Merkel is waiting for me. It’s my last night in the highlands.
Jacko, he says, I can’t make the airport, but I thought we could have a couple of drinks up at Jimmy’s. Hop in.
I don’t want to, but I do. One final drink with the men who started my sexual revolution, one I didn’t have to march for, occupy a building for, or go to jail for. And in the house where it all started.
Okay, I say. But I’m not staying long. I’m tired, Howie.
He doesn’t answer.
Then he stops and turns on the cabin light.
What happened to your face? he says.
After George dropped me at the mess, I had a fight with Haines.
What’s he look like?
Lot better than me.
Merkel laughs. He drives up to the Highlands Hotel, buys half a dozen bottles of Banda Beer and a bottle of rum.
I won’t be drinking, Howie, I say. I think my Banda days are done.
He holds up the rum. I smile.
Inside the house there is only one light on, in the living room. We walk right in. Jimmy is sitting in a chair, slumped.
Jimmy, you all right, yells Merkel.
Jimmy looks up but there is no laughter in his eyes.
We have a problem, he says.
We? What kind of a fucking problem do we have, Jimmy? asks Merkel.
There’s a girl in my bedroom.
Yeah. So?
Jesus Christ, Jimmy, did you fuck her to death?
Jimmy doesn’t say anything. He sits. I feel like running. My knees shake. My guts move.
Who is she? asks Merkel.
I don’t know, says Jimmy. I saw her across the street, called her over, she came inside and we went into the room. She even seemed to be enjoying herself, then she went limp.
How do you know she’s dead?
She’s not fucking breathing. She has no fucking pulse. Fuck me, Merkel.
What are you going to do? Jimmy, you’re the fucking native welfare officer.
Jimmy jumps out of his chair and screams: I know what the fuck I am, you dumb cunt. Will you help me? Will you fucking help me? Will you? Help me, fuck you, help me!
Merkel stands very still. I run from the room, outside, into the bushes. My guts fall out my mouth. I lean over and drag everything up, out, and then I keep dragging, searching, for more, anything. My fingers are in my mouth, at the back of my throat. My guts jump. My back arches. All I get is air. Fingers go deeper. Dry as a salt lake. Nothing. The thing is everywhere. I lean against a tree. I hear voices. Merkel comes out, gets in his Land Cruiser and drives it towards the back door. Jimmy Irish opens it and Merkel backs hard against the opening. I don’t look. It might be Mary, my first love. Jesus! I know what they will do. They will pick up the body, carry it to the door and put it in the back of Merkel’s Cruiser, the limp dead body of a woman Jimmy Irish called into his house from across the street.
I stand a coward. The coward has no idea what they will do next. The coward does not want to know. He knows he has to get out of the highlands, the country, the almost nation full of love and hate and joy and madness.
Merkel and Jimmy Irish climb in the Land Cruiser. They don’t look for the coward. They don’t call out for him. This is their place. He no longer exists.
Merkel drives out of Jimmy’s driveway. The coward follows and watches them into the darkness. He stands in the rain until he is soaked and shivering. He thinks about standing there forever. He moves slowly, so slowly he can feel every joint bend, shift, bend, shift. And he can hear every sound of every movement. The sounds multiply. He imagines he can hear every sound ever made, anywhere, anytime. His head is hot. His body shivers.