The Best Australian Stories 2012 Read online

  I kept the cricket bat ready by the door just in case.

  *

  Days went by without incident. I approached something near regular sleeping habits. I began to calm, joking with friends and workmates, and not jumping with each sweep of headlights through my front window.

  It was a Wednesday evening when a vaguely familiar number rang.

  ‘Is this someone called Rod?’ Adam’s voice.

  ‘Rob,’ I corrected, then instantly regretted it. Perhaps the only reason he hadn’t hunted me down properly was the difference of just a single letter.

  ‘Mate,’ he said. ‘You are a champion.’

  I remained silent, the words It’s a trap in my head.

  ‘I dunno what you said to Kate, but mate, it worked a treat.’

  I gave a noncommittal ‘Oh.’

  ‘We’re back together again. Better than ever. And yesterday, I popped the question. And, mate – she said yes.’

  I offered what I hoped sounded like hearty congratulations. The way Adam was gushing I suspected he had rung the wrong person. But he continued, and it became clear I had somehow corrected all the ills of their relationship. They’d ‘come to their senses’ and were now completely in love. Proper love.

  ‘Not just rooting,’ Adam explained. ‘All that other shit like buying a house and having kids, too.’

  Growing in confidence, I gave further congratulations. ‘I guess this means you’ll stop stalking me,’ I blurted, carried away with the new-found rapport.

  The line fell silent. Then he said, ‘I’ve been doing what?’

  I stammered a tentative list of terrors. Adam paused, then laughed. ‘Not me, mate. I barely knew you from a bar of soap before today.’

  Fortunately I restrained myself from recapping the whole ordeal. Keep quiet, you fool!

  ‘Gotta say, that’s sounding a bit bloody paranoid to me.’

  I had to agree, in retrospect.

  ‘You’re a single fella, aren’t you?’ Adam deduced.

  I admitted this was so, but remained adamant that it was not a factor.

  ‘Been single a while, too?’

  Who has time for romance when a psychopath – real or imagined – is out to get you?

  ‘What you need is a good root, I’d say,’ Adam concluded. ‘Soon set you right.’ I struggled for a reply. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll send your number off to a nice girly. Mate’s ex. She’s been having a dry stretch herself.’

  I assured him this wasn’t necessary. He didn’t take no for an answer, much less even notice it.

  So he did.

  And she rang.

  We met.

  Now we’re seeing each other. And we both agreed wholeheartedly never to go near Adam, Kate or any of their friends again.

  Apparently they sent us a wedding invite. Christ only knows who received that.

  [untitled]

  And Senseless Acts

  Eva Lomski

  This big man in a furry coat, he gets on at Flinders Street and walks down the carriage, people all avoiding looking at him. He’s wearing a black beanie pulled down low, and he has a wide, white face – reminds me of those husky dogs you see pulling sleds on TV. Malamutes, they’re called. One eye’s funny, and he’s got these three bags stuffed full of stuff. He shuffles past and says, Sit down mate, sit down, and I know he’s not talking to me, not talking to anyone, and wouldn’t you know it, of all the places he sits right behind me.

  My leg with the veins starts twitching, but at least he’s quiet, and he stays that way while the train pulls out. It’s busy for an afternoon train, which means one in four seats is taken, people making sure not to sit next to anyone else. Weather like this, clothes are all stinky from rain. I check to make sure I don’t recognise the faces. I finally got myself in a tidy place after Lev was killed walking the dog. Anxiety levels are way down, but I still try never to take the same train twice, doesn’t pay to let anyone know your routine. Who’d believe it’s been a year already?

  Meantime, I feel the man’s fingers on the back of my seat and I shift, because who likes to be touched? Poor thing, reckon he’s homeless, but at least he’s not next to me. I can sit calm and read this book for class. Doctor made me enrol, said I needed to connect; I said, people like me, disconnect’s a blessing. It’s the book of a movie I saw for the first time maybe twenty-five years ago, back when Lev and I celebrated wedding anniversaries with movies and such. The character, McMurphy, turns up at a nuthouse and rattles the cage of a nurse called Ratched. Funny, sad. Tragic, actually.

  *

  The man behind me whimpers and I think, hell, maybe he’s seen what I’m reading and thinks I’m making fun of him, sitting here reading about nuthouses and crazy guys. I peer at his reflection in the window across the aisle, but he’s not looking at me. In fact his back is turned, and he’s staring at some poor girl in a tartan parka in another seat, small and chewing gum. Reminds me of my Lucy. Wonder where she is now?

  I start to worry he’s going to say or do something to the girl. What if she starts crying and screaming? What would I do if she did? Would I stand and say, leave her alone, and if I did, would he yell and smash me about the head with his bags, maybe taking out a knife?

  But in the reflection, Malamute-man just sits there before turning back my way. I pretend I don’t see. That’s the beauty of sunglasses.

  He starts whispering. Sit down, mate, sit down.

  The train’s emptying and I notice something. The more people get off, the louder the man gets. Sit down, MATE. Sit down. And then he starts having a conversation, like there’s someone in the seat next to him. Horses, mate. The gee-gees. Didja get that money on? You what?

  So I’m thinking, should I move? Would he think I was moving because of him? Would he turn on me and start smashing me about the head? Should I get off at the next stop and run to a carriage in front and get on again? One thing’s for sure – he’s not thinking about getting off. He’s happy as a puppy in a sausage factory. Far as I can tell, he’s having a conversation and calling the race too. Get your money on Balcony-In-Blue. Horsham races, mate, gotta get there. And they’re racing. Come on, Blue, come on. Coming to the first turn.

  This woman in the seat in front of me, I see her start to stiffen like a slug when you first touch it. She’s got her ears on, listening to Malamute-man, same way I am. The backs on her earrings are so straight and perfect I know she’s never had to cope with a crazy before.

  Keep the spirit, Horsham. Let us pray. Coming into the last turn. Go! Pulling ahead is Balcony-In-Blue. WE DID IT! Fifteen-thousand dollars! We’re RICH.

  He’s slapping his knees, whooping. I think the woman in front might very well vomit. She’s scooping up her things, and she shoots out of her seat and down the aisle to the door. Old crazy is muttering away, and the next thing he’s walking past me, still chuckling, shuffling up behind the woman. I see her eyeing the emergency button. Fifteen-thousand dollars, can you believe it? Come on, Blue, sit down.

  At the next stop he gets off and I watch him through the window. He walks like he’s walking into the wind, the funny eye pointing in my direction and the other one glaring straight ahead. I reckon he has all his clothes in those bags of his. Peeking out the top of one is a stuffed blue bunny.

  I forget about him when I get to my stop, because some dopehead has stolen my old bike, and I have to go to the police station. Whacha mean did I lock it up? Do I look like an idiot? I’m angry because that bike has been better to me than most people I know, and what that dopehead’s caused me is trouble I don’t want or need. What I want and need after a day surrounded by noise and people is to get home as quick as possible, feed the cat, pray for forgiveness and sit very, very still.

  *

  But later that week, I see some stuffed toys in an op
shop window and remember the man, and for the hell of it, I google it in the library. ‘Horsham. Horses. $15,000.’

  And I see this: $15,000 to the winner of Horsham Garden Mint. And I realise the article is dated the same day as the day on the train. But here’s the thing. The race didn’t happen until long after I’d gotten off the train, probably around the same time I was filling out my name at the police station.

  *

  I don’t see Malamute-man again until the following Thursday. I’m in the front carriage this time, thinking there’s less chance of crazies here, but wouldn’t you know it, he finds me. Wearing the same coat, he’s walking up and down, trying first one seat and then another. People are doing the shifty knee thing, bunching their legs together whenever he passes, like he was intending to stick his bags up their wazoos.

  He’s talking more than last time. I’m thinking, if he talks about the gee-gees, I’m off this train and into the nearest betting shop to put my money on. I’ve been googling it. There are these scientists doing experiments, and they found these people, they respond to things that are about to happen five seconds before they happen. And here’s the thing – their heart responds faster than their brain. So some other scientist hooked up machines all over the world measuring people’s responses, and get this; before the planes crashed into the twin towers in New York, four hours before, the machines went crazy.

  This time the man’s real restless. Foot’s jiggling, funny eye swivelling in all directions. He’s talking, same thing over and over, but he speaks in a whimper, and it takes me a while to figure out the words.

  One dead and thirty-seven injured in train crash.

  My heart does a little skip, and I check to see if anyone else has heard. There’s a woman in green and purple – the type to chain herself to trees; a jerk in a suit talking into his phone about fridges – if he were American the accent would be Brooklyn; and two teenage girls in school uniforms. No one is paying Malamute-man any attention. They’re ignoring him the same way I used to be able to. He sits one seat up, opposite me, with his feet in the aisle.

  One dead, thirty-seven injured, he keeps saying. Thirty-SEVEN. He glares at me.

  Now I’m really worrying. Exactly what train is he talking about? Because if it’s this one, I’m getting off at the next stop.

  The train halts, and before I get my wits about me, these three boys come on, all swagger and something else nasty. They spot Malamute-man and zoom in on him like those cruise missiles you read about, so good they can zoom in on a boil on a baby. The man shifts in his seat across to the window.

  Hey stupid, says one of the boys. He’s wearing a hoodie and his pants are hanging so far down his crotch, I’m thinking, boy, how big is the thing you think you got down there?

  His friends laugh. They know their roles.

  Stupid, I’m talking to you, says Crotch-boy.

  It seems to me the man is getting smaller. His head is shrinking below the back of the seat. I’m worrying for him, and I’m worrying for me. What if these stupid boys start smashing him about the head? Should I say something? No way these other people are going to do anything. What if Crotch-boy turns on me and sticks his pimples in my face, yelling stuff about nosy old women? What if he sprays me with spray paint before slicing me up with the knife he’s got hidden down his stinking pants?

  Crotch-boy spits. The spit lands on the man’s cheek. His friends spit too. They laugh and head down the carriage and out the door and into the next carriage, and I know they’re off to make sure their crotches get their fill of fun for the day.

  Malamute has found a hankie somewhere and he’s wiping his face, scrutinising us – Suit-jerk, Greenie, the schoolgirls and me. When he inspects me, I’m glad I’m wearing the sunglasses, because I’m sure I’ve got the same shamed look in my eyes as the sick crank who stopped beating his dog only after realising the pee hadn’t moved and the dog was a trembling, desperate-to-please mess. What did I do wrong, Master?

  The man pulls things out of his bags. Greenie is watching, and I see her thinking about switching carriages. Onto the floor tumble the blue bunny, the black beanie, a plastic mug, a pair of jeans, a newspaper and a pencil case.

  You ask me, says Suit-jerk into his phone, you ask me I’d do it smarter. I’m telling you, ring the fridge mechanic in Sydney.

  Your boobs were hanging out, says one schoolgirl to the other.

  More bra than there was top, says the second.

  More underwear than there was wear, says the first.

  One DEAD, let us pray, says Malamute-man and unzips the pencil case. He pulls out rosary beads.

  How could I have forgotten about the train crash?

  Mate, says Suit-jerk, you’re not listening to me. Frank is redundant to this argument. My advice to you is this, get onto the fridge mechanic in Sydney.

  All these people going home to their husbands and wives, says one schoolgirl.

  Losers, says the other.

  Slow is how I have to manage it, says Suit-jerk. You’re not doing this smart. You’re losing focus … FOCUS, do you hear?

  Malamute-man jumps from his seat, waving his rosary beads like he was warding off vampires. Sit down, he barks at Suit-jerk.

  Suit-jerk pauses, the phone in midair. He half smiles, half frowns, a salesman dealing with an irate customer. Okay, big guy, he says finally, I’m sitting down.

  Gotta go, he says into the phone.

  Malamute’s watching back and forth while the guy shuts his phone, and then he shuffles back to his bags and starts piling everything back in again.

  One dead and thirty-seven injured in train crash, he says to the carriage. One DEAD.

  So now I’m spooked and remembering what else I googled. ‘Presentiment’ is what they called it. Get this. All four of the hijacked planes on 9/11 only had half the regular number of passengers, like the other half knew something terrible was about to happen and decided to stay home for an extra serve of pancakes.

  Can’t do that, says one of the schoolgirls, same as if it were your man.

  I love you too, says the other, you’re such a whore.

  Don’t need that shit, seriously, says the first.

  One dead and thirty-seven injured.

  The train starts to slow.

  What now? says Suit-jerk, and glimpses around to see if anyone’s heard him talking to himself. I heard you, I’m thinking.

  An announcement comes over the speakers, but it’s feeding back, or maybe the driver’s got some accent you need to be Santa Claus to understand. Anyway, the train stops on a bridge over the highway before the overpass tunnel, nice view of the carbon dioxide and electrical retailers down below.

  What’s happening? says a schoolgirl.

  Delay at the next station, says Suit-jerk, puffing up like she was the heat and he was the popcorn. She giggles at his weasel-male puffiness.

  Thirty-seven injured, Malamute-man says. Thirty-seven injured and one dead.

  That’s it, I have to talk to him.

  Excuse me, I say across the aisle.

  Everyone stops what they’re doing. Their ears are quivering like mice in the dark.

  Excuse me, I say louder.

  Malamute-man gives me a ‘What, me?’ expression, and I realise it’s probably been a long time since someone was polite to him. He’s examining my old coat and my sneakers and cut-off gloves. The rosary beads hang around his neck.

  I can’t help but hear you talking, I say to him. What’s that you said about a train crash?

  For god’s sake, says the Greenie. We eyeball her. Leave him alone, she says, can’t you see he’s not right?

  Sit down, he says, quiet.

  This is too creepy, says a schoolgirl.

  There’s another announcement I don’t understand. Malamute-man shoots over
to the window, scrunching his body. He starts crying.

  Now look what you’ve done, says Suit-jerk to the air.

  Malamute-man’s hands are clenched near his face. Balcony-In-Blue, he cries softly. Let us pray.

  Greenie stands and hightails it to the door even though the train is stock still, and so does one of the schoolgirls.

  You be right, she says to the other schoolgirl.

  Fine, the other one says. Ta. Love ya.

  I didn’t mean to offend you, I say to Malamute-man.

  He glances around, tears like icicles on his white face.

  Suit-jerk is back on the phone. Train delay, he says. Have you talked to the fridge mechanic?

  Malamute-man kicks over his bags. Stuff flies everywhere, across the aisle, under the seats. He’s stopped crying, but he has the beaten-dog look about him.

  My chest feels heavy as asthma. I hate that look. Since Lev was killed because of me, and I don’t care what the doctor says about bereavement and blame, I see it in the mirror way too often, even after all the counselling, even after I’ve made the effort to go out to the supermarket or to class. Before I can think, I’m out of my seat, gathering things I wouldn’t normally touch for worrying about insects and germs and things. This man’s a big kid, I’m thinking, and kids I know how to deal with. I’ve even had some of my own, though I’ve lost them somewhere on the other side of the world.

  Here, I say, here, and hand him the blue bunny and the newspaper and a roll of toilet paper and something furry that may or may not be a muff. We’re both on our knees and up close his eye’s not that bad, and he doesn’t smell like I thought he would. More like mothballs really, and who doesn’t smell like mothballs in the winter?

  I catch his eye, the good one, and it darts down to where he’s stuffing something into his bags. It’s one of those plastic ziplock things and it’s full of cash, must be thousands of dollars in there.

  God almighty, I splutter. Then, Be careful with that, don’t let anyone see.

  He nods.