‘He could though – couldn’t he? On the couch, he’d have to put up with that bastard spring, but he looks tough enough.’
Sarah stared deep into the eyes of Maxwell Smart, private spy. If she stared hard enough, it would look – wouldn’t it? – like she was not hearing, could not hear. She edged closer to the TV. Smart’s lovely assistant Ninety-nine was in trouble.
‘Except he’d have to stay on the couch, even if it got unbearable. Or he could bring his own bedroll. No room in our bed for strays.’
Maxwell disappeared. A woman in a white nightie riding bareback in the middle of the night and eating a chocolate bar. Sarah watched her and listened. Zan tapped and tugged and prodded and would not let things be.
‘What do ya think? Sarah?’
‘No way.’ The woman in the nightie kicked the horse to a gallop and rode off with the chocolate wrapper dangling from her hand. ‘No way in this world.’
For days, Zan was restless, lion-like. She paced in front of the lift, swinging her hair. She played Violent Femmes on the tape deck in the corner, and sang along loudly, waving a glass in front of her face for a microphone. At night she stared at the ceiling. Sarah did not ask about her staring or her pacing, she knew what these things were about. She knew that Zan had tried to open the drummer’s door with her taxi identification card. The door did not open, Zan’s card broke in two. Zan watched Countdown and MTV and sang along with the words and said doesn’t that look fun. Sarah stayed silent, watching the small screen.
Late Saturday-night video clips were interrupted by women in nighties dangling chocolate from their delicate little hands and women curled up in their satin-sheet-covered beds, sucking on huge slabs of chocolate. Zan chewed and chewed on her fingers, taking skin and paltry bits of nail into her mouth, and swallowing. ‘Have we got any cocoa? Only I’d kill for a hot chocolate, I swear I would.’ More skin into her mouth, more pink muscle showing on the short fingers. Sarah watched, pulling her lips together, breathing out loud enough for Zan to hear. ‘Oh man I would love some chocolate. Isn’t there some cooking chocolate or something in here?’ The cupboard doors were opened, plates, empty margarine containers and brown tea-spoons were pulled out and dumped on the floor. ‘Whass this then?’ She sounded like a sendup of one of those stupid English cops with the big high hats. What wankers, honestly. Zan was holding up a jar, filled with something brown and crumbly looking. She stuck her nose in, took a sniff. ‘Nah. Something rotten.’ She stuck the jar on the fridge though, didn’t throw it out or anything. ‘Less go get some chocolate, yair? Come on Sarah, get some, get up and go get chocolate.’ Zan stuck her fist out before her, warrior woman. ‘I am Zan-hunt-down-chocolate-for-my-woman. Ooga.’ Sarah was caught in a fierce hug, the breath squished out of her in one go.
It was only on the way back in, loaded up with chocolate bars, chocolate slice, chocolate milk and chocolate mousse from ZIPPEBZE ALL-NITE SHOPPE, that they noticed that Whiley and Crow, ‘discreet suppliers of plastic office fauna,’ had discreetly left the Sun Building. Sarah held the door open for Zan, giggling with chocolate-fever, then did the customary double side-step shuffle, to avoid the pile of boxes always outside the heavy door of Whiley and Crow. Her feet edged around, trying to feel the edges of the boxes, and felt only floor. There were no boxes, and no plastic flowers. ‘Did you notice if the boxes were about the place yesterday?’ Sarah prodded Zan’s arm.
‘Mmm. Have some Dairy Milk, oh I love you chocolate-ohchocolate-of-my-heart. What are you asking me? No. I didn’t. Hey – they’re gone. Wow, no boxes. It’s like a new space in here. I don’t know though – I didn’t notice that they were here yesterday. I haven’t noticed them for ages come to think of it.’
‘I have never, absolutely never, seen this place empty before. It’s weird. I didn’t notice it yesterday either.’
‘Doesn’t matter. They didn’t give us a spoon for the mousse, the bastards.’
‘I wonder if they’ve shoved all the boxes inside or just left.’
‘Let’s go upstairs, Sarah.’
But Sarah was poking about, private spy. She pushed at the door, turned the handle. Green carpet, covered in scraps of green and pink plastic. One armchair with the stuffing dribbling out on to the floor. A notepad on the floor. Nothing written on it.
‘They’ve skipped bail, Ninety-nine.’ Sarah squeezed the words out the corner of her mouth.
‘Wow. Oh check out this space. This is brilliant. Totally brilliant. Completely perfect.’
‘Completely perfect for what?’ Something slithered up inside Sarah’s guts, an uneasy serpent.
‘A squat. Check it out – there’s no way in the universe anyone is coming back here. Mr Plastic Flowers has found new lime-green pastures.’
They could be back.’
‘No way, Sarah, they’ve skipped the country. Obviously Mr Plastic Flowers was discovered to be smuggling black cockatoo eggs inside those plastic petals, so he’s fled back to the hills of Wales, taking his lovely assistant, Miss Felt Grass, with him. Poor Mrs Plastic Flowers and her two children, Bill and Ben, have been left behind. They are, as we speak, driving to Alice Springs in a Mac truck, which she stole at two am last night. So they won’t be back. We’ve got ourselves a squat.’
Sarah closed her eyes for a moment, imagining Zan the taxi-driver, careering along Pitt Street, reeling stories out for the suited ladies in the back seat. The irresistible teller of tales. ‘We don’t need a squat, Zan, we’ve got a flat. We’re okay.’ And still, that twirling sickness inside, as if she, Sarah, was being hurtled down the back streets in the back of the cab, too fast, not sure who was driving.
‘Someone else will take over. They’ll have let the place out again.’
‘Who’d rent it? The place is deserted. Even if they did – what’s the problem? He sees them coming, gets his gear and leaves. Simple. Haven’t you squatted?’
‘No.’ Feeling simple herself. ‘He’s probably found somewhere by now anyway.’
‘Fine. We can only offer. I mean, it’s too perfect, the timing is immaculate.’
Sarah watched herself, her lip pushing forward into a pout, her arms folding. Her foot kicking at the floor. ‘Why do you want him to move in so badly anyway? Why do you want to see him so much?’
‘There’s a room here, he needs one. A fellow human being. Are you sure you don’t want any chocolate? C’mon.’
‘You’re avoiding it.’
‘What?’
‘The issue. Why you want to see him so badly. Just tell me the truth.’
Zan stared hard, slowly unfolded Sarah’s arms. ‘What are you saying, Sarah?’
‘I’m not saying, I’m asking.’ She could hear it in her voice, that heaviness, like a stupid baby. Honestly.
‘Asking what? What’s the problem?’
‘There isn’t a problem. I don’t have the problem anyway. You’re the one who’s so mad desperate to get your eyes on Eric’
‘I’m not. Is this about, no, I mean, you don’t think – do you?’
‘I’m asking.’
‘You don’t get it do you? This is an experiment to you isn’t it? Isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Me. Being with me.’
How had this been turned around? It was supposed to be Zan being questioned, but everything had swung about. Nausea was swelling in Sarah’s belly. ‘You’re not an experiment. I just want to know why you’re so keen to have him here?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You think I want to get off with him, because you don’t get it, you don’t get the fact that I don’t fuck men.’ She was yelling right in Sarah’s face, as if it was all Sarah’s fault. Her hands were on Sarah’s arms still, just resting there. When Sarah opened her arms, pushed them out and apart really hard, Zan went flying. She fell in a muddled heap on the floor. Her breath came out in short puffs. She scrabbled around for her bag, breath shorter and shorter, couldn’t find her puffer. Sarah just watched, just stood there like she wasn’t even a part of it, watching while Zan leant her head in her knees and breathed really hard and then put her hands on her chest and slowed her breath down. The breathing was loud, like a storm. Something slid into Sarah’s head: wind outside, a foot kicking, Laminex table. Trees falling and the sound of please, please, please. She put her hands against her ears, she would not listen.
Everything went quiet. Zan picked up a plastic leaf. ‘If he starts another band, I want to be in it. That’s it. Simple, nothing else. I mean, look at it – it’s too ridiculous isn’t it? He needs a space, there’s a space here. I need a band, he’ll start one. I’d be mad to ignore it, it’s’ her voice notched into American talk show and she shook her hands about, ‘a cerrrrazzeee coincidence.’
Sarah’s mouth twitched.
‘Here, have a leaf. Come on,’ Zan stood up and touched Sarah’s hand. ‘Don’t be silly with me, Sarah. I don’t deserve it. Okay?’
Sarah nodded. All the words had slipped down her throat.
‘Anyway,’ Zan was bright again, like everything was really, really fine, ‘it’s good for the karma. Find someone a home, the good turn will come to you.’ Right.
Everything zoomed along then, happening too fast for Sarah to keep trace of. She was pulled along by Zan’s grin and her own jumbled misery.
Zan was out the door in a whirl, Sarah a limp rag behind her. ‘Zan, it’s one o’clock in the morning. We can’t go round there now and say, oh hi, howyadoin, we’ve found a cosy little home for you.’
‘Yair, we can. Better late than too late.’
They caught a taxi to Wordsworth Street. Zan was full of action, full of warrior-woman. Sarah was full of a stale fury, hobbling along saying: yes, that’s fine let’s get a taxi, oh no, I’m fine now, not cross, no, I understand now. Etcetera. The door of fifteen Wordsworth Street was open, lights on. A red couch, a single bed and a stainless steel sink were piled on the verandah and some twelve-bar blues were blasting out on to the street. Too loud for door-knocking to be heard, so they headed down the hallway, towards the noise. Intrepid explorers.
In the room at the end of the hallway were: Eric, his bass, an amplifier and some guy with a guitar. Bare light-bulbs and lots of noise. They kept playing, smirking across at each other. The guy on the guitar mumbled into a microphone on a stand: ‘my baby’s goin, my baby’s goin down to New Orleans, I feel so bad.’ Zan squeezed Sarah’s hand, her eyes shining and shining. The bass stopped in a sudden thump. Eric waved at Zan and Sarah, tapped his friend on the arm and yelled, ‘stop, man.’
‘Hey. Pull up a piece of floor. Ya here for a jam?’ His eyes were darting about all over the place, like that time in the cafe.
‘Maybe. Found anywhere to crash?’ Zan kept hold of Sarah’s hand, pulling her down to the floor.
‘Nah. Bummer, hey?’
The guy with the guitar – long legs, thin arms – laughed through his teeth. ‘Havya looked for anywhere mate?’
‘Nah. Bummer, hey?’ Eric plucked a note on the bass. Sarah let a compulsory hahaha float over in his direction.
‘Well, boy – we’ve found you a squat. Brilliant space, downstairs from us. Bring your own bed, but no rent. You can’t say fairer than that.’ Zan did a hostess-with-the-mostest flourish.
‘You serious? That’s excellent. Hey, this is Eric.’
‘I thought you were Eric?’ Sarah did the lip-curling sneer.
‘I am. We both are. He’s little Eric, I’m big Eric. And look,’ he pushed little Eric next to Sarah and sat himself down on the other side of her, ‘this is a Sarah sandwich. Between two slices of Eric.’
Sarah didn’t mean to laugh, it just slipped. So Zan and both the Erics thought everything was just fine, and everyone laughed like at the end of an American sit-com.
‘So, Zan, are ya gunna have a jam with us? I’m not gunna hike my stuff over there now. Where is it anyway? Maybe it isn’t my kind of area.’
‘Ultimo. I’d take what I could get if I were you. What, a jam now?’
‘Now or later, doesn’t matter. We’ve got the gear set up though, now’s a good time. Thought you wanted to get a band together?’
‘Yair, I did. I mean, I do. I think I do. I want to have a jam though, sure. Give me the mike.’
‘Excellent. What about “Knockin on Heaven’s Door”?’
Sarah lay down on the floor, listened to Zan belting it out. Even with her eyes closed, she could see the shadows of Zan dancing about in front of the light. The shadow grew bigger, the light shrunk and the music grew far away.
When she opened her eyes again, the sun was up, her back was killing her, and Zan was still singing.