When you’re in pain, you focus on details.
Details are a distraction. They give your mind something to latch onto, so it’s not spinning in circles going ‘oh jesus god fuck that really hurts’. And when every part of you is sensitive, when every part is searing, you notice the little things.
Last night, I spent a really long time looking at Marcus Anderson’s shirt.
Black buttons, a thick weave in the fabric, the tiny green alligator sewed on the breast pocket… I could draw that fucking shirt from memory now. It got to the point where I was hoping Ando would go home and change, just to give me some variety.
By that stage, though, we’d moved on from establishing that I knew Amie Blunt, that yes, her father was a cop, and yes, I had indeed first met her at Ouyen hospital (all true). We’d arrived at meatier subjects: how did she know the house, what had I told her, was I fucking her. At which point I headbutted Ando, snatched my phone out of his hand and smashed it on the bed frame, and if that wasn’t a confession of guilt, I dunno what else they needed.
Not much, as it turned out. That was around the time I became intimately acquainted with the carpet.
I honestly don’t know how long I was in Barry’s room. The carpet there is fucking awful, but. A hard-pile weave, full of lint and old dust. Terrible on your throat, inhaling all that dust. All I could think was, this revolting carpet is in my room too, and I just put up with it.
Reggie came in with a mugful of water at some hour – I gave him the eye to stay out of it, and Ando chucked him out anyway. Reggie looked remorseful, but there wasn’t nothing he could do. And none of this was his fault. How was he to know? I think he did his penance, anyway, listening to me groan through the walls while he was in the living room.
After a while, we ended up here. I dunno where here is, exactly, but I’ve had time to notice the details. The dirt on the floor is firm-packed, a nice shade of brown, and it smells of oil. It’s possible farming equipment was once stored here.
The walls are tin, and there’s a steel centre pole which I’ve become matey with. A pallet of concrete mix bags sits in the rear right corner. An old wooden desk occupies the other corner, and there was a wooden chair with a cane seat, but it didn’t prove up to the task of supporting the weight of one grown man pummelling another guy. Snowie broke the rest of it up for kindling.
The fire was a good distraction, but after a while I couldn’t look at it.
Now I got the fades. Normally, I’d fight it; lapsing in and out of consciousness can’t be great for your health. But it’s been nearly twenty-four hours, and I’m dry. My head’s still pounding – from that very first punch of Ando’s, I think – and my ears are ringing.
I don’t have the energy to deal with all the hurts, so I’ve turtled down inside myself. It’s what I used to do when I was a kid: find a refuge. A place you can go when everything on the surface of your skin and beyond is outside your control.
It’s an enduring place. It used to be a grey empty place as well, but I’ve discovered someone here with me now, someone I want to see. I’ve got all these memories of Amie’s face, the touch of her skin, the soft secret parts of her, the way she laughs… So there’s something to sustain me. The pain is just pain, it’ll come and it’ll go again. I can hold on. I can endure.
It still hurts. But I have the memory of Amie’s voice.
So when therealityof Amie’s voice appears somewhere outside, I have trouble distinguishing one from the other. Then I hear Ando speak, and realise I have to pay attention.
‘Turns out,’ Ando says, ‘thathe’sthe dog, butshe’sthe bitch.’
A scuffling sound, a gasp. The sound of feet spinning on the dirt. A grunt.
‘Touch me again,’ Amie says ferociously, ‘and I’ll kick you in the balls so hard you’ll be pissing blood for a week.’
I can imagine her saying it. Then I don’t have to imagine, she’s right here. Her face is right in front of me.
‘Oh Jesus, Harris…’ She kneels beside me, puts an arm behind my shoulders, straightens me up where I’m listing against the centre pole. ‘Goddamnit. Just…fuckinggoddamnit.’
You’re not real.
‘Oh, I’m real.’ She gives me a grim look. ‘I’m really real, and I’m really hacked off.’ She turns her head. ‘Give me some water. Yes, you, Snowie Geraldson. You should be bloody ashamed of yourself, and don’t give me that look, either. When your dad finds out –’
‘Dad’s not gonna –’ Snowie starts.
‘Snowie, shut your mouth,’ Ando interrupts. ‘Andyou, you little Paki shit –’
‘D’you want us alive for your boss or what?’ Amie sounds furious and wheedling at the same time. ‘Cos Harris is gonna peak from dehydration any minute now, thenyou’llbe the one fronting Leon –’
‘Ah,fuck,’ Ando says, his voice sullen.
There’s a bit of moving around. Something flomps down on the dirt beside me. Amie snatches it up. I hear plastic unscrewing.
‘Here,’ Amie whispers. ‘Just a little sip…’
God, that’s cold. I hiss in a breath, choke a bit on the water, swallow twice. I can feel the inside of my mouth for the first time in a while, but it isn’t much fun.
