Fiction

A Management Consultant, after a meeting in Canberra that had got him absolutely nowhere, was apparently flying back into Melbourne when, as the plane banked and came in low over a newly ploughed paddock on the northern outskirts of the city, he saw a man down there standing, as he later said, alone and forlorn. This image so affected the Management Consultant that after disembarking at the airport he immediately hired a taxi and asked the driver could he take him out there (he’d got his bearings from a row of pylons, a train line and a nearby dam). But the driver had no sooner pulled up where his passenger asked on a lonely stretch of road near Lancefield when he, the taxi driver, went strangely silent.

When bathing them, she’d tell stories of animals and plants. Each had its own story of its origin and purpose. As Maggie and Victoria lay down to sleep, the old lady would whisper tales of celestial serpents and seven starry sisters. She would fill their ears with maps, instructions and long-held lore. If they misbehaved, Nana Vic would tell them about sharp-toothed creatures that lived in watery caves, and other ancient beings that craved tasty children. The babes’ eyes widened, soaking it all in before asking for more.

He wasn’t certain when the slow-growing bacillus had entered his body, but Mycobacterium tuberculosis had stealthily spread through his system – a silent invasion as he coughed up great wads of red-stained sputum. He imagined the army of bacteria marching onwards, tiny warriors intent on harm, relentless in their advance.

It was a rotten business. I never spoke up – it wasn’t my place to. But other people, people who went to that circus over and over, people who had to live with those Grundy spouses, they joined forces once there were enough of them. They told Sol and Mary the First that enough was enough. You’ve made your pile, they said. Just shut yourselves up in your lakeside McMansion. Go at it like rabbits if you want. But if anything comes of it, keep it to yourselves. You’ve put half the bloody town in mourning. Don’t make it worse.

How cold they must be. Hazel wants to yell her thanks, tell them that it’s time to go home, they have a long drive ahead of them. She’ll be fine, she wants to say, but her throat is tight. Her voice is too puny for such things, not like it used to be, booming through the house to Finish drying the dishes, you rascals or Do your homework, Andrea, I won’t write another note. Instead she waves them goodbye, but they only wave back, so she makes little shooing gestures, sorry that they might think she wants them to leave, that they won’t realise it’s just that she’s worried about them freezing to death or becoming bored.

You know I dated a masseur once? Or, what’s the word, masseuse? Does anybody ever say that?
What, masseuse?
Yes. Masseuse.
No, it’s definitely –
If you say lady masseur, I’ll –
Okay, masseuse. When was this?
A few years back. I swiped right because of it. It sounded…
Hot?
I was going to say unusual. Instead of all the gender studies students and folk musicians. But yeah, hot too. Never got a massage though.

The Guaia is three-and-a-half feet tall, with arms as long as she is high. The pads of her fingers are as dark and shiny as wet wood, and splayed like a tree frog’s. Her face is forever young yet strafed, all hollow and crag, sexless. She sleeps behind a screen of holy trees, away from the people. These trees are lacquered black and glistening, even in the lush damp sunlight that strains through the forest canopy above and dusts the groves with golden velvet. The black trees sway in a breeze that no one else can feel. At night the rancid scent of their leaves breathes from her skin. Her body is tattooed with these leaves, tendrils knotting around her skin like veins. In her hut she keeps wooden bowls of different leaves, crushed, pooling at the bottom with toxins. The walls are plaited branches, woven through with black feathers. There is a sleeping mat of reeds, a hanging tangle of bone charms over the door, and, in a corner, the rusted chainsaw she took from the last woodchoppe...

Bill watches Joyce gather the kids for a photo. He’s seated on the front lawn, next to the overgrown bougainvillea, an oxygen tank by his side, tubes to his nose. He watches Joyce arrange the children – their adult daughters who both turned up in striped jumpers and jeans. The two of them are laughing about the coincidence. Ratty sneakers too, which can apparently be edited out on the computer. Would a dress have killed them? But he should be kind. Mel and Jennifer kissed him fondly, and Jennifer even slipped him a half-pouch of Drum. Luke, always the youngest child, is doing that funny thing where he picks up one of the small children and plays them like a guitar. It may be their last photo, although nobody is saying that.

Penrith Station was as broken as the shattered heart I carried. The few of us waiting on the train to central Sydney provided each other with more than the required distance. Some of us were sad, others miserable. The coronavirus had beaten us into a state of defeat, even though we’d finally been let out of the house, the chosen few tagged essential workers by the government. It was our job to drip-feed an economy twice fucked, first by iso, then by the elusive market. None of us would have chosen early release of our own accord. Not me, for certain, Mr Job-Seeker-Keeper, who’d been lounging at home for three beautiful months in my flannelette pyjamas and house socks, choreographing my TikTok to the Phil Collins hit ‘Against All Odds’.

The curtains parted to reveal the leggy assistants in their beaded corsetry and feathered headdresses, and, when the sparse audience applauded, the man in the fedora emerged. He took a bow, tipped his hat and then threw it out into the audience, and spotlights tracked it, then when they switched off the hat disappeared. A little ooh rippled through the audience and the clapping doubled. The “magician” made a big deal out of this, laughing as though he’d even surprised himself, and the show began. Phil could feel himself sweating. The man’s voice was enough to make him mad. It was so pathetic. Imagine dedicating your life to this grotesque pageantry, he thought, and the more cruel things he thought about the “magician” the better he felt, until he was barely listening to or watching the show, but instead was revelling in his own fury, his loathing and disgust letting loose in the dark. He found one of his wife’s hairs on his suit jacket and snapped it between his fingers, dropping th...