August Falling Read online

  The rest of the work day is slow, and regularly checking the time still doesn’t make it go any quicker. As hard as I try to push the girl with the butterfly tattoo from my head, she reappears intermittently, and it’s not long before I begin to forget her appearance—the shade of her hair, the structure of her face, the set of her shoulders. All I remember are her eyes; those big, startled eyes.

  When 5.00pm comes around, I power down and spring up from my chair like I’ve been catapulted.

  ‘Hey!’ Ronnie says. ‘We’re grabbing a drink. You want to come?’

  I turn, but I’m still backpedalling. ‘Maybe another time,’ I say.

  ‘You always say that.’

  I hold up my hands as if to say—well, I don’t even know what, but Ronnie reads it well enough.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he says.

  3

  Commuters pack the platform until we’re a singular consciousness of fatigue and resignation. When the 5.13 rolls up, we spill into the carriages and flood the seats, everybody walking with that forced measured pace, as if they’re not rushing, but neither are they going to let anybody get in their way to secure a seat. I ride the wave and have the opportunity to sit several times, but twice surrender seats to women, then again to a doddering old man. The aisle is awash and people are shoulder to shoulder in the doorway. A mixture of smells arises—coffee, body odour, and the burned rubber of the train’s brakes—to anoint the end of the work day.

  Several stops out of the city, somebody gets up from a seat right in front of me. I wait a few seconds, so as not to appear desperate, then lower myself into it. The person opposite me—brow furrowed as he concentrates on his phone—is broad shouldered and tall, and his folded legs occupy the space between us. I move my legs into the aisle, rest my notebook on my thighs, and push my pen to the paper.

  Nothing.

  Pretty much everybody is on their phones, a few reading books, fewer still staring mindlessly at whatever’s in their line of vision. I’m self-conscious of trying to write (not for the first time, either) and my hands splay across the page. It shouldn’t be this hard.

  The train continues its inexorable journey and I count down the stops. The big Kmart, towering among a strip of shops, is the first sign that I’m almost home. Then it’s the Carpet Duke store, which would fit in anonymously among the other storefronts if not for the blinking neon outline of what’s meant to represent a duke with robes, a cloak, and a sceptre, but looks like a cartoon ghost.

  The carriage is almost empty now and the quiet presses at me. Everybody else disembarks, goes home to their lives, their families. They fall into their routines—maybe refuse to play with the kids because they’re tired after work; or are short with their partners, because that’s the rapport they’ve established; or they flop onto the couch and watch television until it’s time for bed. Maybe they’re not even appreciative of what they have—most people aren’t, until they’re faced with losing it. Then, tomorrow, it starts all over again.

  When the train pulls up at my station, I step out onto the platform, zip up my jacket, and shove my hands into my pockets. I feel an instance of heaviness, like I’m being rooted to the spot, although this sensation greets me with the routine and familiarity of a dog who welcomes me home.

  I start off—literally kick off with my right foot to get me moving. A bus stops at the curb. I jog around it and cross the street. The community theatre and library sit side by side, their architecture jarring—the theatre a bastion of history, fitted together with big, rough-cut stones; the library gentrified so it’s sleek with bright colours and weirdly cut panels that are nothing but aesthetic. Hulking wattles and gums line the street, brutes so large that even though they’re bare, they block out the streetlights.

  Fortunately, it’s only an eight-minute walk and a couple of turns home, down a long slope to a squat orange building with small square windows that sits majestically in an expanse of greenery. Bins are out, and somebody’s left a small box TV—an old one—on top of a mound of some timber and other appliances.

  I jog up the zigzagging stairwell to the third floor, and fumble with my keys. Music—something so heavy it’s unintelligible—comes from the neighbours’ unit behind me. Somebody shouts and a woman shouts back. A baby cries. I’ve never seen my neighbours, but I visualise them as a young couple: the man thickset, in a singlet, heavily tattooed, sullenness his customary expression; the woman ash blonde, would’ve been pretty once—a darling in high school—but has struggled to regain her figure after the baby and is now resentful she can’t be the person she once was; the baby is a girl, strawberry blonde, who gapes at her parents, trying to decipher what she did to end up with these two.

  I hurry into my flat and slam the door. The darkness swallows me and I stumble across the room, turn on the lamp that sits on a cheap little end table by the couch, and blink at the tiny lounge and the adjoining kitchenette that’s so tight I virtually have to walk sideways to function in it. The carpet is threadbare and smells of dust—that’s all that holds it together now the fibre’s gone. The only colour comes from the framed movie posters hanging on the walls, as well as a handful of small models of various sci-fi ships. Stacked against one corner, like half a pyramid, are novels I keep meaning to go back to, but haven’t touched in a year.

  There’s a routine I follow every night: turn on the television, mute it; turn on my laptop, which sits on the coffee table; drop my notebook by the printout of my book (also on the coffee table); turn on the heating, check that it’s set at twenty; go into the kitchenette, glance at the picture of Mum and Dad that sits on the counter; open the fridge door, ponder what I should eat, and whether I should have a beer, before closing the fridge door (I just about always end up making a sandwich later); and sit on the couch to wait as my laptop boots up.

  I go to the hard drive connected to my TV first, idling through all the stuff I’ve downloaded, clueless as to what I should watch, but knowing I shouldn’t watch anything and try to get some writing done. I toss the remote onto a nearby cushion and, for a moment, absorb the silence that comes from complete indecision.

  The last part of my routine: I pick up the printout of my book and read the cover page—my name, my (old) address, email and phone number. This is my last-ditch effort at procrastination. I put the cover page aside and flick through the rest of the book. The top right-hand corner of every page is curled back because I’ve repeated this action so many times. Three hundred pages, eighty thousand words, and now stuck. I printed it out, hoping that reading the hardcopy would kickstart me. Nope. Several stacks of worn playing cards sit by the printout, some of them arranged in a matrix on the coffee table. I’ve written scenes (and prospective scenes) from my book on their faded backs, and then tried to find some order, some inspiration or rationale through my block. But they’ve remained a mess.

  A picture of Bobby sits among the chaos. He’s four, with sandy curls, and wearing his Batman costume, on the brink of tears because Lisa pulled the cowl up from his face for the sake of the picture. Lisa kneels beside him, arm around his shoulders, but all that can be seen of her is her folded knees, since I’ve dog-eared the picture right over her face and torso.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. Although it’s part of the routine, my heartbeat accelerates as I take the phone from my pocket and warily turn it to see who’s calling: Gen. Of course. It must be 6.00pm. I answer the phone and lift it to my ear.

  ‘Hi, Gen.’

  ‘Hey,’ Gen’s throaty voice—like she’s coming off a bad cold—responds. ‘Everything good?’

  Oscar cries in the background and Pat soothes him. A dog barks—Jet, no doubt telling Oscar everything’s okay. Oscar stops crying and laughs. So easy. Kids don’t hold onto things. Their natural state is a combination of wonder and joy. Jet barks again, as if to tell me, Dogs, too!

  ‘It’s … really, you know, Gen, I’m fine. You don’t have to keep checking.’

  ‘Humour your big sis, huh, August?
’

  ‘I’m good. Staring at my laptop. Trying to find words.’

  ‘They’ll come.’

  ‘I wish they’d come sooner.’

  ‘Don’t put pressure on yourself. You’re not doing yourself any good sitting there, staring at the screen.’

  ‘What else would I do?’

  ‘Go out. Do something. Anything. Do something new.’

  ‘Tell him to go to the strippers!’ Pat calls out.

  ‘Hear that?’ Gen asks.

  ‘Yep—’

  ‘Or take a holiday!’ Pat says. ‘Go somewhere decadent!’

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  ‘You should,’ Gen says. ‘You got some money from the divorce. You haven’t touch—’

  ‘I will,’ I say, then add, ‘One day.’

  ‘Right. How’s work?’

  ‘Worky.’

  ‘I hear the job satisfaction pouring through the phone.’

  ‘It’s a job. Say hi to Pat.’

  ‘August says hi,’ Gen says.

  ‘Hi, August!’ Pat’s voice ricochets off the hallway walls. Jet barks again.

  ‘Hear that?’ Gen asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Cool. Anyway, I’m taking Oscar into the city this week—Friday, most likely. I want to do some shopping. How ’bout we catch up, grab some coffee?’

  ‘That sounds good. Let me know when you’re coming and we’ll organise something.’

  ‘Okay. Do you need anything?’

  ‘I’m fine, Gen.’

  ‘Okay. Have a good day tomorrow.’

  Like she can will that onto me, can predetermine the course of the universe, fate, random chance, whatever’s awaiting me. And she says it with such conviction that I smile—if she had such power, and could use it to do anything in the world, this is where she’d spend it: willing me to have a good day.

  ‘I will. Thanks, Gen.’

  ‘That’s what big sisters are for. Night, August.’

  ‘Night.’

  I hang up, put my phone down, and prowl around the coffee table, trying to conjure the next line of my book. When that fails, I shuffle my cards around, skimming over scenes I’ve detailed—some already fit into the structure of my story, other ideas I want to use but I’m unsure where they belong—but still nothing. I pick up the last printed page, read the final paragraph:

  He stumbled down the hallway, bouncing off the walls, like a drunk struggling for balance. Her voice screamed inside his head, screamed and screamed until he was sure it would shred his mind. Tears misted in his eyes until everything became bleary. His hand closed on the doorhandle.

  It’s a paragraph I’ve read hundreds of times. I’ve rewritten it, tried to produce new avenues from it, but it always comes back to the same words. It was the last thing I wrote before Lisa and I broke up.

  I go to the kitchenette, slap a slice of cheese and a slice of ham between two pieces of bread, and I’m about to open a beer, but decide against it. I mow through the sandwich, rifle through the kitchen cupboards, and find a bottle of scotch Pat gave me as a housewarming gift. I twist off the cap, gulp at the scotch, and grimace.

  While writing fiction is a creative pursuit, there has to be some logic in its progression, but I can’t work out where to go next. I sink back into the couch, take another couple of swigs of scotch, and wince. Scotch has never been my drink. Spirits never have in general. But it feels apt.

  I pick up the picture of Bobby and touch his face, tempted—briefly—to unfold the dog-ear. No. I clench my eyes shut. How did the girl with the butterfly tattoo look? I lift the scotch and gulp it down until it regurgitates in my throat. The girl with the butterfly tattoo is a good diversion.

  Hi, I’d say.

  Hi, she’d answer. And smile.

  What comes next? I was sitting over there, and I was really drawn to your tattoo. What is it? She’d model it for me, and I’d see it’s not a butterfly. It’s a … what? A flower. A blossoming rose. But would a rose account for the splotch of colours? What colour’s a rose? Red, possibly shades of red, green, brown for the stem, maybe the traditional ink blue for the outline. Or maybe it’s something dramatic … Her name. And her boyfriend’s. In a love heart. Surrounded by flames.

  I shoot to my feet. Of course, she’d have a boyfriend. A husband, maybe—possibly even a kid. Or kids. When are beautiful women ever single outside of romantic comedies and dumb books? Beautiful, single, perfect.

  I take another hit of scotch. Why would I appeal to her, with my job, my one-bedroom flat, trying to write a book, like I know anything? I hate the self-pitying, but it also feels good.

  My laptop’s blank screen mocks me. I slam it closed, thinking I should call it a night, but dry heave and taste bile in my throat again. Scotch definitely wasn’t a good idea.

  I storm into my little bathroom, lift the toilet seat, thrust my left hand out against the wall, and wait, but there’s nothing more. The bottle of scotch is still in my right hand. I sip, hold it in my mouth, then swallow. My breath comes in gasps. I should go to bed, but instead flop into my small tub, and lie there. The porcelain is freezing, especially against my back where it’s exposed between my jeans and my T-shirt as I curl up.

  Lisa will be putting Bobby to bed about now. She’ll be tucking him in, reading a story from the big book of nursery rhymes I bought. The nursery rhymes themselves mean little to him, but he loves the pictures, often pointing something out and identifying it: ‘Wolf!’ and ‘Pig!’ and ‘Bear!’ A mobile of the solar system hangs from the ceiling above the bed, and a rocket-ship night-light shines from his bedside table. Sometimes, he makes rocket noises and pretends the night-light is flying up to the planets in the mobile. A few times he’s drawn the rocket with splashes of red and orange and yellow to emulate the exhaust. We never knew where he got that from—a cartoon, probably.

  I close my right hand and cradle the scotch to my belly. I want to relax, but the next thing I’m aware of is the chill that seeps through my clothes and crawls across my skin. Reaching for the covers, I find they’re not there, and I hug my arms around myself. Something clatters. Pain cuts across my neck. I blink. It’s dark, other than for the light flickering through the doorway. I’m still in the tub. The base of my spine radiates tightness into my buttocks and hips.

  I have no idea how long I’ve slept—it can’t have been long—but when I sit up, my whole body creaks. The scotch bottle rolls from my hip. I catch it by the neck before it upends, although my T-shirt sticks to my belly button, and scotch wafts into my nostrils, so it’s already spilled a little.

  Yawning, I haul myself out of the tub, screw closed the scotch bottle, and return it to the kitchen cupboard. The TV—still muted—blares light through the lounge. My scattered cards—a jigsaw of scenes—still refuse to yield a picture. Tomorrow, I’ll definitely make something happen. But the vow is hollow—it’s not the first time it’s been made.

  I shut the TV off, ditch my T-shirt in the hamper, and go to bed.

  4

  Tuesday, she’s back, wearing a pink dress and knee-high brown boots that make me think of horse riding. Her ponytail is up high now, swaying as she tilts her head back and forth reading the specials on the menu. I’m guessing she’s my age, but there’s an energy about her, like a teenager playing truant, enjoying freedom while everybody else is at school. She presses her hands on the counter and bounces on her tiptoes.

  I stir my latte, hear Gen’s voice in my ear—Go for it—but struggle for an opening line. What do I say? Don’t I know you? I was at a party once, and said that to a woman I thought I did know, and she told me (sarcastically) I was original. I like to think that when she went home that night, as she lay in bed, it clicked that she did know me and she felt bad about being short with me.

  A man sweeps in—that’s the only way to describe his entrance: he sweeps, like all before him should bow. He has a mane of white hair that bounces with each step, but seems premature in its colour, because his face is sharp, h
is shoulders broad in his navy blazer, and there’s that whole sweeping thing.

  He places his hand on the small of the girl’s back, right over where her tattoo would be. It’s no longer a butterfly, nor the rose I imagined last night. She’d go for something to suit her personality, something impish—a faerie. Stupid, maybe, but it seems right.

  She spins, face momentarily blank, and then smiles—albeit warily—at the man. He’s not a boyfriend. Maybe a co-worker. He points to the barista over the girl with the faerie tattoo’s shoulder and orders with the authority of somebody accustomed to bossing people around. The barista skulks away.

  Sweepy rests a hand on the girl’s forearm and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. He doesn’t move his arm and continues to talk. The girl with the faerie tattoo nods mindlessly—the nod of somebody keeping tempo with a conversation to feign interest. The barista returns with their orders. Sweepy pulls a wad of money from his pocket, snaps off a twenty, and lays it on the counter.

  The girl with the faerie tattoo thanks the barista, takes her purchase—a focaccia—and leaves Charisma’s, Sweepy trailing behind her. The moment she’s out the door, I exhale. That was close. Any attempt there would’ve been interrupted. Of course, I might’ve saved her from Sweepy, although he looks like the sort who would’ve bumped me out. Or maybe he wouldn’t have even done that; maybe he would’ve overshadowed me by virtue of his sweepiness. It’s a lesson in seizing opportunities while they exist. I should’ve said something, anything. Next time I will. She might shoot me down (probably will), but there’s no harm in trying. If I see her again, I will say something. That’s my pledge.

  I go through the cycle of the rest of the day—work, decline drinks with the others, go home, talk to Gen, fail to write, have a few beers, and bed, all while trying to decide what I could possibly say to the girl with the faerie tattoo. I grow erect thinking of her and stroke myself, then stop, feeling like that would cheapen her.