Smoke in the Room (7 page)

‘See ya, Katie,' yelled Dom. ‘Don't worry about telling me what happened. I'll get Marly to fill me in.'

‘Yeah, I will. Hey, Adam, doncha wanna stay and hear what happened to the bloke before you?'

Stepping out of the pub was like opening an oven door. The sun was long set but the wind packed heavy heat. The light from the pub's neon sign showed swirling street grime and Adam standing still, blinking into the dust.

‘Sorry about that,' Katie said. ‘I wasn't expecting her to be here. She usually drinks at the Crown, which is why I don't go near the place anymore. Like an ambush, wasn't it?'

Adam opened then closed his mouth, turned on his heels and began walking fast down Broadway, tapping his hands at his side. Katie had to trot to keep up.

‘It wasn't nearly as bad as she was making out. There was this bloke. He had your old room. We weren't really together. It was just . . . I mean, you know, when you live with someone and you're both –'

‘Yes, obviously.'

‘Right, so, we had a fight one night. We ended up on the street somehow and some nosy bastard called the cops and . . . things got out of hand. And then that old trashbag was stumbling home from the pub, butted in and, well, that's it really.'

Adam's pace slowed. ‘Did this guy hurt you?'

‘We were drunk.'

‘But you injured him?'

‘A little. I was trying to go somewhere and he didn't want me to. Or maybe it was the other way around. Look, he was an arsehole and things just got out of hand. Couple of bruises here, couple of bruises there. He moved out, I moved on. No biggie.'

‘Your friend seemed to think it was.'

‘She's not my friend. She's just a drunk.'

‘Hmm,' he said, nodding as he walked. ‘Drunk. Sounds good. Sounds like a plan.' Katie felt slapped with happiness.

They went to the Courthouse, where they slammed tequila and were booted for being
out of order
, which apparently meant singing ‘Waltzing Matilda', or maybe it meant telling the bar dude he was unAustralian for telling people who were singing ‘Waltzing Matilda' to keep it down. Anyway, Katie finished teaching Adam the first verse as they made their way up City Road, collecting the voices of several bus-waiters and beggars as they passed.

The next pub refused them entry because of Adam's shirt which had ripped sometime earlier. He roared and beat his chest with his fists, and yelled, ‘You'll never catch me alive!' and ran so fast Katie thought she'd lose him. In a bar somewhere past Central, he was sick under the table. Nobody seemed to notice, but the stink was awful. They bought a bottle of merlot to go and fled to Belmore Park.

‘Tell me everything,' Katie said.

‘Everything.' He stretched his arms over his head, let her grab and fumble at him.

‘Come on, I want to know. What's your favourite band? Who's your best friend? What did you want to be when you grew up? Why are you here? What do you think about when you're alone? Who are you? Oh, that's the only question, really, isn't it? I don't know anything about you, if you even like me or any of the things I do. You're an, um, an enigma, aren't you? Adam, Adam, Adam, what do you want most in the world?'

‘I don't know. Jesus. What do
you
want?'

‘You. I want you.'

‘Hush.' He closed his eyes and tugged up her T-shirt.

‘I love you,' Katie said, kissing his bristly cheek. ‘I mean, I really fucking love you.'

‘You're insane.'

‘I know. And I love you, insanely.' She licked his chin, tugged at his stubble with her teeth, massaged his balls through his jeans. She climbed onto his lap and flattened her hands across his chest. ‘People think you can't love someone unless you've known them a long time, but that isn't true. You either love them right away or you never will. Every person I've ever loved, I've loved right away.'

Adam reached between them and unbuttoned his jeans. ‘Me too,' he said. ‘I mean, with Genie that's how it was. I loved her in . . . what do you call it? A nanosecond. That's how fast it was.'

Katie was not hurt. Love happened or it didn't; it wasn't his fault for not feeling it or hers for not earning it. If he'd lied or equivocated she would have hated him. As it was, he'd told the truth and had revealed another shadow from his past. She felt complimented and proud. And curious. ‘Genie?'

‘Eugenie. My wife,' he said, guiding Katie's head to his groin.

She opened her mouth wide and let him thrust into the back of her throat. His hands behind her ears set the pace. A wife. She had known something must have busted him up. An undamaged person would not be so easily dragged down.

Graeme barely saw his new flatmates, although he heard their late night mumbling and moaning. The mornings were so still and quiet that if not for the full ashtrays and empty bottles in the living room and kitchen, he might have forgotten he was not alone in the flat. He rose at 7.45 am, showered, shaved and dressed, ate a slice of toast with vegemite, drank a cup of coffee and was on his way by 8.20 am, which he suspected was a good four or five hours before Adam and Katie got out of bed.

On a Thursday, a few days after he'd moved in, he was waiting to cross Broadway when a hand – the two middle fingers stained nicotine-yellow, the nails with white ridges and ragged edges – gripped his forearm. He looked down, then up at the man's saggy grey face.

‘Help me out, mate? I jus' need me bus fare. Jus' a coupla bucks, eh?'

Graeme shook off the man's hand and stepped from the curb and into the unmoving, peak-hour traffic. On the corner of Broadway and Wattle, a boy of seventeen or so in
a red tracksuit appeared at the doorway of a closed liquor store. He had been there yesterday. Same tracksuit, same question. ‘Got any spare change, mate?' Graeme shook his head and walked quickly on.

He turned on to Wattle Street and passed the silent TAFE workshops and the deserted main campus where he'd taken a night course in nature photography the year before last. That same year he'd taken Open University classes on existential philosophy and comparative religion, started jogging and tried to teach himself guitar. He thought of that year now the way he thought of his first year as an aid worker: a time of open-hearted, wide-eyed, deeply naïve hopefulness.

Past the TAFE was a small park favoured by the local homeless for its covered climbing fort and extra long picnic table. As he drew near, Graeme saw the lump at the table rise up and unfold into a vaguely human shape. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and picked up his pace, his teeth gritting at the third encounter of one short walk. He began to map out possible alternative routes between the flat and work so he wouldn't have to endure this –

He couldn't complete the thought.
Endure what?
Endure striding past people? Endure saying no? He stopped and watched the blanketed lump move steadily towards him. Feeling annoyed was a habit.
No
was a habit, too.

But habits had to start somewhere. There must have once been a
why
. He thought it through: donations to emergency shelters, food banks and long-term training and housing projects were better ways to solve the homeless problem. Addicts should be helped to reform,
not paid to continue their addiction. If he handed money to one he'd have to give it to all of them, and if he gave some to all of them today, there'd be more of them waiting tomorrow.

The blanketed lump was close enough that Graeme could see it was a middle-aged woman with a shiny red nose and long, tangled blonde hair. ‘Can you help me?' she said. ‘I need to buy a train ticket to Wollongong. I've got family there. Just need to get the money together for the ticket. If you had a couple of dollars . . .'

Graeme opened his wallet and counted his cash. He slipped three dollars – enough for a latte – into his pocket, then handed the other forty-four dollars and fifty-five cents to the woman. He walked away as quickly as he could and arrived at work panting.

When he entered the work kitchen, he was surprised to see Jenny, Mike and Sherry huddled around the kettle. He had not heard anybody speaking when he paused to the left of the doorway and listened just a moment ago. He had thought it safe to enter.

None of them was speaking now, either, just standing in a tight circle, Jenny looking at Mike, Mike looking at the floor, Sherry looking at the doorway and at Graeme standing in it.

‘Good morning,' he said.

Mike nodded, then turned and began fussing with the tea canisters. The sight of his soft, pale hands lifting first one canister then the next, holding them up and pretending to read labels he must have read thirty times before, made Graeme's jaw clench.

‘Just the man we need,' Jenny said, walking towards him. ‘We were talking about Jaswinda.'

‘Oh?'

‘We think you should give her some time off,' said Mike, still worrying over the tea canisters as though his ostentatiously healthy body would be affected differently by black, green, white or bloody chai.

‘What? Why?'

Jenny blinked. ‘Why?'

‘Yes.'

‘Graeme, her mother died on the weekend. You didn't know?'

‘No.' Half a week of interactions with Jaswinda ran through his head. ‘What happened? Was she ill?'

‘She's been dying for six months,' Sherry said and gave him a weird, twisted smile. ‘You know her father is sick, too? That she's spent the last year caring for them both in between work and the kids and everything else?'

‘I had no idea,' Graeme said. ‘She never told me.'

‘She talks about her parents all the time,' Mike said.

Jenny gave Graeme an apologetic smile. ‘Well. Anyway. She's an absolute mess, but she won't ask for time off because she thinks we can't do without her.'

‘We can't.'

‘I told you,' Mike said.

‘Well, can we?' Graeme said.

Sherry shook her head at nobody in particular and went to fill the kettle. Mike opened his palms to Jenny who gave him a look Graeme could not interpret.

‘The thing is, Graeme,' Jenny said, ‘you'll have to do without her for an awfully long time while she's recovering from the stroke she's due to have any day.'

‘She's attending a visa hearing this morning. I'll talk to her when she gets back.' Graeme turned and left the room, wondering if he should go up the road for a coffee or wait a few minutes and try the break room again.

Just after noon, Sherry buzzed Graeme to tell him Jaswinda was in the kitchen. ‘And Graeme,' she said, ‘try and remember that her mother just died.'

‘Isn't that the reason behind this whole thing?'

‘Yeah, I just meant, try and be . . .
you
know.'

She meant he should be warmer. He knew this because it was what people always meant when they told him how to
be
. And he knew – because gossip always got back to the person concerned, even when the person was as out of the social loop as Graeme – that he had a reputation as a
cold fish
. It had always perplexed him. The ability to keep his cool had served him well over thirty-plus years in the field, but being calm in a crisis did not make one cold and so there must be something else about him. Something which, despite his lifelong dedication to helping others, marked him out as lacking
warmth
.

Jaswinda was standing at the sink, stirring sugar into a mug of black coffee.

‘I'm so sorry about your mother,' Graeme said.

She kept stirring. ‘Thank you.'

‘I'm sorry for not saying anything sooner. I only just heard.'

She nodded at her coffee.

‘It might be a good idea for you to take some time off.'

Jaswinda laughed, short and loud. ‘And who will take over my cases?'

‘I'll find someone.'

Her eyes were swollen and her nostrils chapped. ‘If there was anyone else I wouldn't already be doing the work of two.'

Graeme shrugged. ‘We'll cope.'

‘I doubt it.' Jaswinda rinsed her spoon and placed it on the draining tray. Threw the paper sugar packet in the bin under the sink.

‘Everybody is concerned about you, Jaswinda.'

‘I know.' She held her coffee mug in front of her with both hands. ‘But it is good for me to come to work. Routine is comforting, I find. Or maybe just distracting. Whatever, I'd rather be here than at home.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes,' she said, walking past him and out of the room.

Late that night, he thought of Jaswinda as he sat in front of the news nursing a mug of weak tea. He admired her strength and thought her approach to grief wise, but mostly he envied her. He longed for a specific grief and for something to do to distract from it.

‘War should always be a last resort,' the pubescent talking head on the TV said, as if he knew anything about it, as if war was a stand-off between a recalcitrant child and a kind father at the end of his tether, rather than something that happened because the child has no food and the father has no hope and there is no kindness or tether or attention being paid.