Shellac

Richie's is my twin brother. He's exactly three minutes younger than me. Richie lives in the attic now. And he wears his blue dressing gown. He won't buy a new one. No way! He loves that old dressing gown even though it’s covered with food stains and ciggie holes. Richie has been living up in the attic ever since back before the nasty new millennium began, back when we all thought the poo was really going to hit the fan. That was the year when Richie had his big nervous breakdown. The pressure was just too much for him, you see. He was there at Sydney Uni one day and he just started shouting and shouting and shouting. That’s what mamma said. Then, after the hospital people calmed him down with some pills, they tried to repair his brain (or at least to stop him from carrying on like a pork chop). And when that didn't work, he came back to live in our house on Ormond street with me and Mamma. And he hasn’t left since. Not once.! Not since that day at uni. Richie doesn't even like coming down the stairs much. This is my world now, he says, meaning the attic. This is enough for me. Poor Richie. Mamma says he couldn't leave the damn house even if he wanted to, his fear of the world being the crippling agent. It's up to Mamma and me to bring everything back now. All the food and grog and whatever. And the ciggies of course. And now that mamma has hurt her leg it's all up to me. I gotta do everything! Mamma sleeps all day on the sofa and Richie's up in the attic with his computers so the only one who can fetch stuff is me. This morning Richie was shouting at me through the mail slot after he kicked me out of the house. I don't want to see your dumb face back here until you have at least twenty ciggies worth of tobacco, he says! Twenty! You know the deal! Get to it! Like I say, Mamma is too sick to walk around so it’s down to me. This is my job today. You know what Richie says about ciggies? He says the government is phasing us smokers out, which isn't fair. Not when you think about it. Like Richie says, they made our bodies into their rubbish dumps with all their processed foods and their stupid rock and roll and their smokes. Our bodies became their factories and dumping grounds. They got us hooked on all that shit while it suited them. Our lives were less important than the big fat bottom line, you see. And now? Well, now they want to clean up the mess. Why? Because they ran the numbers and it turns out their happy-go-lucky genocide program was too expensive in the long run. Get it? So now we have to live for extra twenty years like gruesome puppets so they can push new drugs through our systems, right? New dope with fine print so small you can’t hardly read it! They want us alive and kicking like a big Hollywood musical for the big pharmaceutical companies. They have every stage planned out. What we eat. What we drink. What we listen to. When we fart! And now, what with all the new phones, they have us all completely tagged and bagged. We are in a controlled system. They even know what we poop out! This is what Richie tells me usually before he gets so mad at me that he can't speak anymore. Poor Richie. He has all these theories and ideas. Sometimes it’s like his thoughts start go'in backwards. Mamma says he also gets frustrated cause I'm a dummy. I came out three minutes later you see. I practically kicked him out of the womb. For three minutes I was still stuck inside mamma without the right amount of oxygen. Something went wrong. As a result, Richie got all the brains. Maybe he got too much in the old brains department! That’s what mamma says sometimes. Today I counted 78 happy faces and 168 frown down faces on Oxford street. This is a new world record!

The young girl and her brother? He's....well he was some kind maths genius. Or he was before he went tropo. And the sister? She's an idiot. I'm not trying to be cruel here. Technically speaking, she is. Can you imagine? Having those two in your family? They are both completely useless, in their own way. Like I say, the brother is what you'd call ‘incapacitated’. Meaning he is stuck in their house all day because he has these….episodes. These mental issues I was telling you about. The young girl is.....hold on, hold on, hold on. Don't go getting any ideas now. I say 'young girl' but really she's pushing forty. What I mean is...she is young compared to me. A spring chicken! Listen, I talk to her now and then. Or I try to. On me way up to the RSL or when I'm waiting for the bus to go into the city to have a look around. The whole family, the brother, the sister and their mum, they live in that big old place halfway down Ormond Street. The double terrace that looks like a fuck'n haunted house. The one with the rusted wrought-iron railing, the broken shutters and the peeling paint. It's pitiful. It’s a beautiful little street but their house stands out like a sore thumb. Ho, ho! A thumb with gangrene! It's a hovel. And from what I've gathered, they live no better than a pack of animals inside. It's a shame, a real shame. And listen, when I say the girl is an ‘idiot’ I assure you, I'm not saying this to be unkind. No! The fact is….she is simple. And I should know. I've met people like this before, in the boxing world eh? Fighters who end up punch drunk, you know? Blokes who get knocked about a bit too much. Brain damage! Anyway, the girl walks around all day, lips blistered from the sun, dirty, picking up cigarette ends. Off the ground! She puts ‘em in her pockets. It's disgusting! Pockets full of dirty, half smoked ciggie ends. She finds them outside the pub mainly. Or in the smoking area at the RSL. Or sometimes she'll beg for gold coins. She's not too effective on that front, let me tell you. You can't bloody well hear what she is saying most of the time. My point is, she’s a fucking mess, hitching up her pants, wiping her sleeve across her nose...this kind of thing. And get this: she puts the human race into two distinct categories. They...we....are all either 'smiley face people' or 'frown-down faces". Her words, not mine. Imagine seeing the world that way, eh? As only two types of people. Happy or sad. She keeps count under her breath. Obsessed with it….as she walks along the street. I have been trying to develop a relationship with her. To help her. I have been trying to convince her to have a word with her mum. To consider the possibility of selling their house on Ormond St. I mean….really….what good is it? All run down like that? The place needs to be cleaned up. Get some decent people in there, eh? I mean what do they need with all that space? The problem is Kate (that's the idiot's name)….not being the full quid….it’s difficult for her to make sense of what I'm saying. My intentions…so to speak. It goes in one ear and out the other. Honestly, sometimes I feel it won't make any difference to her if she was talking to a lamp post or a human being. I'll tell ya….it makes getting to know somebody very difficult. Anyway, Kate and I have a chat every couple of days. Last week I suggested that she could come back to my place which is only around the corner…and take a nice hot shower. I said look…darling….I have a good selection of smelly soaps and body washes. Then I told her...I said listen, if you have a really good scrub and wash your hair....if you are willing...well, I could show you a few things. I made an offer of me services. Seriously! I can't imagine a man has touched her recently. Not in the state she’s currently in. And being a woman of her age…the years getting away from her…I consider a crime that she doesn't have a boyfriend. I mean she ain't much to look at but then again…neither am I these days. You get old…..is what happens. You do! Anyway, I may be old but everything still works. Downstairs. I told her, I said, look….Kate, let's not play games...what I'm offering is....I will show you what can happen in the boudoir between a man and a woman. On the condition that you have a shower first, of course, because...the state of her hygiene leaves a lot to be desired. I was willing put up with all the crazy talk but soap and water are required beforehand. I even offered her a carton of smokes if she came back to my gaff. Not cheap these days! As a sweetener, you know? As I explained to her…you get older and these kinds of opportunities dry up. Even though the equipment still works, the opportunities just ain't there any more. So why not take advent of a little mutual comfort? It’s a crime against masculinity….is what it is...the way it all dries up.  Anyway, when I made the offer but it didn't really seem to sink in….off she went….on her merry way. I'll have another crack later....  

My uncle? Jesus. He lives in Paddington in this horrible little apartment. This ‘heritage listed’ place if you can believe it. The kind of place that really gives me the shits. The kind of place that is in dire need of the wrecking ball. One of these damp little monstrosities taking up prime real estate. You know the style...those 60's apartments? I mean they truly are shit. They were all built with substandard materials. I suppose you could, maybe, update them but why bother? Knock them down and start again. That’s what I think. Don't piss about. Anyway, my uncle is like his apartment….he’s bloody ’heritage listed’. He’s one of these local guys, you see? One of these guys that got stuck in place…became a fixture of the neighbourhood. The kind of guy who never bothered to get married and never had kids. He keeps things simple. And I can respect that. Simplicity. He is a simple man with a simple routine. He brushes his teeth every day at 7:49. Never has more than three light beers in one sitting. Yes. Without a doubt, he is stuck in his ways. And the thing about him….you know how some people age gracefully whereas others are just....they become indignant about the whole process, they fight it? My uncle is like that. My uncle…he feels robbed. Like he was personally ripped off by the aging process. He actually gets annoyed when he is forced to acknowledge the fact that he is getting on. He's 70 years old. This bandy-legged old guy standing on a street corner, talking your ear off. Always talking at you. Talking away like he's running out of oxygen and his life depends getting out every. Last. Word. Thinks that just because he's been alive for so long, he actually knows something. Don't make me fucking laugh. He's a nervous old man afraid of death. Granted he was a boxer back in the day. Amateur bouts mainly. Here and in England. He lived in London for a while. In the 1970’s. He says that he hated England but I suspect that was the best time of his life. His glory days.You get a few beers in him and he'll tell you all about it. In his stories….he makes himself out to be Rocky Balboa or something. I don't know. Maybe he was? Maybe I'm being too hard on the old cunt? Mum has a great photo of him, his hair pompadoured, his fists held up at the ready. Classic boxer pose. He was ripped....had the whole 'eye of the tiger'. I gotta admit, back then, he looked pretty bad-ass. To this day, you can still see he was a boxer. The way his nose is smashed flat and the damage to his ears. His face looks like it got run over by a truck. Hamburger meat. One thing he’s retained…he’s got a lot of confidence. He’s still convinced that every woman on the planet is attracted to him. It's amazing. Young and old women. It doesn't matter… I never met anyone so old and still so…pussy obsessed. Admittedly, he does have  blue eyes, his most striking feature. I can say that. And, he can be a charming guy. He knows how to put women at ease. Recently his thing is…Jesus...he's got himself involved with this….family. It's all very murky but from what I gather, these people are lunatics. Two grown children, twins, and their pisshead mother. They’re a bunch of deros. And my uncle has been pestering this girl, trying to convince her to get the mum to their sell house. He keeps leaving messages for me to come down and inspect the property. I keep telling him that…without the owner's consent there is nothing to ‘inspect’. Besides, the way I understand it, the family has no intention of selling. And I got too much on my plate as it is. Way too much. My uncle wants...he thinks we're going to become business partners or something. He wants us to buy this place, gut it, renovate and then flip it. There is no way. No chance. I don't want to get into anything like that. I keep telling him I'm not a developer. The message won’t sink in. I sell houses, sure, but I'm not going to front up the capital for a project like that. I won’t. I can't. I already have two fucking mortgages. Yes, the place has potential (I looked it up online) but I can't go into business with uncle Roy. That would be a disaster. He's got a lot of heart but I think it is well-known….in my family at least…that my uncle is a disaster when it comes to money. And he wants to get involved with this shit show? Thanks, but no thanks.  

Worst date. Every. First of all, this guy...he was late. And as soon as he walked through the door, I could see he wasn't into it. I'm not even sure why he bothered. Maybe I have what they call option fatigue? Online burnout? Maybe it shows? Maybe we're all burnt out and cynical? All this choice and opportunity to meet a partner and yet...and yet...the irony is…none of them turn out to be any good. Is that irony? I forget. Anyway, these guys, they’re all either weird or needy or I don't know what....there is always something wrong. I am telling you....you only need to scratch the surface and there is always, without fail, some problem. I don't want to sound pessimistic but this is my experience. With online dating. You wouldn't think getting two compatible individuals together would be so….difficult. I think it's because men play the numbers game. The more women they come into contact with, the more chance they have of casual sex. That is the mentality, right? The strategy. Me? I'm looking for something more lasting. So right there you have a fundamental problem of perspective. We are playing two separate games with two separate desired outcomes. Anyway, this guy...like I say, he comes in late. He is unapologetic. And arrogant to boot. Like, so what? I'm late! deal with it. It's a shame because physically he is my type. Masculine. Stocky. Neat but not too fussy.....Not too metrosexual. Handsome enough without being a model....you get the idea. Anyway, he sits down and I can see...almost immediately...that he is just going through the motions. He gives me the once over, an expression on his face like…now I gotta deal with this. Then he actually says, sorry…I don't think I have the energy for this tonight.My bad. Like he is doing me a huge favour by being so direct, so candid. Like I am supposed to respond favourably to all this shit. Then he starts talking about himself. He hunkers over, loosens his tie, aftershave wafting out of his clothes and he goes, listen, I have an idea....I propose that we keep each other company for the duration of this drink (he had ordered some drinks by then). Since we have both made the effort to show up, he continues, I say we sit here and have our brief chat with no pretences. Once we have finished our drinks, then we shake hands, say goodbye and resume our lives. No harm, no foul. So what do you think? I shrug. What the hell? I mean what the hell? But then I think, hold on a minute...is this part of his approach? His technique for getting women into bed? Does he think that by cutting through the games and crap...or at least pretending to...that by starting from a base level of honesty, I will be….attracted to him? Mr. straight-shooter. To be honest with you, it does throw off my usual expectations. Despite myself, I did think, well at least this is something different. Anyway, he starts talking. And the more he talks, the more I begin to relax because obviously nothing is a stake here. He's repulsive. Obviously. But whatever. We'll have our drink, then…'see you later’. The truth is, he informs me, it's highly unlikely you gonna to find Prince Charming online. I mean…I’m no Prince Charming, he laughs. This is the difference between men and women, he says, mirroring my own pessimism. He looks at me and asks, what do you want? What do you really want? And I tell him. I want love. Real love. And all the rest of those cliches that us girls pick up from the pages of our Cosmo magazines. This guy-his name is Pablo-goes well you may have to settle for something less than ideal. Before it's too late. Implying what? That I’m getting on? That the clock is running down? That he has the assurance of becoming a silver fox? Of having the perfectly valid third season of masculinity being ahead. Then he tells me all about his life. The stuff that, under ordinary circumstances, he would have concealed until maybe…my god! Actually no! This is the kind of stuff that maybe you’d never tell anyone about? The kind of stuff you’d save for your theorist. He tells me that he had what amounted to a drug overdose last week. He took a combination of performance enhancement and recreative drugs over a three-day period. It got to a point where his heart was racing wildly in his chest and he couldn't sleep. But the main thing was that he had an erection that wouldn't go down (I know, I know....it sounds very….sordid...but you had to be there. The way he was telling me all this....I'm sorry but it was funny. He was a funny guy. And there was this odd voyeuristic thrill peeking into someone else's messy life without having to be part of it). Anyway, by the time he got to the emergency room, he was a complete jabbering mess, clutching his chest, convinced he was on the verge of a heart attack. They had to drain the blood from his erection with a needle. They did an EKG on him and kept him overnight for observation. The doctor told him he might have damaged his heart. He told me this was just the tip of the iceberg. The harder I work, the harder I play, he said. The pressure was incredible. He proceeded to tell me about his uncle, an ex-boxer, who was trying to swindle this family of 'deros' our of their home in Paddington. The uncle used to scare him when he was a kid but now things had changed. Now, this uncle was a little wrinkly guy desperate for money. You know what I have learned in life? he said. The sad truth is... they talk all this shit about ‘family’…how great it is. They tell us what it should be like....like one of those extended Mediterranean family in a movie.....but the truth is…most people, including me, have to keep their family at arm's length. Otherwise? It's take....take....take. Look, he said, I made something out of my life. I made my money. I didn't ask for a hand up and I never expected anything for free. I work hard and play hard. What did my uncle do when he was my age? Nothing. Fucked around. Sure he won a few amateur boxing bouts. Granted. But mainly he avoided real work. And now what does want? Now he thinks he has some sort of claim over my money, eh? Now that he's broke, now that his money generating years have dried up, it's all about ‘the family’. Isn’t it? Blood is thicker than water mate! You know what he gave me as a kid? When my dad died? Nothing. Not even the time of day. Nada. Zip. He used to drop by once and awhile, take me out in the back garden and do these ‘toughen up’ sessions, which basically involved knocking me around under the Hills hoist.......Anyway, it went on like this for awhile. This guy, my painfully honest date, venting his spleen while I sit back and listen, taking it all in, the ice clinking away in my glass. And while all this candour was refreshing at first, it soon became a bit of a drag. So maybe this wasn't his plan all along? Maybe he truly was super jaded. I don't know. Anyway, after using me as his unpaid therapist for perhaps fifteen minutes finally, he goes, okay, what about you? You got anything you want to get off your chest? I smiled and shook my head. I left him there on the couch, staring at his phone, looking for the next whoever even before I was even out the door. I walked out of the restaurant, walked through the park and caught a bus. The city looked beautiful. The vertical patterns of light ascending up and up into the night sky. Faces at the illuminated bus stops. People: their lives locked inside. I still get a kick out of being in Sydney. It makes you feel like you're somewhere really special. It really does.  

What bothers me is....she insists on telling me about her dates. About meeting up with these guys. Like somehow I am going to benefit from hearing all about it. I don't know, maybe I encourage it? She told me about this guy she met the other night. Apparently, his approach to picking up women was to be completely honest. Or at least to pretend he's being completely honest. He walks right up to her, tells her about his messed up sex life which recently involved a visit to the emergency room to his have his 14-hour erection drained with a hyperthermic needle. I don't know why she gets involved in these losers. I mean, how is it that she finds these guys attractive in the first place? Is it because she wants a risk taker? Is that what’s happening here? Is this what women want? Baboon risk-takers? A neanderthal they can domesticate? Someone they can repair? It's so fucking clichéd. It’s depressing. She tells me about these dates. She goes into great detail. And I really don't appreciate it. That's all I'm saying here. I am not your confidant. You know what that does to me? As a man? To hear this stuff?  It's excruciating. And I should say something but I don't. She and I....we work together in the Botanical Gardens, in the plant archives library. I really should tell her to shut up, that I want to work in a strictly professional environment. That's what I should do. I should say...leave that shit at the door, please. But no. I encourage her through my idiotic, puppy dog compliance. I suffer in silence. She sits,what? A meter from me? In our office overlooking the gardens. And I can smell her perfume. It smells like...I don't know. I have zero olfactory associations or recall. It smells like....like a clotted flower smell. That's the best I can do. Visually, it's a different story for me. I'm visually orientated. I like patterns. I like how one thing in a system relates to another. Why don't men have more...reliance on olfactory associations and recall? Has it got something to do with hunting woolly mammoths? Why is it that odour is more important for women? Has it got something to do with reproduction? I’ll have to look into that. Everything seems to have some kind of explanation related to our monkey ancestors right? Anyway, what Claire doesn't realise is...I love her. There it is. I said it. Love. In this cynical, snap-chat-online-pornographic world we live in, I have developed old-fashion, unrequited love for this woman. Corny right? And the sad thing is…she can't even see it. It's right under her nose and she can't see it. God! How pathetic. In my mind, Claire is absolutely perfect for me. She is frangipani and hibiscus. She is Royal Blue Bell and Desert Rose. Balanced and assured in her quirky proportions. Beautiful. Lovely. And I love her but I am aware that I have become imprisoned within this love because I can't communicate it to her. Unreciprocated love is...nothing. It is a worthless and exhausting emotion trapped inside the heart. An endless echo of unrealised intention. An idea incapable of finding expression. The thing is, I just don't have the confidence to tell her. So what do I do instead? I make myself 'available'. A shoulder to cry on. How utterly pathetic. I encourage the very thing that is hurting me. Rather than risk rejection, I become part of the wallpaper, part of some innocuous pattern. Her support network. Why? Better that…than not having access to her at all, right? All day long Claire and I draw plants (yes, sometimes a fine arts degree does pay off). We sit at adjacent drafting tables and, using mechanical pencils and high-powered magnifying glasses, we draw flowers. We work on paper and sometimes on a computer. That is the current state of things. From the outside, it all looks so…reasonable. But like I say, inside it is a different story. I have these feelings that I can’t articulate. That I can't get out. It feels like…it feels like I am doomed to spend the rest of my life watching, observing, drawing the delicate sexual organs of plants and flowers....producing these highly detailed visual records of native plants for the department. The worst is when I draw the female parts of a flower, the mechanism designed to attract the male seed. The pistil, the petals and the sepals. The pistil itself is made up of stigma, style and the ovaries. These reproductive parts are magnified and then drawn with added shading to show texture and depth. And drawing them only reminds me that...I am sitting within easy reach of Claire yet I am powerless to act on my feelings. I might as well be on the other side of the planet for all the good it does me. And these folded, coiled organs remind me that everything in nature is designed in one way or another to attract a mate. Every plant, insect and animal has a particular strategy in place to help them achieve this goal. A plume of brightly colored feathers. A chemical odor to release into the air or water. A dance to perform. Something to get the attention of a prospective partner. Everything living thing out beyond the windows of our sterile little office is wooing and screwing. Even these dead flowers on my drafting table…even they got laid not so long ago.   

My brother is in ‘love’ with this girl he works with. This nitwit....who does not deserve him at all. Look, it’s not entirely her fault. My brother just doesn't get the psychological fucked-up-ness of women. Sometimes, honestly, I think he is on the spectrum. At least went it come to women. Actually, anything that requires empathy. He has those qualities…is what I'm saying. Debbie's eldest son Miles is on the spectrum and I can see similarities between Miles and my brother Dave. The mannerisms. The lack of empathy. Very similar. My theory is that David is one of these people who just didn't get diagnosed. He slipped through the net. I mean, twenty years ago people did slip through the net. Back then…we all just thought David was an eccentric kid, you know? A bit of an oddball....Anyway, this girl works alongside David at the Botanical Gardens. And poor old Davie is love with her and she doesn't have clue. So for David, it's a very frustrating situation. This is the way he explains it but actually, I don't think this is an entirely accurate assessment. Personally I think she does have ‘a clue’. I think she knows exactly what she is doing. You know why? Because I know this chick. I know her type! Her type, even though she pretends otherwise, is naturally drawn to these...these alpha men. These cavemen. But she also needs to get her adoration from some poor shmuck like my brother. She needs a fan club. A support group. So she keeps her love life split into two distinct categories: the physical side and the emotional side. Until Mr Right comes along that is. The latest one....this aggro guy...wow...from what I understand he was a real piece of work. Apparently, this guy had to go to the emergency room after some kind of drug-sex escapade. And he was proud of it! He told her all about it. That, and how he is related to some old reprobate who is involved in a real estate scam (David was a little bit vague on the details). Anyway, this girl has been hurting my brother. Now I'm not saying she's doing it on purpose but still...It's frustrating. It makes me so angry. I mean, conscious or not, she is leading him on. That is the point. Giving him false hope by not clearly laying out the terms of their relationship, is what I'm talking about. And it's just not right. It's not fair. My brother tried to tell her once but she laughed in his face. They were drinking somewhere in the city. She said something about not getting involved with a work colleague. She said it would be ‘unprofessional’. Seriously? If she is so ‘professional’ why is it that she turns up to work and blathers on about her love life all day? It’s insensitive…is what it is. Cruel. On the other hand, my brother is meek…passive. It can be very frustrating. And he does have a tendency to fixate on these.....unattainable girls. It's good to set your goals high but seriously?….David, come on! I wouldn't ever say this to his face because I don't want to lower his self-esteem but, in a way, he does set himself up for disaster. He has done this before. It’s a reoccurring pattern. Davey has a long history with these doomed infatuations. And I'll tell you....I have been listening to this, his latest obsession for two years now. The same old broken record. ‘She doesn't know I exist’…'What should I do?’ ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ And sometimes I wonder, how long is this going to go on for? This self-defeating approach to getting a girlfriend? It’s not healthy, is it? That’s what I ask him the other day at the park. How long David? How long are you going to remain hung up on this one? When will you move on? Sometimes, honestly, I think he feels safer being in an unwinnable situation. Maybe because he doesn't like the unexpected. Like I was saying, Davey is a little bit….spectrum-ie. It makes sense. He likes things to be predictable. He likes sticking to the plan. Anyway being his older sister, his advisor in these matters, I have also become a bit of a broken record. A broken record of unheeded advice. It gets very tiring. I sat him down the other day (at the park) because I'd had enough. I said to him, dude! I am your sister and I love you and I’m telling you….you have to stop this. You have to put your energy into something a little more….productive. As your older sister, I am telling that you can only go on sabotaging yourself for so long. At a certain point, you have to start being more realistic. And it's not like something is wrong Davey. He is a good-looking guy. He has dark hair, good strong features....he could do with going to the gym.....maybe filling out a little bit? Otherwise, he is perfectly dateable. Granted, he is a bit meek, a bit shy. Anyway, it's a worry….that's what it is. I worry about him, being stuck in that office, focused solely on that silly girl when there are other women out there. I set him up on a date a few weeks ago. It didn't work out. Such a disappointment. I set David up with a girlfriend of mine. Lilly. Lilly just got divorced last year. She took a year off men, to focus on herself and now she is ready to get back in the saddle. They would have been a good match. I gave Davey some pointers. I practically scripted the first date for him. Dress like this. Stick to general conversation. Ask lots questions without being too pushy. Be a gentleman. Relax. Be yourself. Simple stuff. One step at a time. I didn't expect it was going to be a problem. Lilly is a really nice lady. She is pretty and she has a great personality. It should have been an easy fit. And how did it go? Not so good. Dave was acting really jittery throughout the whole thing and he kept getting fixated on these weird little inconsequential things. At least that's what Lilly told me. I had prepared her as well. I had explained that David is a little different. That he might be a little awkward....but there is a limit to any woman's patience in these kinds of situation. It's a shame but Lilly reached the limits of her patience when my brother started banging on about this girl at work. The same old broken record. God give me strength. The way I understand it, Davey talked at her for about an hour. And he just couldn't leave the subject alone. And isn't that what every girl on a first date wants to hear? About some other woman?

......if I have to listen to this shit one more time...I'm going to throw myself off the balcony. How long would it take I wonder? Before I hit the concrete? Twelve floors straight down. Splat! You'd make a mess from this height, eh? Probably have a heart attack on the way down. Isn't that what they say? Your heart packs it in, your brain locks up. My point is....is it too much to ask that I be spared hearing about other people's bloody problems first thing? Just for once, can we please skip the morning debrief? See the thing is my wife, she likes to get all up in other people's business, right? She loves it. She fucking lives for it. Sometimes I honestly I think she goes around collecting drama. She's a sympathy vampire. She gets on the phone or she'll drop by for a coffee. She is good. She gets people all secure and snug in confessional mode. A big soft shoulder to cry on…then she bleeds you dry. Not content with her own problems, oh no, she will take your problems and she will make them her own. I can't tell you how tiring it is. It's like she's an unpaid, roaming therapist just wandering the streets looking for drama. And believe me, I have tried to tell her...I have said clearly....honey, I'm not interested. Please, darling, I had said to her, I don't want to hear it. Does she listen? Does she heed her husband's needs? No. First thing in the morning, before my eyes are even open...before I've had a coffee, she's telling me about these fucking people and their shitty little problems. And putting aside the problems, let me tell you, I'm not a morning person. Not by a long shot. I don't like talking or listening to people talk in the morning. I like quiet. Peace. I have paid for this view, twelve stories above Hyde Park....and I would very much like to enjoy it in peace. This is my reward for working hard. Anyway, yesterday she was at it again, telling me about her brother....who is this sook and probably gay. Not that being gay is a problem. I simply take issue with those people who are scared of their true nature or too clueless to know what they want. If you’re gay….be gay! Or not! Just get on with it. Anyway, I’m pretty sure her brother falls into the latter category. David draws flowers or some such shit for a living. And apparently, he loves this girl at his work. I saw her profile. On Tinder. This flower girl. She seems pretty ordinary to me, hardly worth the fuss. Then again David ain't exactly an oil painting. He's got a weight issue. Then again it seems like everyone in Sydney who isn't jacked and perpetually in triathlon condition is unfit right? He average. It seems like…the problem is this girl is dating some other dickhead who....what was it? He was involved in some sort of real estate scam? Or was it the other guy who od'ed on ice? Maybe they were the same guy? I don't know...I stopped listening. I couldn’t keep track. My wife tells me all this shit, this saga of flowers and hearts, sitting on edge of the bed, yabbering away...telling me about the real estate guy and his uncle and some other family and I have no idea how any of this relates back to limp dick David. I'm pumping away, on the rowing machine I have set up to face the park, sliding back and forth on the track...contracting and expanding shoulder and gut muscles, trying to keep in competitive form, trying to keep an eye on the distance and time, the plastic bar gripped tightly in my hands, back and forth, the fan whirling rhythmically around inside the housing. And I'm barely listening. I literally just got out of bed not twenty minutes ago and already the world has come crashing through my wife’s running mouth. On the other side of the room, the tv is on, volume down, the bright images on the screen blending in with what my wife is saying in a weird kind of way. And I'm concentrating on rowing. I am attempting to block out her voice. I am actually thinking about my wife as she talks....assessing her...now that our kids are nearly grown. I'm wondering if I am going to be able to stick it out for another 20, 30 years. I mean, yes, she still has a good body and there are times I am still attracted to her...I am talking about the basic, ball stirring quality that first attracted me to her, curves, contours and all that....the sum of all those things. But for how much longer? 30 years is a bloody long time. I am also thinking about work. I'm under a shit load of pressure at the moment. I have been looking down the track a bit, looking at our financial situation. In the new year, I'm going to have to shut down my wife business. She...we....can't sustain it. When I am able to get a word in edgewise, I'll sit her down and explain what needs to happen. When the time is right. She's had a good run with that business. For ten years she has been importing shit from South East Asia, homeware stuff. Interesting stuff. Textiles and jewellery as well. I don't know. She's got the eye for it, keeps up with the trends. She should be proud of her accomplishments but now...well...things have changed. The economic climate has shifted. It's time to reassess our options. Tighten the belt maybe? We currently have the Mosmon shop, a whole lot of inventory piled up in an expensive storage facility near the airport...crates of stuff...You never want your stock to build up, to become unsellable. You don't want to get stuck with six thousand Vietnamese expandable lamps no one wants. Anyway she has been looking around for a new retail space this side of the bridge. It’s just not feasible. I’ve been putting this talk off but I'll have to tell her soon, next week maybe? When I can get a word in edgewise.  

Jerome is one of the smartest guys I know. And he's been dealt a good hand in life. Good cards. I mean...look at his wife, Christine. Look at her! Jesus Christ…their attraction has nothing to do with luck. Jerome and his wife are both attractive people. And attractive people tend to seek each other out. She modelled for a bit here in Sydney. Tasteful stuff. Fashion. She's a lean and elegant woman. Now she’s retired of course. I tried it on with her once, after too much red wine, hoping for a blowjob. She obliged and then afterwards laughed it off, telling me, rightly so, not to make a big deal out of it. It was just something that happened. I always appreciated her discretion and loyalty. Her willingness to put aside minor indiscretions. She’s what they used to call ‘a good sort’. Looks, attitude, intelligence...the whole package. These days she concentrates on running her business and raising their kids. Their kids are blond, athletic, reasonably high IQ’s…etc, etc. The whole eastern suburbs package. And I have this insight because Jerome and I are business partners. Have been for years. We've both done pretty good out of it. I trust Jerome. He trusts me. Trust is one of the most important things. Your friends, your wife….you can trust them so far. Your business partner is a whole different kettle of fish. If you go into business with somebody and you can't trust 'em...forget it. I mean, why bother? Just go it alone. Jerome and I don't always agree but there is trust. We started off opening this gourmet supermarket together, down by the beach, did very well out of that. We got onto some other projects, each one being fairly lucrative. Gooding from strength to strength. A good business partner is…well, we all have our shortcomings, don't we? So if you can find someone who can compensate for your shortcomings…you’re gonna be one step ahead of the game. This is the kind of synergy Jerome and I have developed. We balance each other out. Nowadays, we rarely socialise but we have each other's backs. That was why I was surprised when he invited me out to lunch. We met up and he tells me that wants to ‘streamline’ things, that he wants to get out. In other words, he wants to put an end to our little side business deal. Just like that! I told him straight, I said, Jerome, mate, it's not that easy. We can't just ‘streamline’ what we've been doing mate. It doesn't work that way. We met in a restaurant in the Cross, had a steak, a salad and bottle of wine. Vegetables covered in some sort of sauce. I tried to talk some sense into Jerome but he was adamant. He'd made his mind up. He wanted to pull out of our arrangement. He wanted to make the next shipment his last. So what happens here is the heroin comes inside furniture and things like ceramic Buddha heads. Of course, we alternate the type of container to avoid detection. And we have a contact in customs who facilities the incoming shipments. A blind eye. Jerome and I never handle the shit. We're just businessmen. In terms of the whole moral debate thing, as far as I am concerned, the product could be anything...a lawnmower, fuck'n artificial sweetener....anything. In my book, responsibility rests squarely on the shoulders of the consumer. You want to use the product we bring in…be informed about the dangers. 'Buyer beware', is my motto. Proceed at your own risk. Anyway, for the past three years, Jerome has been happy to accept the money that comes his way from this private venture. When he was in a bad place, financially speaking, this arrangement suited him. Are you sure? I asked him at the time. You have to be sure. I’m sure, he said. So, okay, no one twisted his arm. We pulled the trigger and the stuff started coming in. Jerome's wife ran her business at a loss but that didn't matter. The stuff came in concealed in her wears. When things were truly dire with her sales we'd send people in to buy up half the shop just to keep the tax man happy. It was cost effective for our people to keep the shell business going this way. The point is....this extra revenue stream went a long way to alleviating Jerome's money woes. And that was all fine and dandy until our meal last week. When I heard he wanted to pull the plug....listen, I had to tell him…I had to remind him that we couldn't just walk away from this thing. There is no way. We would need to work something out with the powers that be, with the people we work with. I told him, I said, Jerome, you do not want to piss these people off. If you do, you are likely to end up dead. D-E-A-D. And that means I will likely end up....in hot water as well. So there are two of us to think about here mate. Not just you. And don’t forget our families. Listen, I said, once you're in with these people, you are in. We went over this at the beginning. His response? Jerome told me how complicated things in his life had become. He told me about his wife, about how he wanted to leave her. He said he just couldn't see himself spending the next twenty years listening to her voice, complaining and bitching about everyone. About her brother's limp dick of a love life. Then he went off on some long tangent about all these people. He talked about some kind of love triangle...I don't know. I wasn't quite sure how this all related back to his....to our.....current crisis. Anyway, the key point was, he wanted to leave his wife and disappear into a new life. He wanted to go live in the Blue Mountains. He wanted to regain some level of….moral buoyancy in his life before it was too late. And if he left his wife, well obviously he....we....would need to dissolve her business because he wouldn't be around to prop it up. The shell would collapse. I just want peace, he told me, throwing his napkin onto the table next to his empty plate. I need to get off this merry-go-round. I told him....what could I say? I told him to chill the fuck out. I told him to get himself a girlfriend. A mistress. I told him not to do anything drastic, that we need to extract ourselves from this situation carefully. It was not something that could be rushed. It was not a tap you could turn off on a whim. Otherwise, if he did, we were both likely to end up in the shit. That was the first time ever I didn't trust in Jerome. The first time I looked into his eyes and thought, this guy is gonna bolt. He's gonna take me down. I was attempting to buy myself some time. Before it was too late... 

My dad is so....normal. It's nauseating. I mean in a good way of course. Sometimes I wonder if he has always been this way. My dad is the one person I can always count on, no matter what happens. Mum is okay but she isn't Dad. My Dad is always there for me. He drives me to all the places I needed to be, he helps me with my homework. And, oh my god, after Mum left him to be with Frank the Dickhead, Dad transformed into Super Dad! What I'm saying is....it's like he carved out all these different roles and every day he works on perfecting them. Business guy! Husband!….(....well, obviously 'husband' didn't exactly turn out as planned). Son! Dad! And now….with the divorce, new and improved Super Dad! Not that I am complaining. I'm not. I am grateful. I can see that it's because of my dad that we have a nice house and nice things. Considering that my parents split up, I am pretty lucky. Some girls I know become a complete mess because of their parent's divorces. They become a mess either for real or because they make their parent's divorce into a handy cross on which they can crucify themselves. Drama! Look at me world! Poor me. Boohoo. I didn't do this. I'm glad my parents didn't stick it out, you know? I'm not one of those kids who is like, oh please god.....make my parents come back together one day. Just like in a sappy Hollywood rom-com full of hilarious hi-jinx and plastic actors. I honestly think they are better off living separate lives. I like them better now, I meant as people...now that they are separated. If that makes sense? Anyway, dad is always there for me...(mum is there for me every other weekend as well but that's different). This is the way the lawyers worked it out.That means that dad does most of the heavy lifting. Mum isn't into sports. Play or watching so it was down to dad. I do competitive swimming and netball. And Dad fully encourages....actually, he insists on.....my involvement in sports because, according to him, it’s better to be busy, especially at my age. I just think he doesn't want me messing around with boys and getting drunk like Katie Anderson (as if I would!). Katie is a shank and doesn't seem phased by her reputation. Anyway, to ensure against skank-like-behavior, dad has basically scheduled something for me to do every. Second. Of. The. Week. For. The. Rest. Of. My. Life. Which is fine. I mean, I get it. I understand....I guess…If I had a daughter...in today's world, I'd be pretty concerned as well. I just hope that some trust kicks in later….well, at least before I'm twenty. And I don't think its because of who I am...I think it's because everything is just so shaky with the separation.......A couple of years ago, when I was young, I started getting very curious about what sort of people my parents really were. I started casually sniffing around, having a look-see. You know what I discovered? Mom has a yellow vibrator and some pot in a shoe box at the back of her cupboard. (Yellow! Isn't yellow for like safety or something? Life preservers?) At the time I didn't even know what a vibrator was used for although I do remember it completely freaked me out. Then Frank appeared on the scene. (I guess yellow boy was put out to pasture?....Actually, I don't want to think about yellow boy anymore). Anyway, I have always had a pretty good idea about mom's inner life because she is terrible at hiding stuff. Dad has always been....a different story. In all my years of being a sticky beak child, I never found anything on dad. He was always just the…dad. The husband. The business guy. The son! ....and so on. Mr. Normal! Anyway, one day, a few weeks ago, I was at home and dad was having a nap on the sofa. And I started messing around with his phone. (My phone was charging). I was just sitting there, while he snored away and I found this audio file on his voice recording app. It was a long recording. It sounded like he was in a public space somewhere. There was a lot of clutter and clattering, you know? Echoy. I could hear dad talking to another man who I didn't recognise at first but then I thought, wait a minute, that's uncle Jerome, Dad's business partner. Anyway, they were both droning on about uncle Jerome's business.....I mean, his wife's business. About how it wasn't making money anymore and how they needed to end it. And dad was trying to talk uncle Jerome out of it. And then uncle Jerome was saying how....how he was going to leave his wife and move out to the Blue Mountains and become a hippie or something….Or at least he was seriously thinking about it. Uncle Jerome seemed quite agitated. I guess he was having one of these crises adults are always banging on about! Oh no! My life is nearly over! I have wasted my life! What should I do! Just like that. So, uncle Jerome starts talking about all these different people, about his wife Christine, who is a total babe but also a complete blather-mouth-gossip...then about her brother who I think is an artist of some kind. And how he wants to get with this other chick he works with who isn't interested. They had this whole Cyrano De Bergerac thing going on. Basically, they were trying to set the brother up with this other women but he blew it because he's a complete doofus. And the chick I mentioned, the one who works at the Botanical gardens, was dating some other guy who had a drug overdose which resulted in a 14-hour boner (I didn't even know that was possible!) And somehow there was this family living in Paddington. Anyway, uncle Jerome was waffling on, as adults will do, talking about all these people and their messed up lives...all twisted together and coming apart and coming back together again in different ways. And I couldn't figure out why uncle Jerome was telling dad about all these people or why dad was recording their conversation. Or maybe it was all a mistake. My dad is pretty bad with technology: he pocket dialed me at least three times every day. So they were talking about all these people. And then the conversation changed. And it was pretty obvious to me that they were talking about something....I don't know.....something they couldn't quite talk about directly. Maybe because it was a public place. I found all this stuff very mysterious, very intriguing. I felt a little bit bad snooping on my dad but I couldn't help it. Then I got kind of scared because part of me wanted my dad to stay like this one-dimensional, cartoon dad, this completely reliable father person. The same one I have always known. If there is something....I don't know....awful going on in his life, something secret, I didn't want to know about it. Adults have it hard in some ways. I mean, how many different people have you been? How many people live inside you like ghosts...people you once were, people you never thought you'd become, people you have lost. I can see this all the time adults, you know? The people they once were, trapped inside. I hope this doesn't happen to me. I hope I don't get buried inside myself. Like a person at the bottom of a mine shaft.  

My daughter desperately needed her mum at that time. Of course, she did. She was heartbroken. Completely devastated. And don't assume it was easy for me either. It wasn't. I had to become a full-time mum again. I mean, look, I know how that sounds. I have always been a full-time mum. What I'm saying is, I had to take full custody of Charlotte again. Which is difficult. At the time, I was taking some time out. For me. Some personal time to discover who I was. To recharge myself. But of course, the focus had to shift back on Charlotte. My daughter. Charlotte suffered a huge emotional loss because of what happened. My husband....ex-husband...only went and got himself throw in prison, didn't he? The supposedly responsible one! And really, this all happened at the worst possible time, right in the middle of Charlotte’s exams. She had to defer. She was in no state to sit them. My baby broke down in the middle of the shopping centre. A couple of strangers had to help her, had to calm her down. Then, of course, the media zeroed in on us like buzzards. This continued throughout the trial. Every day, there they were. So no…my daughter is not okay. I don't think she will ever be ‘okay’ again. All of our lives have completely changed now. There is no going back. Poor Jerome....he didn't last a year inside. He killed himself. Or at least that's what they say happened. They found him in his cell. Hanging. Mike is in there right now, completing his sentence. Seven years! It’s unbelievable. He doesn't talk about the conditions and his mental state when we visit but you can clearly see how much he's changed (I was married to him for 17 years, I ought to know). Michael looks scared. Even after a year of getting used to the place, he looks scared and exhausted. He tells me there is a terrible bully in there. A dangerous man who steals his things and physically threatens him. And even though I am furious with my ex-husband for getting us into this situation, it breaks my heart to see him like that. When he first went in, Michael honestly thought he was going to spend his time reading and improving himself. He told us he was going to write a book, a memoir. He thought it was going to be like a university. Problem is, every time he writes anything personal down, this bully comes along and destroys his notes. Micheal seems completely ground up by the place. And like I say, I do feel sorry for him but then again, another part of me thinks sorry mate, you did this to yourself. Getting involved with drugs! What were you thinking? No, seriously, the real victim here, apart from me, is my daughter. Recently, my daughter has begun to express her feelings about what happened to her father. In her therapy sessions! The problem is she hates her therapist. she hates the woman’s approach. Like I said, Charlotte has a lot of mixed up feelings about her father. Me? I had no idea! Not a clue. All this was going on right under our noses. Michael and Jerome were bringing these drugs into the country through Jerome's wife's business. Apparently, Jerome had tried to get out, before they all got arrested but he couldn't. This all came out in the trial. I could barely breathe. Then there was all this business with Jerome's wife Christine and her brother and some girl he worked with. Kids are absolutely amazing! The stuff they pick up. All the stuff we think we are protecting them from. I think Charlotte has been sitting back, learning and absorbing everything about us until recently and now this has happened to her father, she is trying to sort it all out in her own mind. And it’s tough. Anyway, she won't swim anymore. She won't do any of the sporty things she used to do. The things that used to make her happy. Now she hangs around the house staring at her phone, doing nothing. And our visits? I hate taking her out to that place but what choice do I have? She has to see her father, right? Truthfully? I'm thinking about taking her on a trip. A long trip. Maybe going to Europe for an extended stay. Just to get her away from Sydney and this whole....mess. I mean her father would be unhappy about it but can't he see what these visits are doing to her? And what about me? I mean, think about how all this has impacted on my life. Frank left me. Oh yes! Couldn’t deal with it. As soon as things got rough...he was out the door. Which was maybe a good thing. At least I could see what he was made of. For now, I'll keep driving Charlotte out there once a month. I'm not a monster. I don't like to see either of them like this.  

The woman and the girl come here once a month. For their visits with Micheal. The woman just sits there, off to one side, looking bored, trying not to look at her phone, letting the young girl do most of the talking. Mike….Michael doesn't say much. Michael doesn't say much of anything these days. He's learned its best to keep to himself. I understand that. I mean, what’s the point of all that forced fuck’n optimism when youse still have a long stretch ahead of you? If you're doing it for their benifit...if your acting...it can really zap your soul, you know? Anyway, he was supposed to be some kind of big drug kingpin, eh? What a joke. I saw right through him the first day he arrived. He pissed himself the first time the boys bailed him up in his cell. Naw…Michael’s no Tony Montana. The papers made out he was....when he got convicted. There was a lot of publicity, more than I'll ever get. Eastern Suburbs boy, respected businessman and father goes down the tubes for drug trafficking. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Stories like that sell shit loads of papers, eh? In reality, I think he was more of a silent partner, a money man. Anyway, Michael used to have it all: the big house, the other house down on the South-Central coast, the cars, the lavish holidays, the whole thing. Not anymore. All gone. They got him and his mate. Cut off the whole arm of that operation, put them both away. Him and his partner. The one who offed himself. So they say. Anyway, Michael is here with us lesser criminal types now....us scourge of the earth. He probably drove past this place in his previous life, at the wheel of a fine automobile, you know, the tunes blaring, not a worry in the world. Not anymore. Now he is a man of many worries. The least of which should be his attitude. What Michael needs to do is start working on his attitude. And by that I mean, he needs to start working on that x-wife and daughter of his. If he fuck'n knows what's good for him. I told him straight up, I said mate, I'll help you...I will protect you if you pull your thumb out and do what I say. Simple as that. Fact is, I know this place inside out, eh? I've been here for nearly twenty years. When I first came in I was an angry young man but now that I'm older and I am at peace with my situation, I don't strain against the bars anymore. I don't bash me head against the walls. I have come accept the fact that my body is stuck here. Having said that, I have also realised that I am free. So it's about the mind. I am a spirit tethered to an old stone which sits inside a concrete box. Now that box happens to be a prison but it could just as easily be a job. Or a marriage. See what I am getting at here? There are many prisons in this life. I happened to be in one. You are in another one. Anyway, what I'm saying here is, I know this place and I know how to survive it. I'm living proof. I said to Micheal the other day, I said, you are stranded in a hostile environment without the proper survival skills mate. Out there, you had the correct skills. In here mate, you don't. You ain't gonna make it in here without my help, okay? You just ain't...unless you follow my lead. First thing is first, you need to start increasing your chances by getting something coming in for the Boys. Simple as that. You need to contribute to the economy. Use your outside contacts. If you don't, there are gonna be some ugly repercussions. I said to him mate, I'm just trying to help you here but.....you have to do your bit. What was his reply? Michael tells me he can't do it. I'm not going to ask my wife or daughter to do something like that, he says. Not after what I already put my family through. I can't. I can't. And he sniffles out a big tear. Followed by another one. And I'm getting to the end of me rope with this cunt. I've got better things to do. I am a patient man but enough is enough. I told him this morning that he needs to make it happen, eh? Get your fuck'n ex-wife to reach out to one of those juicy contacts, get someone on the outside interested in your cause. I don't give a fuck what you need to do just get some dope. After that, all the wife needs to do is follow our instructions. We will advise her how best to bring the shit in. And stop telling me it's not possible. There is always a way to move something from A. to B. Nothing is impossible. Anyway, the required pressure has been applied. The boys have put the hard word on Michael and his discouraging attitude. Micheal has until the 2nd then some heavy and rather unpleasant cats will turn up his wife's place to make her understand what needs to happen. And let's not forget Michael's personal safety in here. I mean....I can keep the boys back for so long then...I don't know. I just don't know. Those boys have nothing to lose, you see. They are just gonna keep on Michael until he comes through, eh? There is no safety in here unless you're aligned or protected in some way. And at the moment, Micheal is completely exposed. This is what I am saying: we all serve a purpose in here. And Micheal needs to serve his purpose. Like it or not, his purpose is to supply the boys with what they want. And if he can't fulfill that purpose....well, I don't know, I just don't know. 

Not getting involved. I just don't care. You learn to turn a blind eye in here. You do your job and that's all you do. You leave at the end of each day, you go home, take a shower and wash that shit right down the drain. And that's it. And to do this successfully sometimes you have to ignore certain things. Especially in this line of work. The quicker you learn this, the easier your life will be. You have to accept this. You get along and you work with the powers that be. I'm talking about the staff and the prisoners. Desmond is one of the main men in this fucking cesspool. He's old school...a long timer. Look, I know what Desmond gets up to. Or near enough because....well, he tells me. This is the agreement. He keeps me informed and visa verse. In this way, we are able to exist within an imperfect and volatile ecosystem. You work here long enough, you'll become aware of the true nature of the place. At a certain point, you'll have to make a choice. Do you remain idealistic or do you become a realist? Will you bend to allow for the kind of compromises that are required? I've seen other guards hold out for awhile, some longer than others, but eventually they always have to choose. The prisoner population conducts its business regardless. They have their own economy. They trade using information, pot noodles, mars bars, tobacco, pornography, sexual favours and drugs. They run things inside these walls and in some cases on the outside as well. If you think for one minute you, a single idealistic corrections officer, is gonna put an end to these activities, think again. Desmond cozied up to the new boy recently. Got himself transferred into his block. Desmond is dangerous alright. He comes on like a mentor to these new arrivals, vets them, acting like a concerned, older prisoner. Believe-you-me, he is anything but. You have to watch out for old Desmond. He runs his mob from a safe distance. He keeps well back. I have seen this happen so many times. The thing is, these white collar crims are scared and desperate when they first come in. Desmond preys on that fear. He sends his tentacles deep down into your life. All the way down. The way an octopus will greedily wrap around you, disorientate you with ink. That's Desmond all over. Mind games. Everyone is a potential opponent or prey in his book. You think he's in your corner but really he's fucking you over. Like I said, I seen it happen many, many times over. And now they have this new guy in their sights. Michael: there is no hope for him. I'd be very surprised if he managed to harden up. The woman who comes to visit him, his x-wife....I thought maybe I could warn her. Cause they're gonna use her as leverage. I thought maybe, this one time, acting anonymously, I could make a phone call. An unnamed voice on the other end of the line. I could tell her that she needs to protect her daughter. I could warn her that someone will attempt to contact her. This idea occurred to me while I was driving home one day. I thought you might help this woman. Clue her into what is happening. And what was this all about? An antidote to my flagging sense of morality? Was that it? Grand stuff, eh? Or maybe it was just one of them little voices in your head telling you to do something reckless? Telling you to step off the side of the building, to get on with it. On further reflection, and I meant literally by the time the lights had changed, I thought, naw...don't get invoked. Leave it out. Fuck Michael and his family. They got themselves into this situation....so fuck'm. It's not your job to save this woman and her daughter. Your job is to keep Desmond and his lot locked up. The great good we are talking about. The ends justifying the means. Anyway, I know that soon Desmond tap this golden goose for all he's worth. That Dez will put the hard word on this soft cock and his family. Calls will be made. People on the outside will be activated.This is just inevitable. They did the exact same thing to his mate Jerome, the other so-called 'Easter Suburbs Pablo Escobar'. And guess what? When Jerome didn't play ball, they got him in the showers, didn't they? Made him bleed on the inside. That was a bad one. One of the worst I've ever seen. He was safe for a while in the infirmary but they got at him again. In exercise yard.They wanted him to bring shit in. Over the wall using a drone. Paying people off. Whatever. Listen, I got no problem when these blokes use dope. From my point of view, at least the smack keeps them subdued. Anyway, Jerome cracked. They found him dead in his cell. See one of the big problems is, these guys usually have wives who are oblivious. It's a bit raw to get someone like that to smuggle in contraband. Fucking Desmond. It still amazes me the amount of influence he is capable of exerting on other peoples' lives. This comes down to the amount of information he can absorb and collect along the way. its second nature to him. I'll bet you he already knows everything about these people. He knew the ins and outs of Micheal and Jerome's operation. About the wife who they were using as a cover. The one who got acquitted. Not the one who comes to visit. They knew all about Michael's daughter. The school she goes to, her friends. All that. They know about the brother-in-law who works in the Botanical Gardens....about his girlfriend and so on. This is what I am saying. Desmond will drill deep down into the vital organs of your life. Every little bit of information is examined and considered. Nothing is wasted. He will find you where you live. This is how these people operate. They sniff out any weakness. They can sense it. And once they have sensed it, they will exploit it.   

He lives in these two separate worlds. No, actually he lives in three separate worlds. He has his job, his home life and he has....me. And he runs from one to the next like....like a....like I don't know what. Whatever it is that runs around frantically....A chicken with no head. The point is my poor Rodger has been under a lot of stress lately. I tell him, I say, this kind of stress will affect your health, baby. It will make you sick, no? What do they call stress? The silent killer? Right? I encourage him to share his feelings but he keeps it all inside. His kind of work, at the prison, it changes you....and not for the better. I can see how much he has changed in the short time I've known him. For sure. Usually, we meet at the bar. Three times a week, like that, depending on his schedule....or when he can get away. From the start, we both agreed to keep things casual. No big deal. Just some fun. And even though he insists that he could never properly commit to someone like me, lately I am beginning to wonder if there might not be a future for us, you know? I can see he is slowly letting his guard down. I'm sure that, when I look into his eyes, I can see something more than just the need to get off.....sex. My guess, my hope, is that he's becoming a bit conflicted. I don't want to hurt his wife but I need some kind of future, some kind of hope, right? And believe me, I've been down this road before with married guys. I know how it goes. they promise a lot but don't deliver. Running around is one thing but making the real change in their lifestyle is too much. But who knows? Maybe Rodger is different? In his mind, it was only ever supposed to be a physical thing...but now....maybe....it seems like something else is possible. Sometimes...like this morning....I am very confused and I have to ask myself...are we moving towards something more permanent? More real? At least, I think, Rodger is entertaining the idea. Look..I do not want to waste my time with a man who is going to dither around...but maybe this time? I don't know. Anyway, what usually happens is, we meet up and have a few drinks and then we go back my apartment in Redfern. At which point all the talking ceases. And for a short time, there is nothing but the both of us in my little apartment overlooking the station Everything else outside the walls, all the pressures, all the bullshit....all of it fades away. And after we have sex, we talk. And Rodger tells me stories about these men where he works. About these guys in the jail. And all the horrible things they do in there.....There is this one scary guy who is manipulating people, like a regular old Mestre de marionettes. Anyway, I find these things interesting because it's real life.....not like the characters you see on the TV. And I like to hear about other people's lives. I like it because it is different than my own life and it helps me understand how, even though it seems like we are all on our different paths....our problems are basically the same. What you call it? The same things drive us...It is human psychology, no?.Anyway, Rodger has to make sure these men don't kill each other. I mean you would not think it to look at Roger but he is a pretty tough guy. He knows how to take care of himself, is what I am saying. He has shown me videos. He knows all the ways to take people down, to restrain them. He is a black belt in....what was it? I always forget. Anyway, some kind of martial arts. So anyway, at his job, there are these two guys you see....who are basically white-collar criminals. Drug dealers. Or there were two...one of them was killed. The official report says he committed suicide but Rodger tells me he was murdered. The other prisoners made it look like a suicide. This is the kind of thing the guards must turn a blind eye to....if you know what I mean. Anyway, this dealer guy, the one who is still alive, is being controlled by the main gang. And his poor wife and her daughter almost got drawn into this mess. The wife would come by to visit you see, with the daughter. And they were basically being set up to bring the heroin into the jail. Rodger didn't tell me exactly how this was supposed to happen but I'm assuming it some sort of suppository. How else? Anyway, after years of turning a blind eye to all these terrible little things, Rodger made a decision to reach out to this woman and say something to her. So that's what he did. He contacted her anonymously and he said, get out! Now! Don't be influenced by these people. These people are telling you they can find you in another country, in other places but it's not true. They only have local influence. As soon as you get on a plane, you will be safe. Your ex-husband must now fend for himself. If you continue down this road, if you become complicit in supplying these people with the narcotics, they will chew you up and spit you out. It will not end well. You have a choice. Right now. You must make a clean break. So...a week later....the woman and her daughter were gone. No one knows where. The gang, these guys in the jail, became really angry and the husband suffered, oh yes, he suffered. He continues to suffer. Will he survive?....well.....that waits to be seen. Anyway, this is what I like about Rodger. He is tough but underneath it all he has feelings. He hides them from everyone but I know they are there. Beneath the tough guy, yes? Even his wife does not know who he really is. And of course he is very handsome. Not usually my type but nevertheless, when I first saw him, I thought wow! This is a man! I'm still not exactly sure why. Maybe this is what you want in a partner? Something unexpected. Something you don't completely understand. As i say, I am really hoping we will have a future together. Of course, Rodger must deal with his wife and children first. I am not going to be his....Tuesday and Thursday night bit on the side forever. No way. I have told Rodger that eventually, he must choose. Because even though I love him, I am not hanging around forever. 

We have two apartments. One in the city and one out on the end of the train line. Danielle lives in the Redfern apartment, by the station. It is very convenient for her because she works in the city. George and I bought that apartment in 1988. It is not a very nice building but that doesn't matter in Sydney. In Sydney, people don't care. Space is all that matters here. Damp little boxes that you can rent out for a ridiculous amount of money. After the Olympics the property prices were crazy. Not that I am complaining. It's just that sometimes I think of those renters and I feel sorry for them. Anyway, Danielle lives alone in the Redfern apartment but I know she has a boyfriend who comes to visit. I know this from Ms Kelerman, who lives next door. Ms Kelerman is a nosy woman but what can you do? Ms Kelerman and I used to be good friends back when George and I lived in that apartment....back in the old days....when we were first starting out. She was always coming around and part of me did not trust her. Not with my George. Even if the woman don't mean to do anything, sexual attraction will ruin everything and men can not be trusted. From puberty to the grave they will try their luck if they find an opportunity. This is my experience. It makes you cynical but realistic. Anyway, Danielle lives there now. 'Danielle' was once 'Danny', yes? A boy. She has had the hormones treatment to giver her breasts but I do not think she has had the big operation. Not yet. She told Ms. Kelerman that she is saving up to have the operation in Thailand because it is less expensive there. At least half the price. Personally, I don't care what she has between her legs as long as she pays her rent on time. Which she does. Danielle is a good tenant and a good person. And that is all that matters to me. I have a good sense of people. I like Danielle. I like the conversations we have. I try to stay out of her business but she will invite me in for a chat. And a cup of tea. In my opinion, she deserves better than this man she is seeing, yes? This ex-prison guard. I get the impression that he is not such a good person. It seems like he comes over to have some fun and then he goes back to his wife. There is no future with this kind of man. You have fun today, okay, but there is nothing tomorrow...which is okay when you are young but watch out...those years go by very, very quickly. I have said to Danielle that she must find a better man, no? A more reliable man. I have told her that, being young, she still has some opportunity to find true love. And is it not our duty in this life to at least try to find true love while we can still enjoy it? I think everyone has the right to experience these things. Of course, they do. Anyway....for sure...this man is not the one for Danielle. Now I understand that he has problems. Well, for one thing, he is hiding from himself. From his true nature. For sure. I mean come on.....he has a wife and children yet he is also with Danielle. There must be something that drives him to someone like Danielle. sexually speaking. It is a complicated situation. And of course, I understand that life is never perfect. On the contrary! Life is usually very messy. Of course, it is. Without these problems, it would be boring. The thing is....if you are in a situation like this man is in...eventually....you must make a decision. You must go one way of the other. You can not stay in the middle forever. And Danielle cannot fix his problems, can she? And this man has many problems. He used to work in a prison with all these horrible people, these violent prisoners. Now he is on stress leave. He can not work. He is screwed up in the head. There was some kind of scandal. it was discovered that he crossed this group of prisoners and they cut his face with a knife. It was terrible. There is a big, fresh scar from his eye to the bottom of his chin. Very ugly. Now he is scared of his own shadow and drinks too much. You must help people but you must not let their problems drag you down in the process. It is unfair, I think, on Danielle and the wife. Eventually, you must choose.  

She insists on being called 'Australian' but basically she French. She gets annoyed when people say, 'Where do you come from?'. 'Australia of course', she replies with that thick Parisian accent which hasn't softened over the years. It throws people, that accent. She arrived here...what? Thirty-five years ago? Something like that and she still has the accent. My very own Briget Bardot! Like she was plucked out of a black and white French film from the 1960's. You should have seen her back in the day, back when she was in her prime. My god! In that Gidget bikini? Every time I turned around some joker would be trying it on with her. I couldn't take my eyes off her and neither could every other bastard. I'll tell you....that sort of thing can drive you fucking mad. There were times when I honestly thought it would be better if I'd gone with someone who wasn't top shelf and exotic like she was back then. Some bird who was more....basic in her appeal. Look, we'd be down the beach and I'd go off to get us something- an ice cream or whatever-and when I got back, without fail, there would be some guy hanging around, trying to chat her up. Some prick trying it on. It made going down to the beach a bit of a tense experience for me. It brought out a lot of territorial behaviour on my part. And I didn't like being that way. By nature, I'm easy going. I don't seek out trouble. And she certainly didn't appreciate it when I had a blue with some bastard because he couldn't keep his hands to himself. Somehow the blame would come back to me. This ain't Europe, I'd tell her. You go out looking like that...in this country....men are gonna notice. They are gonna react. Our impulses haven't been refined and cultivated. Anyway, she was built that way....curvy yet elegant like all French birds are supposed to be. And maybe I was insecure because I got her through....less than honourable circumstances. See, I saw her sitting there in the pub one afternoon, fresh off the boat (although I didn't know it at the time) and I decided right then and there I was going to be with her. No matter the cost. At least that is the way I remember it. Memory tends to abbreviate things, eh? Truncate them. In reality, it was probably over the course of several weeks....anyway, I left my wife for her, you see. So maybe that was the root cause of my own insecurity? The knowledge that if I was willing to throw everything away to be with her....well....anyone could, right? I never cheated on my Marie after I got with her. Not once....actually that's not exactly true. There was one incident. At that time we had this house in Paddington, a big old terrace on Ormand Street. God, we picked that place up for a song....compared to what it's probably worth now....I mean well before the Sydney housing market went bonkers. And the woman who lived there at the time, our tenant....the woman who may still live there for all I know...well...she used to be a good sort. Easy on the eye, if you know what I mean. And there was this one afternoon.....I came around...to fix something....and one thing led to another. we did it on the staircase first. Then on the living room floor. she was keen alright, living alone like that. You know these unexpected episodes that happen? The ones that happen out of the blue? Middle of the day, some secluded spot and you find yourself, trousers down around your ankles, hammering away, not believing your luck? It was like that. I felt terrible afterwards. I got out of there. She didn't seem to want to talk about it. I was paranoid for weeks after that I'd run into her on the street with Marie on my arm....the two of us just walking along. This woman, the tenant, wrote me a letter sometime later saying that I'd knocked her up. That she had twins! Two for the price of one! Not identical. A girl and a boy. Admittedly, not one of my proudest moments. I read that letter and then I destroyed it. And then I sold the house to simplify things. Not the best idea considering what its likely worth these days. Anyway, one little slip and I was going to lose my wife? I don't think so. Back in those days, there was no DNA testing. It was her word against mine....and she had come on to me so, being the callous young man I was back then, I figured it was a case of just desserts. Besides: who was to say she hadn't been with other men during that time? ....that she picked me to foot the bill for some other blokes good time? It's funny what you can talk yourself out of and ?. And now, well...you get to a point in your life where you look back through the backwards telescope of days and years, and what you remember becomes smaller and smaller. And less certain. And sometimes it's those small things that start to matter. The things that won't go away. Amazing, isn't it? To think you were back there once, moving forward blindly, living your life, doing things that may or may not catch up with you later on. There is simply no way of knowing what you will shed and what you will carry like a pebble in your shoe. I happened to be walking up Ormond Street the other day. I walked right past my old place. It looked about the same....which is to say it looked like shit. And I seriously had to wonder if that woman was still living there? I went past, thought about it, then decided to double back. I knocked on the door. No answer. I tried again. Gave the door a good hard knock, knuckles striking wood. Nothing. Then I found out from the neighbor that the old girl had died a few years back. Alcohol poisoning.The whole family was destitute for years. The daughter used to wander around the neighborhood begging for cigarettes, wiping her snotty nose on her sleeve. The brother was a crackpot. A shut-in with mental issues. A weird bunch no doubt. Were they mine? Was this my mess? I couldn't help feeling that I'd dodged a bullet. Anyway, the neighbor woman had no qualms about filling me in on all the salacious details. You could see she was the type who would secretly relish having cuckoo neighbors like this. It would give her something to complain about. Years and years worth of complaining. better than television. I peeked in through the mail slot. Nothing. An empty corridor. The stairs. The same stairs where I....well, I told you that bit. Where I shagged the tenant. Way back when I had more hair and bell-bottom jeans.  

There was some sort of giant magpie standing on the front veranda, its great black beak tap, tap, tap, tapping on the front door and its eyes gleaming with liquid death like black bubbles of tar. What is it about bird eyes? Is it the coldness, second only to sharks and insects? Anyway, there this creature stands, talons splayed on the welcome mat, head mechanically clocking its persistent beak rhythm into the wooden door, it's chest sticking out proud. Let that bird inside and he'll go straight for the soft meat between your ears, mark my words. What kind of God would allow an abomination like this to exist in his creation, I don't know. Or maybe this bird, this undertaker with wings, is just a future echo. Some playback from what is to come.....my god.....or what has been? I peer out the window and conveniently this thing has converted, transformed into human form. And now hard knuckles meeting the wooden door like precise hammers for one last round of, bang, bang, bang! I am chewing my nails because guess what? Time travel is possible. Did you know this? No really, it's true. I have known this for a long time. And the question I need to ask myself now is....have I becoming unstuck in time? Like some cheap science fiction novel? Is that what is happening here? Like before? Temporal sliding, I call it. Back and forth like a beer bottle on the neck of a steel guitar. Once again I look out the top dormer window, down on the front path, the bright world below sliced horizontally into ribbons by the Venetian blinds. And there he is, the birdman, talking to the neighbour. And unless I am mistaken, this is probably the exact reason why he transformed, to extract information out of the neighbour bitch. I move away from the window, bare feet on the wooden floorboards, yellowed toenails scuttling. Who is he? Census taker? Salesman? Stay calm, stay calm. My sister is downstairs. Somewhere. I can hear the great lump moving about. She was never able to shut her big....

.......no you don't. You don't hear anything except the empty house....rooms nearing the bursting point with all that pent-up silence. No, that noise is from a different time, years ago in fact. That noise is trapped in here, reverberating through the floorboards and walls, stuck in the light fixtures and plumbing, back when you used to send her out for smokes. Remember? Those fag ends, stamped flat, the stale tobacco inside like coconut husks. Like little prawns they were. You had to work hard to pry the meat out but went you did...Ah, perfection, the sweet carcinogenic spirit. But your sister is gone now, isn't she? Gone for good. But for how long has she been gone? A year? Two years? Maybe more....It's hard to tell. This is the problem with temporal sliding. You get lost in the shuffle years. You lose your linear mojo. Anyway, it's just you now....and you should get back to your room before anything else bad happens. The computer is waiting. Maybe leaving the house is an impossibility but you are free to hack directly into the mind of the world like a dull cleaver going into a pig caucus. The computer is calming, understandable. Real life is fraught with dangers. The problem with real life is....have you become a prisoner of your own memories? Memories so well rendered in your mind, so convincingly staged and re-staged that you can't help but suffer disassociation from the present? In this way, you are always slipping back and forwards, always losing your footing in this horrible 'here and now'. After the stranger knocks, after you returned to your room, you drift back. You are younger, coming down the staircase, pushing you sister outside, your half-wit sister, back when she was still alive. Yes, you are sending her out to get.....get some tobacco dummy! This is what you shout out through the mail slot at her, right after slamming the door and locked her outside. In her childish mind, it's as if the house itself has started shouting at her through its tiny mailbox mouth. Just another frown down face. and then, slipping back further, you are at Sydney University, walking through the campus, books in hand, attending lectures, walking through the library. You can get lost for days in that fucking library. Oh yes. Lost in the long, poorly lit aisles lined with books. Lost like Jonah in the belly of the whale. Lost in the great black monolith with its turret windows, reading, reading, reading all kinds of books, the information flooding in. The great implosion of the mind. The first instance when time began to warp and men shape-shifted into birds and other creatures. And....this is the problem with temporal disorientation: you end up chasing your own tale. Round and round and round you go. A snake eating its own tale.