The Best Australian Stories 2012 Page 2

  ‘Dick,’ was her final summation before hanging up.

  It took me a moment to work out who Dick was. Hassle be damned, I was getting my number changed first thing in the morning.

  Through sheer self-discipline, I looked at my phone only once in the next twenty minutes. ‘A drunken joke am I?!?!’ was the only message received.

  I turned the phone off for the rest of the evening. And took the SIM card out, just in case.

  *

  I changed my number online to a random new one. It would take a few hours to take effect. A Google search on myself revealed little. Fortunately I’d never taken to social networking, and my unremarkable day-to-day life didn’t warrant a blog by or about me. Later, I restored the SIM, then deleted every trace of them from my phone. Short of relatives who were ASIO operatives, I was hopefully rid of Adam, Kate, Scott and whomever else they knew.

  I slept well.

  Till a message at 7 a.m. The phone company, asking if I was happy with their online services. I gave them my thoughts about being startled by unexpected morning messages.

  Taking advantage of the early start, I padded downstairs and threw the front curtains open, welcoming a fresh day’s sunlight.

  A strange car sat in my drive.

  I pulled the curtains straight back, praying I’d not been seen, then scampered to the kitchen to hide. An immediate scan for potential weapons. Nothing.

  No knock on the door. Had they seen me? Or were they toying?

  I let minutes pass, then snuck along the side wall to peer out a gap. I saw now that semi-translucent curtains were a mistake in the event of psychopathic attentions. I edged my eye round as far as I dared. A carport column blocked my view of the driver. But the car was definitely lurking. The driver could only be sitting, watching the house.

  Adam.

  I stood, not sure how to act. What did he intend to do? How might I escape? To where, now that I wasn’t safe in my own home? To walk out and confront, armed and dressed, or sit it out until sense was seen and he left without issue?

  Inertia. Twenty minutes? More?

  My neighbour popped out of his house in tennis gear, climbed into the stranger’s passenger seat, and they drove away.

  I would never visit that pub ever again.

  *

  Late afternoon, another strange car pulled into my drive and hovered, engine running.

  The curtains open, I was in full view on the couch.

  The car sat, idling. I couldn’t make out the driver, but I waited, confident after my earlier paranoia. And waited.

  This was different. The car lurked with intent. Purpose.

  The driver leant over for something. A weapon?

  A street directory.

  *

  I’m rational enough to recognise imagination running away with unrelated events. But they kept happening.

  I awoke next morning to my phone ringing. Work enquiring if I intended to grace them with my presence that day. My alarm clock was dead to the world, sitting in a near-noon sunbeam. On inspection, a circuit breaker had tripped during the night. The power box was prominent on the front wall. Child’s play to waltz in and tamper with. I looked for footprints in the garden bed. The mulch layer revealed nothing. I attached a small padlock to the power-box cover. The power company told me to remove it after one of their inspectors tried to read my meter a few days later. The box became a sitting duck again.

  Mail kept accidentally arriving in the wrong mailbox. Too many times for my neighbours to comfortably joke about our dopey postman.

  The home phone would ring, stopping before I reached it. Sometimes one ring. Sometimes three. Sometimes ten if I was out in the backyard.

  Then a flat tyre on my car. The spare was under-inflated too, though that was more my own neglect. I checked for sabotage. Adam hadn’t struck me as a psychological terrorist, but who knew with the insanely jealous. And what had happened with that other guy?

  A screw, embedded in the grooves. It was entirely possible a screw might lie on the road. And I might happen to drive over it. Exactly in the weak spot of my tread. Who was to say it wasn’t just misfortune?

  Until the day I came home to find the mouse head. Just a head, in the middle of my doormat. Waiting for me. Its cold dead eyes staring untold menace. Neighbourhood cat? Exactly dead centre?

  Then my phone rang.

  Fumbling the lock, I raced to the receiver and demanded caller identification. An Indian voice asked if I had considered an automatic roller door for my garage. ‘Only to lock out psychotic boyfriends,’ was my reply.

  ‘You are having boyfriend troubles?’ The telemarketer asked.

  ‘Am I ever.’

  ‘My advice: take him for a nice night out then give him a foot rub when you get home.’

  *

  A mobile and first name, to an address and home phone. From there, a letterbox could give bank and credit card details. What could be told from my statements, besides that I spend my money on an awful lot of crap? Pin numbers? Had I received anything recently that might have my signature?

  Had the neighbours blabbed? The old lady next door was notorious for knowing too much about our street, and all too keen to broadcast tidbits. The things she tells me about that couple at number fourteen. You should hear what they get up to. All it would take is someone to say they were a friend and the old girl could blab anything, from my whereabouts, work hours, recent visitors, to what day I put out my washing.

  Good lord, hadn’t I lost a T-shirt in the last wash?

  What had I started?

  You hear of nutters in the news. Road rage stirring short-fused people to insane acts of violence. Just for pushing in a queue of traffic. What could a misconstrued pass at a girlfriend bring about?

  I bought locks and stoppers for my windows and sliding doors, and requested a deadbolt from my landlord.

  *

  I couldn’t live like this.

  The only sensible course of action was to ring this Adam and explain it once and for all. And if need be, threaten to call the police.

  I picked up the mobile. The numbers no longer existed in the phone. I had been too thorough with cutting them off. I contacted my phone company for a log of incoming calls on the previous number. It was no longer associated with my account. I explained it was vital to ring back an ailing relative whose contact details I’d lost. For additional weight I said I’d just learnt they had barely days to live.

  ‘How’d you find that out?’ the phone company guy asked.

  ‘Another auntie told me.’

  ‘Why not just get the number off her, then?’

  ‘She told me by Twitter,’ I replied in a flash of inspiration. He sounded even more dubious when I said I’d lost her email too.

  ‘And your entire family doesn’t know the number either?’

  ‘I’m adopted and they all hate me. They’re my phone records, let me have them.’

  ‘We don’t keep that sort of information, anyway.’

  Surely they were archived?

  ‘Have you any idea how much storage that would require?’

  ‘What if the federal police wanted to check a person’s call history?’

  ‘They probably already do.’

  This seemed a fair point. ‘So you can’t help me.’

  ‘Not besides suggesting you keep in touch with your family more. They’re your kin, man. Blood is thicker than water.’

  ‘Is this conversation being recorded for quality purposes?’ It was. ‘Plenty of storage space for that, then.’

  He called me something that might be considered an issue on later review.

  Online, I changed my number back – luckily it was available. Then I waited.

  Nothing.

 
*

  I started visiting the pub where I made the fateful birthday card blunder. After-work drinks at first, then Friday nights, Saturdays and Sunday sessions. No sign of them. They were obviously not regulars.

  A barmaid became quite friendly as my visits grew frequent. She smiled as I handed over my phone number, but was less interested when I said to call me if she saw a girl of Kate’s description from what I could only vaguely remember. When I said to especially call if a big strong guy answering to Adam came in, the barmaid found another part of the bar that needed polishing.

  I tried other bars in the area. Did they even live in this suburb? Would I have to spread my search?

  My friends noted I was looking ill and stressed, and seemed to be going to the pub an awful lot. I couldn’t explain, it sounded irrational, but I had to find them. Before Adam found me. Before Adam did whatever happened with Simon to me.

  I would leap at any sound in the night, ready to attack, my cricket bat by the bed in case someone got in. I had nightmares about dark shadowy figures chasing me, my legs like lead, stuck in quicksand, snowdrifts or Kafka novels. People at work were noting bags under my eyes.

  Then one night I fell asleep on my couch, a finished DVD menu looping incessantly, but not enough to rouse me. I had no urge to watch horror movies anymore.

  A thundering knock on the door woke me. Half-asleep, I automatically stumbled to the door and turned the handle, before realising the news was full of stories like these. My breath gasped in preparation for an attack I had witlessly invited.

  Some drunk bloke was looking for number twenty-three, evidently too inebriated to notice the shiny brass six on my door. I gave directions. He eyed my bare torso and expressed admiration for my patterned boxers, then apologised if he had interrupted anything. As if anything could go on in my life while a nemesis lurked over every thought.

  I began the slow trudge upstairs to bed when my mobile rang. It was a completely unreasonable hour for anyone to be ringing.

  The number seemed familiar. Was it him? Her? I dithered to answer, then pressed the green button.

  The line was filled with a static of background music and crowd hubbub, then a female voice sing-songed ‘Pen-ny’ with well-lubricated good humour. The good humour instantly deflated when I said hello. The drunk girl asked if I was Penny, somewhat unnecessarily.

  Kate’s friend. Bingo! ‘But I am someone who needs to talk to you,’ I said.

  ‘This isn’t that creepy bloke from the pub a month ago? I told you to piss off.’

  ‘No, this is Rob.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy who left his number in Kate’s birthday card.’

  ‘Kate’s birthday was ages ago.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why are you ringing me about it?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Well, what the fuck, dude? What’s with you?’

  ‘You rang me.’

  ‘I was ringing Penny.’ She sighed woozily. ‘Frigging calls list. I need to organise my thing. I need a new phone.’ She groaned. ‘I need a lift.’

  ‘Well, I’m not giving you one.’

  ‘Dirty bastard.’

  ‘I’m not giving you a lift.’

  ‘Shit no, you weirdo. Ringing me up like this, trying to crack on to me.’

  ‘You rang me. It doesn’t matter. I need to talk to Kate.’

  ‘Kate isn’t here,’ the girl said, annoyed by the obviousness of the matter.

  ‘Not now. I need her number.’

  ‘You can’t ring me, then ask for some other girl’s number.’

  ‘Cheek of it,’ said another female voice nearby.

  ‘It’s some perve. Trying to score an easy root while I’m pissed.’

  ‘Tell him to fuck off.’

  ‘Hey,’ Kate’s friend almost yelled into the phone. ‘My mate says I should tell you to fuck off.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘As soon as you give me Kate’s number. I’m not trying to pick you, her or anyone up. I just need to talk to her.’

  ‘She’s seeing someone anyway.’

  ‘That’s why I need to talk to her. There’s a big misunderstanding that needs sorting out once and for all.’

  ‘Kate’s birthday was weeks ago.’

  I breathed a calming five seconds. ‘Yes, I know. Can I have her number?’

  ‘Hang on.’ There was a major shuffling, followed by a loud clunk and a ‘Shit, fucking dropped it.’ I held the phone from my ear. ‘Can you call us a taxi?’ Kate’s friend asked with utmost weariness.

  ‘Sure, when you give me Kate’s number.’

  ‘I want to go clubbing,’ demanded another drunken female voice. ‘Where are my shoes?’

  ‘Kate’s number. Do you have it?’

  ‘What? Yeah, sure. It’s …’ There seemed to be an awkward juggling of phone and address book. I would’ve asked her to SMS, but couldn’t trust the request to be remembered, the right number sent, to me or anyone. Short of calling her in the morning, when I would have her hangover to contend with, I persevered.

  ‘Who is this again?’

  ‘This is Rob.’

  ‘Is he sexy?’ asked the other female voice.

  ‘Where are my shoes?’ said the third with growing frustration.

  One more insistent request later, finally, blearily, I received the digits. Feeling brave, I asked her to repeat it. Besides some additional expletives, the numbers matched. I asked their current location.

  ‘What the fuck do you want to know that for?’

  ‘You wanted me to call you a taxi.’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine,’ she retorted. ‘We’re going to the club.’

  ‘Have a great time,’ I said, hoping this would be the last I’d talk to her.

  ‘Tell Penny to come down and join us.’

  ‘Will do,’ I said.

  ‘Where the fuck are my shoes?’

  I hung up. Mission accomplished. I had a number. One call remained to sort this whole mess out at last.

  For the first time in a fortnight, I slept well and contentedly.

  Until a bottle was broken somewhere in the street. I remained awake till near dawn, the number memorised.

  *

  Kate didn’t recognise my voice. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘This is Rob.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy who wrote on your birthday card.’

  ‘My birthday was weeks ago.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What did you write?’

  Precious life moments seemed to be passing. ‘My phone number.’

  ‘How did you get mine?’

  ‘From your friend. Look, I need to speak to your boyfriend, Adam.’

  ‘That wanker. He’s not my boyfriend.’

  ‘Yes he is. Isn’t he?’

  ‘We broke up. Well, I dumped him, anyway. He was a cheating prick.’

  ‘He was cheating?’

  ‘Yeah, the cocksucker. Why do you want to talk to him?’

  ‘Because he thought I was cheating with you.’

  ‘What would I be cheating with you for?’ I was almost affronted enough to list a few of my good points. ‘I don’t even know you.’

  ‘I know. That’s what I wanted to tell Adam.’

  ‘That I cheat with guys I don’t even know?’ she asked, maintaining a rage.

  ‘No! That it’s stupid for him to think you’re cheating with me.’

  ‘I don’t cheat with anyone.’

  ‘Except for Simon,’ I said without thinking. Or was it Scott?

  There was an iceberg of silence. ‘What do you know about Simon?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t even know Simon either.’
>
  ‘How did you find out about him, then?’

  A good journalist never reveals his sources, but I no longer gave a bollocks. ‘One of your friends told me. The point is, I need to speak to Adam.’

  ‘It was Fiona, wasn’t it?’ Kate railed. ‘I knew she wouldn’t keep a secret. Just because she got with Simon before I did.’

  ‘Simon must be quite a guy.’

  ‘I’m not speaking to him either. He got with Stacey.’

  ‘Does that stop you giving me his number?’

  ‘Simon’s?’

  ‘No, Adam’s!’

  ‘I erased it. I don’t want anything to do with that cheating prick again.’

  ‘You have no contact details for him at all?’

  ‘Just so you can go tell him about Simon? No way.’

  ‘I don’t give a toss what you did with Simon. Or Scott. I just want to tell Adam to stop hounding me like some jealous psycho.’

  ‘How did you know about Scott?’ Her anger was overtaken by surprise. ‘Adam’s jealous?’

  ‘Either that or sociopathic.’

  ‘What’s he done?’ I drew a blank on actual proven cases of anything really, but gave a vague list of recent ‘incidents,’ with only minimal embellishment to get the direness of my point across. ‘You’re sure it’s him doing this? Out of jealous rage, you reckon?’

  ‘I haven’t anything concrete yet, but I’m pretty sure he’s out to get me.’

  ‘You really think he cares that much about me?’

  ‘He seemed pretty angry back when he called. Furious, even. Half demented.’

  ‘So he does still care for me!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He didn’t seem to care that I dumped him. But if he’s actually angry and jealous …’

  ‘It was a while ago.’

  ‘I’m going to call him.’

  ‘You said you didn’t have his number.’

  ‘I’ll get it off his mate, Kev.’ She stopped. ‘Shame. I thought something might’ve been starting to happen with Kev.’

  ‘But I need to talk to Adam.’

  ‘So do I. We might have made the most horrible mistake.’

  She hung up. I could only hope they worked out whatever there was to work out.