Payback Ch. 02

'Oh my God.' I felt hot with embarrassment. 'You think I'm a lousy root.'

'No!' he said. 'I think we're both... not as good as we should be. I love you, Helen.'

The 'I love you' made me pause because Angus rarely said those words.

'I'm sorry,' he said, embarrassed. 'I had too much to drink. I shouldn't... I don't know.'

I wriggled into a sitting position and considered what Angus was saying. There was a part of me that understood what he was saying. He still fucked like a mad thing and I found it hard to reach orgasm because of the roughness of the act, combined with my own self consciousness.

'Do you want me to watch porn so I know how you want to be fucked?' I asked.

Angus sat up, shaking his head. 'No, I want you to watch porn to get more turned on than you normally are, and then I want you to show me what you want. And then, if it's okay with you, I want to show you how I want you to suck me off.'

'Oh. I'm not sure watching porn would turn me on.'

'Have you ever seen it?'

'No.'

The silence was deafening.

'Adult movies are $14.95 per movie,' he said.

I buried my face in my hands. 'Oh my God. It's going to be embarrassing.'

'It'll be good,' he said encouragingly. 'Come on. Get out of bed. We'll find something together.'

I can't remember what the movie was called. It was something involving two women and two men and it was terrible. Angus loved it. He undressed me while we watched, and played with my boobs and bum, squeezing the flesh between his hands. I sat bolt upright in his lap, thinking 'this is what does it for you?' It did nothing for me. Nothing. The only thing that pleased me was that one of the women was just as chubby around the middle as me. I thought that was interesting, a relief, even.

We had sex afterwards, and Angus was so aroused he came almost immediately. Then he conked out fast asleep, snoring and burping and farting.

I stared at the motel ceiling and for the first time in my life, dissected porn from a more theoretical angle. I realised Angus must have watched quite a bit of it, and no doubt during the course of our relationship, and yet he was still here, still with me. He still wanted sex with me.

I knew he'd been right to start talking about sex. It could, and should, be better. I just had to figure out what to do.

2017

I texted Ciaran three weeks after my assault, when my stitches had been removed and my bruises had faded.

'How is it going? - Helen' was the summation of my text.

I thought he might not remember me, or that he might have found someone who would better suit his needs, but he called me a few hours later, just after eight at night.

'I didn't think I'd hear from you again,' he said. 'You've made my day. How are you?'

'Four hundred dollars richer than I should be,' I gently chided.

'Oh, don't be like that. You have no idea what the meant to me. I just felt lousy because it ended on a bad note. I'm sorry about that.'

'It wasn't your fault,' I assured him. 'I'm... can you remember how you said you liked your first masseuse and that made things better for you? Well, I liked you, and I wasn't expecting to, and I didn't know how to deal with it.'

'I understand.'

'Thank-you,' I said. 'I appreciate it.'

There was a slight pause before Ciaran asked if he ask an invasive question.

'Go ahead,' I said.

'How long ago did your husband pass away?'

'Eighteen months ago,' I replied. 'I started sleeping around about four months' after he passed.'

'How many men have there been?'

'God knows. I've lost count.'

'Did you two have children together?' he asked.

'No, we both had significant fertility issues. We fostered... but two of the children are dead, and I can't talk about that. Not now,' I said, trying to quell the panic in my voice. 'It's...'

'I should really shut up,' Ciaran said. 'I didn't mean to pry. You just sounded upset, and I couldn't help but wonder if there was a reason you'd contacted me today, if perhaps it was an anniversary or a birthday or something.'

'No, no, nothing like that,' I replied. 'I...'

'If you want to tell me, go ahead,' he offered. 'If you'd rather talk about the weather, I'm good for that, too. Not Brisbane weather, of course, but I can tell you what it's like here.'

The kindness in his voice touched me deeply.

'I had a bad experience recently,' I blurted out. 'Sorry. I know that isn't sexy. Who one earth rings a man and tells him that? But I can't tell anyone else. My friends and sister would be mortified if they knew what I was doing.'

Ciaran was concerned. 'Helen? How bad was it?'

'Twenty-seven stitches, a broken nose and a lot of bruises,' I confessed in a whisper. Tears seeped from my eyes. 'God, shit.'

'Holy fuck.'

'Yeah.' I laughed weakly and wiped the tears away. 'Ouch.'

'Baby, baby, baby,' he whispered. 'Oh shit. Did you make a police report?'

'No, no,' I said. 'The hospital called them, but I told them to go away. They assumed I was a prostitute...' I spluttered with laughter at that, because for Ciaran I had been a prostitute, but on the occasion I was beaten up, I was anything but. 'I guess in a way I am, because of you, but I wasn't with him. I didn't even sleep with him. He beat me up because I didn't want to.'

'You won't have been the first woman he's hit,' Ciaran said.

'Believe it or not, he actually boasted to me about the same thing.'

'What a flog,' Ciaran replied. 'Do you know who he was? An address?'

'Ciaran,' I said.

'What?'

'Why me ask these questions? What good would an address do?'

'Well, I'd like to pretend I'm six foot four and built like a brick shithouse and that when I get back home, I could beat him up for you,' Ciaran said, with the same dry, self-deprecating wit that I remembered. 'That's what we men like to do; believe that we could be heroes.'

'Dear God.' I replied. 'And yet we women love you.'

'Proving each gender has it's own failings,' he said.

'Indeed,' I agreed. 'I'll quit venting now. You shouldn't feel like you need to protect me, and I didn't text you because I wanted to tell you this. I'm sorry.'

'No, don't feel you shouldn't talk to me,' he urged. 'Remember that night we met? Holy fuck, it was like I was out to embarrass myself as much as possible. I whinged to you about everything; my ex, my parents, and even my rub n tug girl. And I ended the evening by insulting you.'

'You didn't insult me,' I said. 'I found it interesting, particularly when you were talking about sex workers. I don't know about you, but when I started picking up men, I used to avoid any emotional connection. I told myself they just needed to fuck me. That was all I needed from the. But as time's gone on, I'm now being confronted with this need for something else, and it terrifies me.'

'Because you're scared of forgetting your husband?'

'Yes, that and because I feel guilty for surviving. I should be dead. But I'm not, and Angus and others are. Carrying on living used to be awful, and it's easier if it's awful, but it's also impossible to keep mourning indefinitely. God knows I've tried, but there's some unpleasant, pervasive will to live that's recently started tapping me on the shoulder.'

'The man that hit you,' Ciaran said. 'A year ago, would you have slept with him?'

'Probably.'

'Wow.'

'Yeah,' I agreed. 'I know. I wouldn't have listened to a single word he was saying, so I wouldn't have heard the parts that made me try to escape him. I just would have fucked him and stumbled home, all in a daze, all wrapped up in my own little world.'

'You have no idea how terrifying it is to listen to you say that.'

'Why?'

'Why?' he repeated. 'Because... it's sad. It's sad that you're sad. It's sad that you would put yourself in those situations. It makes me realise how much you must have loved your husband.'

'Oh damn. Now I'm nearly crying again.'

'No, don't cry,' he said. 'Would it bring a smile to your face to imagine your husband kicking the shit out of me for what I did with his wife?'

I laughed at the preposterousness of his suggestion. 'Angus wasn't a violent man, and I never would have slept with you if he was still alive, so that situation would never have arisen. What you're suggesting is similar to me saying 'how would your most recent girlfriend react if she found out what I'd done with you while you two were still together?'?'

'I tend to attract tarts,' he said. 'But as I said; I was only trying to make you smile.'

'You made me smile,' I agreed. 'I can't imagine you attracting tarts.'

'Mmph,' he snorted. 'I do. Trust me. But not the high end ones.'

'Ah, so you've been driving a two year old Commodore around Ipswich and Inala, have you?' I teased.

'I haven't owned a Holden at any point of my life.'

'You have a Toyota? Are you at the other end of the scale? The owner of a boring, white Corolla or Camry?'

'No.'

'I'm curious now. What car do you drive?'

'Curiosity begs the question; why do you want to know?'

'I don't know. Curiosity, I suppose. I married a lunatic who always had the fastest bike he could afford. Maybe I want to know what sort of lunatic you are.'

Ciaran laughed, amused. 'Guess.'

'Can I have a hint?' I asked.

'Not yet.'

'But now I have to think about cars, and I now next to nothing about cars.'

'Good,' he chuckled. 'If you're thinking about cars, you're not thinking about dickhead men who don't understand what 'no' means. Take a guess. I'll tell you if you're close.'

'A ute? An Amarok. You definitely drive an Amarok.'

'Not even in the ballpark.'

'Did you used to drive an Amarok?'

'No,' he said.

'Um... One of those four wheel drives that are jacked up?'

'Nope.'

'A Prado?'

'Hell no.'

'What's wrong with Prado's?'

'Nothing. Just not my thing, not at all. Guess again.'

'A Honda of some sort?'

'Good grief, if I don't interrupt you and give you a clue, we'll be here all night. I used to have a Chrysler 300C.'

I laughed. 'Black?'

'Of course.'

'Why did you get rid of it?' I asked.

'I wanted a car with manual transmission and Ford had just released the Mustang.'

'Oh no. You didn't. What colour?'

'Red. Red cars go faster, right?'

'I've only had silver and white cars.'

'Take my word for it; the red paint speeds them up. I'll take you out in it sometime, but you'll have to excuse all the junk my kids leave in it. Last time I got back I opened the door and thought 'what the fuck is that smell?''

'Oh dear. What was it?'

He told me it was an uneaten pear that had gone bad underneath the driver's side seat. I knew what fermented fruit smelt like; I sympathised entirely.

He continued to talk about his kids. Will was nine, Noah was seven. It was Noah who had intellectual delays; he was mildly delayed and while he attended a mainstream school, his poor social skills made it difficult for him to fit in.

'The problem is that I never fit in, either, so I'm not sure if it's his disability or his personality that's causing issues,' Ciaran said.

'I've never fit in, either,' I admitted. 'Not as a kid, nor as an adult. I never know what to say.'

'Neither. Mostly I just keep quiet. That's probably hard to believe because I can't shut up when I'm around you, but I ordinarily have the good sense to keep my mouth zipped.'

'Me too. It was easy enough when I was married because Angus rarely paused for breath so nobody really noticed I wasn't saying anything. Angus always seemed to know if people would dislike him, and he'd just avoid them if that was the case, but around friends and whatnot, oh my God, at times he never shut up. And yet when it was the two of us he could be, and often was, quiet.'

'Maybe he saw it as a chance for a break?'

'Maybe.'

'Did he have a lot of friends?'

'Absolutely tons. Everyone loved him. The only thing I hated was that his nickname was 'Didge', as in 'Indigenous.'

'Fuck, that's terrible.'

'Thank-you! I thought the same thing! He wasn't offended, though, and he'd say 'I'm proud to be a blackfella, so why would being called one bother me?' but oh my God... I hated it. And, of course, everyone thought I was stuck up because I called him Angus.'

Ciaran laughed. 'Maybe the key to having friends is not thinking too hard about things?'

'Probably. I loved Angus but he wasn't a deep thinker, not unless it was about a motorcycle, in which case he could spend days mulling over a problem.' I paused. There was a cry coming from one of the bedrooms. The phone call would need to end. 'I'm sorry, I need to go.'

'No worries,' he said. 'Would you like to catch up when I get back to Brisbane?'

Against my better judgement, or maybe because of it, I said 'yes'.

2003

A week or so later we were in Darwin.

We were staying with my husband's distant relatives on his father's side and ever since we'd arrived - yesterday - I'd been trying to persuade Angus to leave. Their house was overcrowded, they drank heavily, and they were extremely disparaging towards Rose who they told me was from a rival tribe and the incorrect skin group, and whom Angus' father should never have touched.

They told me Angus' father had copped a spear to the thigh for his misdemeanour, and when I'd baulked, they'd laughed at my reaction. I'd seen the scar on my father-in-law's leg but had never thought to ask where it came from.

They seemed to have a perverse fascination in regaling me with the more contentious parts of their culture. I was a convenient target for their hatred and dislike of the whitefella, and while I theoretically understood why they were angry, I had less than zero interest in being their whipping girl. I was scared of what they might do or say to me if Angus wasn't around or, worse, what they might do to my husband if he told them to leave me alone one more time.

The day after we arrived I claimed I needed to pick up supplies and I caught the local bus into town. I walked through the main streets of Darwin checking out motels and backpackers. It was the wet season so there were plenty of vacancies and I knew that if I could convince Angus to leave, then we'd have somewhere else, warm and safe and free from his drunk cousins, to spend the night. That was my plan; get out of the hell hole and into somewhere decent, pronto.

My mobile rang and I stopped to answer it.

'Auntie Rose,' I said.

'How are you Helen?'

'Good,' I said. 'Bad. Bad, really. We need to find somewhere else to stay.'

I launched into an explanation of everything that had occurred since we arrived, the way I was treated, the drinking, the rubbish, the comments everyone was making about me, and why I was searching for alternative accommodation.

My mother-in-law and I had always had an excellent relationship. In a lot of ways we were extremely similar, so much so that Angus' eldest sister used to tease her brother about marrying a white version of their mother. We'd never fought, as we were both keen to avoid conflict, and even when she was unhappy with something I'd said or done she would normally hide her feelings.

It was therefore a shock to me when instead of sympathising with me, she told me that perhaps I was just experiencing what Angus experienced every time we visited my family.

'My family aren't drunks,' I argued.

'Your mother is on more prescription painkillers than anyone else I know.'

'She...'

There was silence.

'Helen?' Auntie Rose asked. 'Does Angus know what you're doing?'

'No, but I'm sure he'll agree.'

She sounded annoyed. 'Then why didn't you tell him you were looking for somewhere else to stay?'

'I, um, don't want to make trouble.'

'You'll make a lot of it if you leave. A lot. Angus stayed with my family last time he was in Darwin. He needs to stay with his father's mob this time.'

'if I'd known we had to stay with them, I wouldn't have come here at all,' I replied, irritated at her lack of understanding. 'I don't need to be here. I don't want to be here.'

'And maybe Angus doesn't want to visit your family,' Auntie Rose said.

'I don't make him live with them,' I snapped, losing my patience. I was tired, stressed and quite honestly, scared at the prospect of going back to the house I was staying at. 'I've always told Angus he doesn't even need to visit them, so damned if I'm staying at that fucking drunk house another night.'

'You really need to speak to Angus before making any decisions, Helen. This is above your understanding.'

Insulted at what she was implying, I hung up the phone and jammed it into my pocket. I realised I'd attracted the attention of several onlookers, and to avoid them continuing to stare at me, I walked inside the store I was standing in front of.

It was an adult bookstore, not that I figured that out. My mind was a million miles away as I grabbed a few books, all of which were second hand, and went to the counter to pay. The cashier rang them up, handed me a bag, and I went back into the mall.

I walked up and down the streets, noting down hotels and backpackers. I felt discouraged, though, and had mentally resigned to going back to my father-in-law's relative's house. Would I die? I pondered. Or were his family all bark and no bite? I told myself I had to get through the next few days. Finding alternative accommodation might cause my husband problems, and I couldn't afford to do that. His people weren't like white people.

My phone rang again, and I saw it was Angus.

'Hi,' I said timidly.

'Hi,' he said brusquely. 'I need to find you. We need to talk.'

I knew he wanted to discuss the way I'd spoken to his mother.

'I'm sorry,' I apologised.

'Why?'

'For yelling at your Mum,' I admitted.

'You yelled at her?'

'Yes. On the phone. She said she was going to call you to tell you about it.'

Angus fell quiet. 'Where are you?' he asked eventually. 'I'm going to come and get you, and we're going to move on.'

I was confused. Why wasn't he angry? And why had he agreed to move on?

I told him where I was, and fifteen minutes later he arrived on the Hayabusa. I took from Angus the backpack which contained half of everything we were travelling with, jammed my new books into it, and put it on my back. Then I climbed on the bike and off we went. I had no idea where we were going and what had occurred to prompt this move, but Angus seemed to have a plan.

I kept waiting for him to stop, but instead we rode for hours, down the Stuart Highway lined with scrub, till we reached Katherine. It was hot, stupidly hot, and we only just made it before the afternoon rains came. We sheltered in a café while the rains poured down outside.

The humidity in the top end in the wet season needs to be experienced to be believed, and I felt grimy and dirty, not the least because my day-to-day wear consisted of jeans, singlet and motorcycle jacket. I only had one pair of shorts and they were currently stuffed into my backpack, too dirty and crumpled to even be contemplated.

Angus ate a bowl of chips with tomato sauce, seemingly lost in his own little world. He stared at a wall, his face creased with concentration, while he internally mulled over topics unknown to me. I wished desperately for him to speak, but over the course of our relationship I'd learned it was no use trying to extract information from my husband. He'd speak to me when he was ready.

It was the low season and the café was largely empty. The grey nomads were gone for the year, and it was just locals and a few, stray tourists that stayed inside, stretching out their meals as they waited for the summer storm to end.