Steve Toltz - Quicksand

Rain falls meekly now. Aldo throws on the raincoat then grabs the binoculars again and stares out through the vapoury haze at the women on the shore. We sit in silence for maybe an hour with the glare of cloud-filtered sun on our faces. Aldo resembles a well-preserved corpse in some grand open-air tomb. Gulls hang as if suspended midair. A layer of moisture, either ocean spray or cold sweat, slicks his face.

I say, ‘So this is where the industrious robbed of industry go.’

I realise he is dead asleep. The drizzle continues and I can’t tell the rain from the ocean spray. I think: What is this incoherent camping trip about anyway? Is he enacting a dream he had in prison? On his unfeeling legs, I notice what looks like a bluebottle sting. I think: I would totally cast him to play the wretched of the earth in a movie. An hour later, he wakes with a clouded expression.

I say, ‘It’s an atrocity.’

‘What is?’

‘Your life.’

‘Not as bad as some, which in a way makes it worse, because I have to feel guilty for not being grateful for my atrocity.’

The thing is, he’s right. He grows sullen and unreachable, and in an audible whimper he says, ‘Tell me more about this book.’

‘A whole chapter will be your testimony in court at Mimi’s murder trial.’

‘But that’s in the public domain.’

‘That’s what’s so good about it. It’s a cut-and-paste job.’

‘Jesus, Liam. You’re as corrupt a novelist as you are a policeman!’

I sneer but I know he’s right. My arm slides around his shoulder. ‘Let’s go back.’

‘You go.’

‘Oh fuck it.’

Let him rot. I trudge down to where my surfboard is and pretend I’m not daunted in the least as I slide back into the undulating sea. The waves are monstrous but it’s warmer in the water than out of it. I paddle quickly to distance my body from the rock. I think: I’d like to see Jesus walk on this water. Aldo manoeuvres down to see me off.

I say, ‘Don’t get your dick stuck in a conch shell.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Just go.’

As I paddle back in, I see Stella and Clive are alone on the beach; Saffron’s gone. They look pocket-sized in the cloudy light. The violence of the waves rises under me and I hold on tight, afraid and sick of it, the fear. I close my eyes, but it is Mimi’s dead face I see. That forces memories to the fore: Aldo handcuffed to his chair wailing hysterically; a mosquito straining its wings in a pool of Mimi’s blood; the artists, the artists.

I think I might as well catch one in. I slide down the empty wall of water and see it break in front of me; I tilt into it and turn off the wave just in time to avoid a dumping. When I get back to shore I stagger and collapse exhausted on the hard sand, next to Stella who’s crouched in a ball with Clive huddled under her knees, and all I can think of is how she plucked every strand of happiness from the heart of my tragic friend and yet it wasn’t her fault. Her sad eyes shift across the rock island. The rain comes down heavy now, and we can only just sit there and get soaked.

My phone rings. It’s Aldo and I answer saying, ‘Hey Aldo, remember that first afternoon on the toilet block roof you told me all you wanted was a lifestyle indistinguishable from that of a highly successful drug baron or sex trafficker, that is, a magnificent house with water views, top-shelf escorts, and suitcases stuffed with cash?’

‘I’m going to stay here.’

I strain to see through the mist and rain and there he is, so much water pouring down on that rock ledge he looks like a drowning ladybug in a bathtub.

‘For how long?’

‘Forever,’ he says, laughing, then hangs up. I watch him shuffle back further under the overhang for shelter, and Stella grabs my hand, which is totally unexpected, and I think how the only people worth watching are those who have reached rock bottom and bounced off it, because they always bounce off into very strange orbits.

Your Honour, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, members of the press, madam court stenographer, random citizens who have nothing better to do on a Tuesday morning, Uncle Howard, bailiffs, live-streaming folks on the internet, I had woken early that overcast morning, in the weird limbo between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, in order to remove the last remaining advertisements I had foolishly stapled to every telegraph pole and tree trunk from the city to the sea — advertisements that my well-meaning friend Liam had made me compose in a misguided attempt to give my dumb life purpose, and which had caused me nothing but literal agony. I enter the sign as exhibit A:

HANDYMAN. CAN DO ALMOST ANYTHING — WITHIN REASON. HOUSE PAINTER. WINDOW WASHING. LANGUAGE TEACHER (ENGLISH ONLY). MOW LAWNS. PUNISH YOUR CHILDREN. WHATEVER. $25 AN HOUR. ALDO BENJAMIN. 063 621 4137. NO JOB TOO DISTASTEFUL.

It was ten a.m. and I had paused under some tree-shade at a busy outdoor café to pat the head of a golden retriever whose bark, it seemed to me, was incoherent to the other dogs present. Right beside me, a middle-aged woman with a pale face dwarfed by an incredible head of frizzy black and silver hair — more a helmet than a head — was perusing my sign on a dry-cleaner’s window. She was nearly beautiful in the same way that I am practically handsome — think perfect physical beauty, then go down six notches. That was us; we were on the exact same notch. She scrutinised the sign before appearing to dial my number. My phone rang. I thought: Oh my God. How fantastic. She heard The Godfather ringtone and turned to face me.

— Hello? she said.

— Hello?

— How are you?

— Don’t get me started on babies who suffer brain damage during home water births.

— Are you Aldo Benjamin?

— None other.

— Is this sign a joke?

— Why? Is it funny?

— Could I possibly borrow you for a couple of hours?

— As long as you promise to return me in mint condition.

Now, this was banter, Your Honour — and who doesn’t love to banter? — but I was running out of banter, and as she moved closer I kept my eyes on hers, inexpert as I am in the art of appraising a woman’s body when she’s looking right at me. She had dark pockets under her eyes as if having just woken from a long night’s madness. I marvelled at the audacity of her frizzy afro.

— Do you think your hair might be a fire hazard? I asked, smiling brightly.

She frowned, as if smiling was as tacky as a department store Santa. The lengthy silence that followed was so dispiriting I removed a bottle of pills from my inside pocket and summoned my saliva to swallow one.

— You know what it says on the list of side effects of these antidepressants? May cause depression . Kind of makes you want to throw in the towel.

The woman’s hardened face remained implacable.

— So what kind of tasks are you generally asked to perform?

— Just the usual unpleasant and often dangerous jobs that the people of greater Sydney need doing.

— Such as?

— Mostly a punishing amount of heavy lifting and unmasking of unfaithful spouses.

She clicked her tongue, a gesture I took as my cue to elaborate.

— In the last month alone, I’ve been contracted to move a father into a nursing home while he was asleep, to search sandstone caves for a schizophrenic brother, to drag what is referred to in certain circles as a ‘human urinal’ home to a jealous boyfriend, and to nail a cow’s heart to a paedophile’s mailbox. You want references?