Matt Eaton - Blank

“I think I was happier not knowing that,” Seamus told him.

“How did you work all that out?” asked Mel. “I mean, how do you know it wasn’t an Iraqi weapon, seeing as how you found it in downtown Baghdad?”

“The CIA knew. They’d been tracking the operation. By then, of course, the Bush heavies knew the whole WMD thing was a crock of shit, so they were trying to plant the evidence that would justify the invasion, after the fact.”

“So what’d you do with it?” she asked.

“Seamus and I drove to Jordan with the damn thing in the back of a truck.”

“Oh you bastard. All this time, and you’ve never told me. You deliberately put my life at risk.”

“For Christ’s sake mate, we had half the bloody Iraqi Army behind us and Baghdad was about to be blown into the Stone Age by the US Air Force.”

“Fair point,” the Irishman admitted. “But chemical feckin’ weapons? Jaysus.”

“Why didn’t you just leave it there?” Mel wondered.

“I’ve asked myself that many times over the years. We weren’t exactly praised from on high for removing George Dubya’s bogus evidence. In fact, they made my life hell. I hung on for a few years – even served in Afghanistan – but when I quit the Army it’s fair to say they weren’t sorry to see me go.”

Mel’s eyes widened and Luckman blushed. He poured himself another glass of wine and downed a healthy mouthful.

“Think you might’ve had enough there boyo,” Seamus suggested with a light chuckle.

“I’m fine.”

Mel picked up the bottle and poured another glass in unspoken solidarity. George Benson launched into a disco-inspired instrumental, and Luckman squirmed slightly as he recalled the track was entitled So This Is Love? For a moment he considered putting The Pogues back on.

“Hey, I have an idea,” said Seamus. “We could have a séance.”

“What?” said Luckman, caught off guard and inadvertently spraying wine onto his white tablecloth.

“You know, I’ve never done that,” Mel admitted. “Is it safe?”

“Not at all,” Luckman assured her.

“He’s having nightmares,” Seamus revealed, like a mother revealing her son wets the bed. “Never know mate, it might help you.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” said Luckman as he made a strategic retreat to the front verandah to take a piss.

Seamus looked at Mel and shrugged. “Looks like it’d just be you and me. Still interested?”

“We are still talking about the same thing, aren’t we?” she countered.

“Well a bloke’d be mad not to have an ulterior motive.”

She laughed, taking it in her stride. “At least you’re honest.”

As they retreated down the back stairs, the music fell silent behind them. George Benson’s guitar made way for that of Pat Metheny.

“He’s a jazz cat is our Stone,” Seamus told her. “You know – weird and moody.”

Mel spotted the campfire nearby and leapt like an excited teenager toward the people gathered around it. Two guys in their 30s were cooking what looked like a small rodent over the open fire.

“I’m Shane,” said one, shaking her hand. “And he’s Wayne.”

“You boys wouldn’t be surfers by any chance?”

“Ocean-born and bred,” said Shane.

“I’ll be happy if I never see the ocean again,” Wayne declared.

“Been here long?” she asked.

“About a fortnight. Since Stone rescued us,” said Shane.

“We’re the slum dogs,” Wayne declared, laughing aloud as he lit a cigarette with the burning end of a twig.

“Sit Wayne, sit,” Shane shouted, and they both grinned impishly, playing up to the pretty girl’s attention.

“Down boys,” Seamus told them. “We’re goin’ inside. I’ll see youse two a bit later.”

“Any weed left?” Shane inquired.

Seamus shook his head mournfully and ushered Mel inside his downstairs flat. He swept the books and plates off his dining table to clear a space.

“Stone lost his parents,” said Seamus. “They were on the Gold Coast.”

He found the ouija board on the fridge.

“Where exactly were they?”

“West Burleigh. Stone said the trees on Burleigh headland were washed away. That’s one helluva tsunami.”

“I have never seen anything so terrifying,” she whispered.

He threw the ouija board down on the kitchen table. “Right, you ready?”

She nodded and sat down so she was facing him, placing her finger on a plastic slider with a small perspex window that acted as an indicator of letters and numbers on the board. Almost as soon as their fingers touched, the slider began to move rapidly around and around the board at a frantic pace. She expected it to slide off the table at any moment, but somehow it remained within the confines of the board.

“How are you doing that?” she asked, looking up at him frowning.

He shook his head. “It’s not me. I’m not that dextrous.”

“This is really weird,” she said, laughing nervously.

“It’s Dog.”

“What?”

“The name of the spirit. Calls himself Dog.”

“How can you tell it’s him?”

“The way he moves the slider. No-one else I’ve ever spoken to is this energetic. Plus, I’ve been hearing from Dog quite a bit lately.”

Seamus addressed a question to the board and asked deliberately. ”Who-is-your-message-for?”

“I don’t believe in Dog,” Luckman declared dryly as Seamus related the results of their session. Luckman had just finished tidying up the kitchen. He was trying not to be angry that Seamus once more managed to escape without lifting a finger to help. He opened the fridge, pulled out a cold beer and poured it into a glass.

“Dog says you need to go to Alice Springs,” said Seamus.

Luckman laughed and downed half his beer. “Seamus, ouija boards are about as reliable as internet chat rooms.”

“You try to deny it, but I know you believe in something,” Seamus insisted.

“Has your bountiful God, or Dog, or whatever you’d care to name Him, taken a long, hard look at His creation lately?”

“What makes you so sure God’s a man?” asked Mel.

“Good point,” Luckman acknowledged.

He lashed out on reflex as Mel shook him awake. He almost punched her in the mouth. Luckily she was deft enough to dodge the blow.

“Whoa, chill man. It’s me, Mel.”

Luckman sat bolt upright in bed so violently it startled her.

“You were calling out. You were having a nightmare.”

It took him several seconds to get his bearings. Another punishing dream, another cold sweat. The terror always took a while to pass and he knew she could see it in his eyes. She sat down on the bed next to him and placed his hand in hers.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked.

He withdrew his hand. “No, not really. But thanks.”

She sat there with him for a minute or so, neither of them speaking. Finally, to fill the void, he tried to explain.

“It’s like they’re coming to me for help. They’re being pursued by something. I keep seeing their faces. But it’s the same moment in history constantly repeating itself. The moment they die. Or at least, the moment after they’ve died. I know there’s no escape… and there’s nothing I can do. It’s a terrible feeling.”

“How often do you have this dream?”

“Every night, although red wine sometimes makes it worse.”

She nodded. “Which is why Seamus told you to stop drinking.”

He looked into her eyes. He detected no disapproval, only concern. He didn’t want to lie to her. “His concerns run a bit deeper than that. He’s worried I drink to self-medicate.”