta come with me, Cam. I want you to share this…this unbelievable thing with me.’

‘Nah.’

‘Why? Don’t you want to know what your life could have been like? Aren’t you curious?’

‘Nah, I’m happy where I am and besides I’m an asthmatic mate and that dust sounds like hell on earth.’

I still didn’t believe a word of it and to tell you the truth I was getting tired of the conversation. I had better things to do even if Billy didn’t.

‘Billy I have to go mate. Look, if I were you I’d go and see a doctor about that cough and stay away from that bloody dust.’

I waited for a response but Billy said nothing.

‘Billy,’ I said, suddenly fearful. ‘Billy, you there? You all right?’

‘You don’t believe me.’

‘Damn, you scared me. I thought you’d dropped off the perch.’

‘So you’re not coming with me? You don’t believe me, do you?’

‘It’s pretty out there, Billy.’

‘I’m telling you the truth. Just come and see for yourself. Please.’

Eventually, I said yes to shut him up but just after I hung up Kelly Aspinall walked into the room and said, ‘You ready for dinner yet honey?’

I stared at her not knowing what to say. She called me honey and was asking me if I was ready for dinner, and I knew I had to get out of there. Something wasn’t right.

‘Honey,’ she said, so sweetly that I was nearly spellbound. ‘What’s wrong? You look pale.’

Somehow I found my voice and made up a story about Billy needing my help-it was sort of true.

‘What, now?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said scrambling to my feet and out of the living room, headed for the front door.

‘When will you be back?’ she asked quietly as I wrenched it open.

‘Dunno, love. Later,’ I said, and then as an afterthought, ‘Another time.’

I heard her pleading cries fade behind me as I raced across the lawn and jumped into my car. ‘What do you mean another time?’ Squealing tyres drowned her out as I sped off down the road to meet Billy and find another life. My life.