Demons (12 page)

The rain was falling just as heavily, but everything seemed calmer after the screech.
My ears are ringing, said Evan. Is she okay? said Marshall. Megan didn’t answer.
Marshall sat on the couch. Soup’s ready! said Lauren, from the kitchen. Yum, said
Leon. We’ve got no bread, said Hannah. Did we eat it all? asked Leon. There’s some
white in the freezer, said Megan. White? said Adam—
white?
I can whiz down, said Evan.
Ad, Lee, Marsh: do you want to nip down the shops? You’re getting more grog, aren’t
you? said Megan. Evan shrugged. (He looked like a little boy.) We can take mine,
said Marshall, already up, fishing in his pockets for the keys.

The three women listened to the four men going down.

What should we do? said Megan. Nothing, said Lauren, there’s nothing we can do. She
scares me, that kid, she’s so—self-possessed. They listened to the door below close.
She’s had to be, said Megan, you can’t blame her, she’s learning how to hold her
own, because of Jackie, and what’s been happening at home. And now this. They heard
Marshall’s car reversing, changing gears, fading down the hill. It was only just
gone midday but the sky outside had darkened. Lauren turned on the lamp. No, fuck
it, said Megan.

Lauren and Hannah listened to Megan’s footsteps going down. Hannah pushed a strand
of hair behind her ear. Somewhere, way down the hill, they heard a branch or tree
falling in the bush.

What was it about Jackie? asked Hannah. Lauren thought about it for a bit. Let’s
just say she’s been going through some mid-life issues—but she’s seeing someone now.
She threw a cast-iron griddle, she said, and tried to stab him. Hannah waited. Lauren
set one eyebrow higher than the other, played with her ring, continued. I mean, sure
I feel sorry for her and all that, and her brother, and the whole fucking crazy family,
I’m sorry to see Tilly on the receiving end, but at the same time, I’ve got to tell
you, I am perfectly happy with her not turning up last night. You can’t have a conversation
with her any more, a normal female conversation; she’s changed, the change has changed
her. And the job, Lauren continued, lifting her arms and clacking her bangles, that’s
changed her too. She walked into it, no experience, and bam, she’s promoted twice
in one year. It’s counterproductive, isn’t it—well, that’s what I think—going into
a job you know nothing about then being given all that responsibility? But she’s
always been a good talker, Jackie, God bless her heart and soul, and I’m sure that’s
a prerequisite for that kind of job, crapping on. But there’s got to be something
more, hasn’t there? People tell her she’s the best and she starts to believe it.
Then your husband wins a seat in state parliament, he’s in the papers, he’s out doing
things, important things, and you probably start to feel a bit inferior, don’t you?
You get paranoid. Maybe even a bit competitive. You want to prove you’re on top.
But it’s events promotion! said Lauren. She brings out arena ballet shows, Chinese
acrobats, prancing horses.

She got up and stoked the fire.

Did she get him? asked Hannah. Lauren turned to look at her: tall, lithe, upright,
head turned like a bird’s. With the knife, said Hannah: did she get him with the
knife? No, said Lauren. She put a log on and closed the door.

Is it afternoon yet? Lauren was looking at the two empty glasses on the table under
the lamp and the half-full wine bottle beside them. She picked the bottle up and
poured them both a drink.

So what actually happened? asked Hannah. The devil got inside her, said Lauren, deadpan,
and she turned into a witch. Marshall tried to get that devil out but when he couldn’t,
and the devil started spitting and snarling, he retreated into his work. The devil
took over, made Jackie bleed rivers, then he stopped up her womb, shrivelled her
breasts, hunched her back, made her hair lank, turned her fingernails to claws. Gave
her breath the smell of rotten meat. Put a wart on her nose, a knife in her hand.
A mad fury in her eye. Greer, said Lauren, uninterrupted, says the woman who lashes
out in menopause has found ‘the breach in her self-discipline’ that leads ultimately
to her freedom. She can be mad, if she wants; she can be anything. She’s not made
of sex any more, she’s declaring her liberty from it. But the guy doesn’t get it,
does he? His eye starts roving, looking for the pert ones still slave to the only
effective weapon they ever had. And no, don’t look at me like that, said Lauren,
turning; you lose that weapon, Hannah my darling, and you’ve got to find another.
But they’re all inferior, aren’t they? Brain. Bravado. Old-fashioned self-belief.
That’s why we want a man to hug and not fuck us, isn’t it? We’re storing up the idea
of the hug for later, so when he doesn’t want to fuck us any more, when he wants
to fuck everything
but
us, we’ve still got something to fall back on.

She drank. Fuck, I hate getting old. Hannah looked down at her breasts. At least
you’ve got both, said Lauren. Hannah looked up. Lauren raised an eyebrow, gulped
her wine. It’s the kids, she said, clacking her bangles again; we give them everything,
they suck it all out of us. That’s why we have to love them so much.

They both sat listening to the rain; each, secretly, in their own way, wishing the
men would get back soon. Is Oliver okay? asked Hannah. The same, said Lauren. She
pulled at her top, adjusted her neck, brushed something from her sleeve. He’s living
out of home now, she said, but I think he’s off the stuff. Hannah nodded, and took
an elegant sip. A friend of my sister’s, she said, her son was caught dealing—it
was after she and her husband had separated. The husband was having an affair with
a woman in Sydney. Fay’s friend went through his phone and found the texts. Apparently
their marriage was looking shaky, anyway, and they were sleeping in different rooms
and all that. But, well, this kid went off the rails.

It’s the hotel, said Lauren; they can’t help themselves.

They heard a car, or what sounded like a car, revving somewhere on the hill. Megan’s
Sam has just graduated though, hasn’t he? said Hannah, brightly. Yes, said Lauren.
Again Hannah pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. How did you meet Adam? she asked.
Meet him? said Lauren. Oh, I don’t know. We shared a couple of tutes, did that play
Leon mentioned. Lauren looked into her glass, unsure whether to go on. At first I
thought he was strange. He
was
strange—but then I kind of felt sorry for him. Then
I fell in love with him. I guess he fell in love with me. Then—well. I haven’t seen
him in court for years—he used to do criminal stuff, now it’s all corporate—but they
say he’s still the master of the put-down. That’s the trick, isn’t it? To make a
virtue of your flaws? All that show, but something’s broken. Everything I do, in
my advocacy work, it’s all driven by ego. I know that. Client satisfaction, it’s
a by-product: it’s all about the performance. She raised one arm, let the bangles
fall. But the kids keep you grounded, they knock you down to size: if anything’s
going to dampen a rampant ego it’s a screaming, shit-smearing brat. That’s why they
gave us the coping mechanism, isn’t it? So we cope. And the next thing you know you’re
forty-seven, with a sagging arse and a single tit. She laughed, throwing her head
so far back that Hannah could see the roof of her mouth.

He must have been handsome though, said Hannah, when he was a student. I mean, he’s
still handsome now. That’s true, said Lauren—but then she seemed to lose interest.
She looked out to where the wind was shaking the trees. She was thinking about something,
then the thought changed again. Keep your eyes off, she said, without turning around.
She gulped her wine, smiled. Anyway, she said, jauntily, I better have a look at
that soup.

It was all quiet down there; Megan knocked and waited.

Honey? Can I come in?

Tilly pulled the door back. She was wearing blue pyjamas with a grey hoodie over
the top. She had a pale face, half-obscured, and long, straight, dyed-black hair.
Is it okay if we have a little chat? asked Megan, aware that she’d already pushed
her voice up too high. She lowered it again. Your dad and the boys have gone down
the shops—why don’t you let me in so we can have a little talk? Tilly seemed to be
looking at the floor behind; she let the door go and gestured for Megan to come in.

It was the kids’ room, where the various broods had come and gone over the years
while the adults went about their business upstairs. There were three bunk beds,
one on each wall, a cupboard next to the window and a dresser beneath it. On top
of the dresser was a stack of picture books and teenage novels and a tennis racquet
with a single ball resting on the strings. The window was closed, the blind drawn—it
would otherwise have looked out onto the bush.

The first thing Megan noticed once her eyes had adjusted was Tilly’s travel bag open
on the floor near the cupboard with all the clothes spilling out. (And yet, she thought,
she still hasn’t got out of her pyjamas.) Next, the blue bucket on the floor near
the furthest bunk with a small quantity of dirty water in it. Then the drip gathering
on the ceiling above. Last, aside from the slight swampy smell coming off the bucket,
was that fusty teenage odour, familiar from her own kids, close and cloying.

Tilly was sitting cross-legged on the bottom bunk near the window, a stack of pillows
between her and the wall. Her phone was on the bedcover, screen down. You could hear
the rainwater churning in the pipes.

I only want to see if you’re okay, said Megan. You did that before, said Tilly. They
held each other’s gaze; Tilly looked away. She picked up her phone with a languid
hand and slid her thumb across the screen. Megan took a chair from the corner and
placed it in the centre of the room.

It was not a kids’ room any more but a teenage room which already in the short time
they’d been there looked like any other teenage room you’d find anywhere in the world:
the half-eaten plate of breakfast, the pair of knickers hanging off the cupboard
door, the strewn clothes, the unmade bed. The smell. You people have no idea, Tilly
was saying; I don’t care if Uncle Rylan jumped from a rooftop café and killed himself.
What do I care about that? Who’s ever going to miss Uncle Rylan? There was an electric
charge coming off her. What did he ever do? What did any of you ever?

But your father’s trying, said Megan. The phone rang, buzzing and bouncing manically
on the bed. Tilly picked it up. There was a tinny voice at the other end. Megan tried
not to hear. She remembered Leon, at the same age, and the fire he had in his belly.
I’m going to tell the stories people don’t want to hear
, he’d said,
that’s how we’ll
change the world
. But by forty he was an alcoholic and his second marriage was fried.
An old boss—what was his name?—gave him a fortnightly opinion piece but they buried
it in the supplements. Say what you like, Lee—but no-one was listening.

Anyway, said Tilly. Megan had all this time been staring at the damp spot above the
bucket where a new drip, a half-drip, was forming. I don’t know, said Tilly, putting
her phone facedown, if there’s much point us talking any more. She seemed suddenly
to have grown to twice her age. I appreciate your concern, Megan, really I do; I
know you’re a good person. There was a quiver in her eyes. Mum and I are no good.
Dad too. She looked up and blinked. What a beautiful girl, thought Megan. I don’t
really know what else to say, said Tilly, the hood half-covering her face, eyes glistening,
jet-black hair hanging down. I don’t really want to talk. You only get one life.
A while ago at school this story went around, I still don’t know if it’s true, about
this girl, my age, whose parents had split up. (But I thought you didn’t want to
talk, thought Megan.) The father was living in Darwin and he offered to pay for her
to come up and see him. She didn’t want to go but her mother said she should. She
was tall, long legs, thin ankles; her dad got her a seat by the exit door so she
could stretch out. Halfway to Darwin, over the desert, the door blew off and the
girl was sucked out. There was nothing anyone could do. The other passengers managed
to hang on to their seats and the plane limped into Darwin. It was the middle of
the day, a bright-blue sky, and this long-legged girl went floating down through
the air. It was way out—way, way out. No-one saw her fall. Why would anyone be looking
up, to see a thing like that? She was out there two weeks before they found her.
Animals had eaten her face. She didn’t want to go. She said to her mum she didn’t
want to go. Her long legs put her in that seat. What did she live for? What was the
point?

So, you see, said Tilly, turning again and locking eyes:
I am not going to be that
girl
.

Fuck me, said Evan, that’s heavy.

The rain had carved channels out of the dirt on either side of the driveway, fanning
out into muddy deltas across the road below. Marshall and Evan were in the front,
Adam and Leon in the back. They’d made a dash with two umbrellas. It felt weird being
in the car that Tilly had slept in; they could still smell her, faintly, perfume,
shampoo, and something else like skin and hair and pores.

All right boys, said Evan, party time! No-one responded. Jesus, he said, it’s like
a fucking funeral in here. Marsh? Come on. You were all fired up when you got here
and now it’s all misery-me. Marshall put the car in reverse and turned around to
look. Fuck, Evan, he said, for chrissakes, can’t you see? I shouldn’t have come,
there’ll be shit when I get home; my daughter won’t speak to me, she’s spent the
night in the car; this is all fucked up, mate, totally fucked up. All the time he
was saying this he was reversing the car down the driveway through the rain. Adam
and Leon didn’t know where to look, they glanced at the side of Marshall’s face then
behind them to see how he was going.

And you know what’s happening back there, don’t you? he said. I mean, Megan’s a great
woman and all that but, I’m sorry, she’s also a fucking interfering bitch. She’ll
be down there now, for sure, the others too, giving Tilly the third degree. What
happened, love? Are you all right? Have you heard from Mum? Is she all right? Can
I use your phone? Just for a sec? They’re not doing
that
are they? said Adam. Jesus
you’re a bunch of knuckleheads, said Marshall: do you really think they haven’t already
schmoozed up to Tilly, used her phone, spoken to Jackie, stabbed a couple more knives
in my back? Oh come on, Marsh, that’s a bit rich, said Leon: they’re our wives and
partners, mate, they’re not a pack of fuckin’ hyenas. Yeah, well, that’s a matter
of opinion, said Marshall, and he put the car in drive.