Payback

What I didn't know at the time was that I was the first woman Angus had ever bought home. His parents and siblings had met previous girlfriends and lovers of his, but it had never been an intended, formal introduction -- if you could call randomly taking me home to the family abode a formal introduction, but in Angus' book it was, and that was all that mattered.

I was extremely fortunate in that Angus' immediate family unhesitatingly welcomed me into their home. My family, both immediate and extended, weren't nearly so nice. Every interaction between them and Angus felt like a contact sport my boyfriend hadn't signed up for, and which I was forced to referee. They hated him and were horrified by the possibility of us procreating together.

And they were right to fear it because we both wanted children. I longed for a baby and always welcomed the offer to cuddle one of Angus' nieces or nephews.

I'd been with Angus four or five months when his youngest sister had a baby with a white man. They took the child to Auntie Rose's and I was offered a cuddle, which I eagerly accepted. I cradled the infant in my arms and wondered if this was what my and Angus' baby would look like. Maybe it would look like this one, with light brown skin and curled black hair. Maybe it would be a boy. Maybe it would be a girl, like this baby. I didn't care either way, I just wanted one.

'You'll have one of those sooner or later,' Auntie Rose told Angus while eyeing me up.

Angus shook his head. 'Not yet. Not until we're married and living in a house of our own.'

'That's something a man would say,' his mother argued good-naturedly. 'Babies often come along of their own accord.'

'Like hell they do,' Angus replied. 'Don't go encouraging Hez to try and get pregnant, Mum.'

I met Angus' gaze and shook my head slightly, to tell him that I'd never try and have a baby until he was agreeable to it. I wanted one, I desperately craved a baby, but I wanted him to be excited about a pregnancy, too, and I knew that wasn't going to happen quickly.

Angus and I moving out, on the other hand, was a more achievable goal and one which we were both keen to achieve. My boyfriend's parents were in housing commission and there were strict rules about income levels of public housing residents, and as Angus' career had progressed, he'd pushed them past these limits.

We talked at length about living together and both agreed it would make both our lives' better. His parents wouldn't have to worry about losing their commission home, and neither Angus nor I would need to slink around guiltily trying to escape to a bedroom in either his parent's house or my mother's when we wanted sex.

We knew exactly what we wanted; a nice house in one of Logan's better suburbs and because we were both working and had little in the way of debt, neither of us had anticipated any problems in securing a rental. Or, rather, I hadn't anticipated any problems. Angus had urged me to inspect houses without him, and had only reluctantly attended when I prodded him.

'I'm not choosing a house for both of us!' I told him. 'You earn more than me. More of your wages will go towards rent than mine.'

'I don't know,' he replied doubtfully. 'You can just choose something.'

'No!'

Despite my family's attitude towards Angus, I'd been blissfully ignorant as to how pervasive discrimination against Aboriginals could be. Our house hunt was not as easy as it was for my white friends, who were starting to move out of home and into rentals. While my peers were accepted into properties, Angus and I were repeatedly declined.

When we questioned them, the estate agents would tell us that they couldn't let us inspect our preferred house as it was 'already let' or 'the landlord's policy was no tenants under thirty' and would instead guide us towards run down properties in terrible neighbourhoods.

Angus, who was always careful to dress neatly when visiting the estate agent's, would nod and say 'okay' and try to lead me away. I started to get suspicious. I started to ask questions, ignoring Angus tugging me by the wrist.

It wasn't until a property manager sharply reprimanded Angus to 'stop that, you' when he was pulling me away, that it started to make sense.

I stared at the woman, wondering why she'd taken exception to Angus.

'That's just what he does,' I explained.

'It's abuse,' she scolded me.

'It's not,' I replied, almost laughing at the idea. It was utterly preposterous that she would interpret Angus' behaviour as domestic violence, when Angus was one of those big, friendly types who wouldn't hurt a fly. 'It's just one of his quirks.'

Angus and I went outside.

'Sorry,' he mumbled.

'She's just stupid.'

'You'll never get a nice house with me around,' he said miserably. 'Maybe we should see if we can get a housing commission place.'

'There's a long wait list and we both have jobs. I'm not even sure we'd qualify.'

Angus fell silent. Eventually he spoke.

'We're going to need to find somewhere less good to live in,' he said.

'But we can afford the rent of every place we've looked at! Easily!'

He didn't bite back. He rarely argued with me, preferring to ignore any angst or trouble. 'Let's go back to Mum and Dad's house.'

We went back to his house, where several of his extended family members were sitting in the kitchen eating hummingbird cake and caramel slice. Angus took a hunk of cake and a cup of tea and slunk off out the back where the men were sitting. I miserably watched him go, wishing he'd talk to me.

Auntie Rose handed me a piece of caramel slice and asked me if we'd fought.

'No,' I replied. 'We can't find a house to rent and a property manager accused him of domestic violence.'

A flurry of conversation followed, with the women quickly condemning the estate agent for accusing Angus of assault when he was one of the gentlest men around.

'But if you want to rent a house,' one of the women added. 'You'll need to go to certain estate agents, the ones who are willing to rent to blackfellas. You can't just get whatever house you want. You have to stick to what you're offered.'

I literally dropped the piece of caramel slice I was holding onto my plate.

'That can't be it,' I argued.

The room fell silent.

~~~~~~~

I tested the women's theory that it was racism holding us back on Monday. I called one of the estate agents who had previously declined three of our rental applications and asked for a listing of available properties. To my surprise, two of the houses we'd applied for were still listed for rent. I picked up the phone and asked to speak to the property manager and, just to make sure, asked if two of the places were actually still available.

'Sure are,' she replied. 'We've been having a few issues finding quality tenants.'

On Tuesday I went by myself and inspected the first of the properties, one that Angus and I had both loved. When I returned to the estate agent to return the keys, the property manager asked if I wanted to submit an application. I said I did, paid a week's deposit, and filled in the forms.

Two hours later I received a call to advise that Angus and I had been approved for the house. Peter was out the back and there were no customers around, so I decided to quiz the property manager a bit before accepting the offer to rent the house.

'That's funny,' I said. 'Because my boyfriend and I applied for the house two weeks ago and were told that the house had been leased to someone else.'

The property manager was immediately on the back foot. There was guilt in her voice. 'We thought we'd found tenants,' she lied. 'They changed their mind.'

'Right, so why didn't you call us back when you found out you were wrong?' I asked, my voice rising with sheer, unmitigated anger. 'And why, when I called you yesterday, did you tell me you were having issues finding 'quality tenants', rather than saying that your preferred tenants backed out? I'm starting to suspect that once you saw my boyfriend was Aboriginal, you decided not to rent the house to us, but without him around, you assumed my partner was white and suddenly it all became okay.'

'I don't need to explain myself to you, missy.'

'And I don't need to rent your fucking house you stupid fat slut of a mole!' I snapped.

'You're not getting your deposit back.'

'Cram it in your fat, racist cunt,' I spat. 'Bitch.'

Then I slammed down the phone and tried to stop shaking with rage. Peter came back in and asked what the problem was.

'An aggressive telemarketer,' I lied.

'That's no good,' he said. 'How about you go outside for a smoke and calm down?'

I went outside for a cigarette. I was hoping Angus might be around, but he wasn't, so I just smoked as quickly as possible, trying to calm myself down, before going back to the store.

Peter was waiting for me.

'We need to talk,' he said. 'A property manager just rang and complained about you. She said you'd called her a racist mole.'

I burst into tears. I've never been great at confrontation; tears always follow anger, and now they'd started, I couldn't get them to stop.

Peter put the 'closed' sign on the door and took me into his back office. He asked me to explain what had gone on, and through sobs and splutters, I told him about the housing fiasco. Angus' family was now under extreme pressure to move out of their commission house, and I'd just wasted the equivalent to a week's rent proving someone's actions were racially motivated.

'You know what you need to do?' Peter said.

I shook my head.

'You need to buy a house,' he said. 'Banks can't discriminate. If you and Angus have clear credit histories, a deposit and jobs, and can afford the repayments, then that's all that matters.'

'We don't have a deposit.'

Peter offered to lend us one.

2017

The woman Ciaran had been calling to his hotel room was a masseuse. For fifty extra she'd manually finish him, for a hundred it was oral and for one fifty she'd fuck hm.

'We'd better stick to either of the latter two,' I said as we walked out of the bar and into the carpark. 'I'm not very good at jerking men off. I've always wondered how rub n tug ladies managed to finish their clients. I'd have had muscles like Popeye.'

'Speaking from personal experience, I was always almost ready to go by the time she reached that point of the service. It didn't take much.'

I unlocked my car doors and we both got in. Neither of us had massage oil so we were heading to a local 7-eleven to purchase some.

'My first lady, Felicity, wasn't really a sex worker,' Ciaran explained, strapping himself in. 'She was a proper, qualified masseuse. The first three visits were run of the mill, but I was single, so I was always careful to, uh, knock one out before she came to avoid getting a hard on while she was touching me. Half an hour before she's due to arrive for the fourth visit, I'd just finished having a shower and was sitting on the bed taking busy taking care of myself when I heard a tap on the door.'

'Oh no.'

'I tried to pretend it was all legit, but we both knew what I'd been doing. I died a thousand deaths,' he said. 'She initially thought I'd set her up to catch me, but when she double checked the text I'd sent her, she realised she was early. She apologised, I apologised, but my dick was still hard and wouldn't stop being hard. The whole massage it just... wouldn't go down. She asked if I wanted her to end my misery...'

'...end your misery?' I asked with a giggle.

'Her exact words,' he replied ruefully. 'But she wasn't being unkind, and I told her that if she didn't mind, I'd appreciate her doing it. So, she did it. It must've taken all of sixty seconds. The next time she came around, we talked terms.'

'She must've liked you.'

'I hope so. I liked her. Not in a romantic sense, neither of us felt that, but I appreciated her extra services.' He let out a low laugh. 'When I was younger I never would have believed I'd be the type of man who'd pay for sex, but there I was. Here I am. And, with the right woman, it's still good.'

'But your second woman wasn't good?'

'No, terrible, but she was a proper rub n' tug girl. With a masseuse you shower before they arrive, but the rub n tug girl -- Skylar, she said her name was -- always had me shower after she'd arrived. Then it was a substandard massage and an unenthusiastic hand job, all done as quickly as possible. No conversation. Plus, as I said, she didn't like me, and I didn't like her.'

'You want a connection.'

'Yeah, I guess I do. There's no other women in my life. I'm either on a mine site with mainly other men, or at home with my folks and my kids. I miss female company. Does that sound pathetic?'

'No, it sounds like you have a good grasp of what you want. I hope my idea of a massage won't disappoint you.'

'It won't,' he replied confidently. 'I can tell. I appreciate you doing this.'

I didn't tell him it barely registered in the effort stakes. Since Angus had died I'd suffered through halitosis, bad behaviour, limp cocks and men who felt being hung automatically meant they were good lovers.

We went to the convenience store. I waited outside while Ciaran went in, returning a short time later with a plastic bag.

'Donut?' he offered.

'That'd be great, thanks,' I said. I was hungry, not having eaten dinner, and the donut was better than nothing.

He handed me a jam-filled one and picked a chocolate iced for himself. He gave me the bag to hold while he strapped himself and I realised he'd bought six donuts, two bottles of chocolate milk, condoms and massage oil.

'Are you a stoner?' I asked.

'Nope, just wanted a sugar hit. You?'

'No.' I shook my head. 'Just asking.'

'Can you pass me another donut please? Any one will do.'

I handed him a donut.

'Help yourself,' he added.

'No, no, one's enough.'

We went back to his motel room. It was there that Ciaran started to show signs of being nervous. He apologised for the state of his room, even though it wasn't that messy, and told me he'd go and shower so he didn't smell.

'Can I watch?' I asked.

'Yeah, but I'm uh,' he gestured to his crotch. 'Already getting hard.'

'That's okay. Just relax.' I tried to give him a reassuring smile. I didn't want him to be nervous. He was a nice man. 'We're both people doing things we wouldn't have dreamt of doing years ago, so you don't need to worry. I won't judge. I hope you won't judge, either.'

'No, definitely won't,' he agreed.

We went into the tiny motel bathroom together. Ciaran peeled off his blue, v-neck shirt, unbuckled his belt and removed his shoes. Wearing nothing but his jeans, he leant into the shower-over-bath and turned on the taps.

'You have an incredibly good body,' I noted, staring at him. He was five foot eleven or so, with a medium build but he had plenty of naturally built muscle on him and no extra fat. A twenty-two year old would have been stoked to have his torso, but he was a good ten years' older than that. 'How old are you?'

'Thirty-six.'

'Thirty-six? You're in bloody good shape.'

He glanced at himself in the mirror and I knew what he was checking; his hairline. Then he turned back to me, gave me a rueful shrug, and started to lower his jeans.

'Honest question,' I said. 'Please don't take this the wrong way but FIFO workers earn a decent amount, don't they?'

'If you're skilled, experienced and do a half-decent job, yes,' he agreed.

'And you're a diesel fitter. How long have you worked in mining?'

'Twelve years. I left school at sixteen, did an apprenticeship.... Guess nobody really does that anymore...'

'...no, they all seem to go through to Grade Twelve,' I agreed.

'My parents couldn't afford for me to keep going to school,' he said, finding the water to his liking and unbuttoning his jeans. 'I can't imagine how my parents would have coped if they had to pay for two more years' of schooling, buy an iPad... one of my mates has a sixteen year old daughter and her learner's permit and test could near on two hundred bucks and she has to do a hundred hours of driving... makes it hard if you're young and poor. Anyway, I did my apprenticeship and a year or so later, my employer went under, so I applied for a job with BHP and got it.'

'Where are you from?'

'Inala. We live at Yamanto now. It's a lot better. You?'

'I grew up in Woodridge, I live at Loganholme these days.'

Ciaran's jeans and underwear were now lying in a puddle on the floor. His cock was quite hard and noticeably jutting out, and he quickly stepped under the water and turned so that his back was facing me. He had a cute bum.

'I earn over two hundred grand a year,' he said.

'I figured as much,' I agreed. 'I'd heard the salaries are ridiculous. I suppose I was just curious. You're a good-looking man and you earn a lot of money, so it seems odd that you don't have a girlfriend.'

Ciaran unwrapped the motel soap and started lathering under his arms. 'My ex-partner, the boys' mother, told me she was on the pill. I don't think she was. We hadn't been together very long, only a few months, at the time, when she told me she was pregnant. I asked her to have an abortion. She said 'no'. Fair enough. Her choice I guess, but I was angry, because I doubted her story and also because I'd sworn not to have kids until I was older, settled and could afford them. Growing up, I always knew how little I had.'

'I didn't. I had no idea.'

'Hah. Half your luck. I hated being poor.' He washed the soap away. 'I hated FIFO but I figured it was a good way to set myself up, so that when I was older and settled and wanted a family, my kids would have a better life. It was never to pay for a woman. I have two kids now. Both to the same mother, the one who left me for the Kiwi. The older one is neurotypical, the younger has intellectual delays. I'm just working and working until I need to stop, to put money aside for their futures. Also, with my schedule... and living with my parents... and having a child who's less than perfect... I'm low down the list of 'appealing men'.'

'I'm sorry. I understand.'

'It's not that I don't want a partner, because I do, desperately. I want someone to love, someone to cuddle up to at night, someone to have that intense, emotional sex that you have with someone you care for, and I want someone to ring when I've had a shitty day and have them tell me everything will be alright.' He leant down to wash his legs. 'I want to do the same for someone, too. I want to be their support. I'm just realistic. I know it won't happen. But I love sex, I miss it, I miss the intimacy, I miss the stress relief, miss everything about it when I'm not getting it.

'How old were you when you started really enjoying sex? I was in my late twenties. I'd been with my husband for a good seven or eight and the sex had always been good, but suddenly it just seemed to get amazing. I began to crave it, rather than just give it when asked.'

Ciaran turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. 'Sex is always great when a woman initiates it, but to answer your questions, I was probably mid twenties when it started being really good. I stopped being so insecure. Then,' he grimaced. 'She cheated. So whatever I thought I saw in sex was obviously just an illusion. Still, it felt good.'

He towelled himself off and headed towards the bed.

'I'm sorry for rambling,' he apologised. 'I'm oversharing and none of it is sexy conversation, is it? We should talk about you. Tell me about you, your husband, and where he is now. Did you divorce him?'

'My husband was murdered, so we can pick another topic,' I said in a forced, light tone.

'Oh fuck, Helen, I'm sorry,' he said. 'Oh Jesus.'

'No, no, it's all good,' I said, trying to convince myself as well as him. I wracked my brain for an alternative topic of conversation, one that didn't involve my dead spouse or his nasty ex-girlfriend. 'Let's talk about.... Let's talk about The Angels. I saw a sign at the pub that they were going to be playing there soon.'