Christos Tsiolkas - Merciless Gods

I watch the television, watch the red dial on the video recorder clock count down the time to midnight. He’s falling asleep. I won’t move till I’m sure it’s deep sleep. I’m fixed on the red digits. I hear the muffled snores, they shudder along my neck. Slowly, carefully, I shift from under him; though he stirs, he rolls over and is back to sleep. I’m dripping blood all over the carpet, over him.

I get up and wash my face in the bathroom sink. In the mirror my face is bloated, bloody. I move quickly through the house, taking the alarm clock I lent him, grabbing the book I’m reading, taking my shirts, my socks, my underwear. I’m erasing myself from this house.

I pause at the three strips of photos pinned to the bedroom mirror. Black-and-whites from a photo booth. I take one strip, shove everything into a plastic bag and leave the bedroom. But then I turn and go back, to take the picture of Jessica Lange. I’m making it mine.

The television is playing the news. Trade conference in Asia. He’s still asleep, heavy, congested drunk snoring. I lean over him. His black hair is sweat-plastered to his forehead. I can still see it, still fucking see it: his face is sweet. I lean closer, trying to get through and back to him. I try to smell him but I can only make out the alcohol, the mouldy yeast of beer. I am, finally, repelled.

•

The first taxi driver takes one look at me and speeds off. The second takes me, but won’t talk to me. I don’t mind. I sit in the back, hugging myself tight to stop the shivering.

The cat is crying for food. I feed her fish and notice the slugs. One monster in particular. Its thick slimy body has climbed over the rim and sits inside the bowl oozing filth. I grab a tissue, pick it up, holding it far away from me. The cat ignores me, she’s lapping up her food. I take the slug, wrapped in tissue, into the loo and throw it in the toilet bowl. I piss and I make sure I aim my stream directly at the slug, torch it with my urine. When I’m finished I flush, watch the water, the tissue, the slug spin round, round, round. Then all of it, abruptly, is gone.

The upstairs room is hot and I open the window. The street comes rushing in: dance music from across the road, the squeals and horns of cars, a crazy man is yelling out obscenities, teenagers are laughing. My mouth is hurting, swelling. My gut, my arse, they are fire.

I retrieve the picture of Jessica Lange from the plastic bag. I run my thumb over its shredded edges. Shaking, I light a cigarette and put the smouldering tip through the picture. I watch the hole expand, burning her mouth, her chin, her angry eyes. As the picture becomes flame I throw it in an ashtray, mash it up, turn it to ash, to dust.

I sit and watch the traffic flow. The night is warm, but a breeze is blowing in from the south, off the ocean. I lean out the window. I’m still fire. I pack ice into a glass, fill it up with water. Again. It’s no good. Nothing helps to cool me down.

IT WAS SAVERIO’S WEEK TO DO the shopping. Trying to fit the key into the front door lock, both hands laden with supermarket bags, he noticed the shadowy form of his wife coming towards him in the cloudy beer-bottle glass of the door pane, rushing to open it for him. He was about to kiss her, to ask her to help him unload the other bags from the car, but froze when he saw her expression. He didn’t drop the bags or cry out, but he could not speak for fear of what she was about to say.

‘It’s not the kids — they’re fine.’ Rachel grabbed some bags from him and ushered him into the house, leading him by the hand. When they got to the kitchen, she put down her bags and took his hands. ‘Julian rang while you were at the market. I’m so sorry,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘It’s Leo. He had a stroke this morning. He’s dead.’ She gently shook her head. ‘There’s nothing anyone could have done, Sav. It must have been quick, he wouldn’t have suffered.’

His first thought was to protect her, to banish the fear and confusion from her eyes. He did so by gripping her hands tighter. She started to cry. Instantly he envied her ability to exhibit all the appropriate signs of grief. It had been well over a decade since she had last seen Leo.

‘Julian’s left a mobile number. He wants you to call him back straight away.’

‘I’ll unpack the groceries.’

She shook her head again. ‘I’ll do that, baby. You call Julian.’

Julian answered on the first ring, his voice surprisingly youthful and clear. Saverio had always liked Julian, had considered him good for Leo and had been distressed when he’d heard that they had split up. But Julian had remained loyal to the friendship, and Saverio was not surprised that he’d been the one there at Leo’s end. Julian was assuming all the responsibilities that, in the normal course of events, should now be Saverio’s. But Leo had never been one for the normal course of events.

‘Thank you.’

‘What for?’ Julian sounded astonished.

‘For being there.’

There was silence, then a rapidly muttered, ‘That’s okay.’

‘Rachel said that it was immediate, thank God.’

‘Yes.’ He could hear a match being struck, the long inhalation of smoke. ‘He’s been pretty crook, his liver has been giving him trouble for some time now.’ Julian hesitated, then said quickly, ‘I might as well be straight with you, Sav. He was pretty drunk when it happened — he was shooting up amphetamines.’

Saverio watched as Rachel methodically stacked the groceries on the kitchen table: toiletries for the bathroom, food and drinks for the kitchen and pantry, cat food and detergents for the laundry. Every now and then she would throw a quick glance over at him. Her eyes were still swollen and red.

He died shooting up speed, Rachel, he wanted to mouth at her. The dickhead was shooting up speed at fifty-two. The stupid, stupid fool.

‘When did it happen?’

‘Sometime last night.’

‘Who found him?’

‘There’s a woman close by who keeps an eye on him. She’s a good soul. She rang the police and then she rang me.’

‘Are you there already?’

‘Nah, nah, mate, I’m still in Sydney. I’m flying up tomorrow morning.’

‘Does the coroner have to deal with it?’

‘No. I’ve talked to the local cops and they say it’s all straightforward.’

That was it. Saverio was out of questions.

Julian cleared his throat. ‘I’ll arrange the funeral from Demons Creek. I’ve already got a copy of Leo’s will, he wants to be buried up there. Sav, I want you to come up for it.’

Rachel wasn’t concentrating. The dishwashing liquid was in the pile with the laundry stuff.

‘Of course I’ll come.’

Saverio caught the relief in her eyes, and felt it as well in Julian’s affectionate farewell. He hung up, wanting to slam the phone against the wall, wanting to explode in anger like a child.

At that moment, shirtless, with his pyjama bottoms hanging half off his arse, Matthew shuffled into the kitchen, greeting his parents with a muffled grunt. Saverio checked the clock. It was just past noon. The useless prick had been clubbing all night, wasting his money, probably doing the same stupid drugs that had just killed Leo.

‘ Cazzo! This is not a civilised hour to crawl out of bed, you lazy shit!’

Rachel’s eyebrows arched and her mouth fell open, but she said nothing.

Matthew, who was peering into the fridge, swung around. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’

Rachel came and stood beside Saverio, placing her hand on his shoulder. He wanted to shrug it off.

‘Matty, we’ve just heard that your uncle Leo has died.’

There was a moment of incomprehension and then Matthew sheepishly hung his head. ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’