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The drenched couple walked through to the other side of town and carried on, heading further and further away from the few lights visible on Sweetwater’s dark landscape. Heavy rain hammered the road's surface and pelted the surrounding dirt, as more thunder broke across the sky and out to sea, competing against the crash of waves bursting over the rocks lining the coast. A white van crawled slowly behind Ben and Jo, keeping its distance, its headlights off. In the darkness and the deluge, neither of them saw the freezer van that had run them off the road the day before.
Eventually the rainfall slowed. It finally stopped as Ben and Jo reached an arched gate, bearing the sign:
Irma’s Caravan Park
Ben looked up into the black sky above, as the last few drops of rain spat and ceased, as if to say, really, now? They walked through the gate and made their way past rows of dirty, abandoned looking caravans, and towards the more welcoming light of the park office. Ben pushed the office door and heard its hinges squeal all the way open. He stepped into a drab, but tidy little reception followed by Jo. The walls there were plastered with an abundance of typed notices, lists, rules and reminders, but the paper bearing them looked brittle and yellow with age. Jo stepped in front of Ben without looking at him and slapped the desk bell, releasing a dull ping. Footsteps shuffled up to a closed door behind the office counter and it opened to reveal a late middle-aged woman wearing a pastel pink jogging suit with a matching headband. When the woman stepped into the light, Ben was taken aback by the quantity of badly applied make-up caked on her face. It should have been funny, but it was just disturbing. There was a name badge pinned to her jogging suit.
It read: Irma.
“Hi Irma,” said Ben.
Irma smiled at them and pointed to a tariff, clumsily chalked in a childlike scrawl on a blackboard set against the wall. Jo managed to smile back, then studied the price list. Irma slowly ran her finger down against the options on the blackboard. Jo nodded when the older woman’s finger pointed to “On-site vans” and Irma nodded to confirm. Jo let her wet pack slide down to the floor and retrieved a small roll of cash from the top pocket. Irma pulled open her jogging top to reveal a note pad and pen hanging on a bootlace around her neck. She tore off a sheet and began writing on it. When she was finished, she put it on the counter for Jo to read. As Jo looked, Irma gave Ben a coy, sideways glance, as if she were a shy teenager.
The note read “$60 a night. How long?”
“We’ll just take tonight for now and let you know tomorrow,” said Jo. “OK?”
Irma nodded enthusiastically and took the money from Jo with a sickly grin. She then grabbed a stack of sheets and blankets from behind the counter and made for the door. Ben tried to make eye contact with Jo, but she just looked straight through him and quickly set off outside after Irma.
Irma picked her way through the maze of rotting caravans with precision, as Ben and Jo tried to keep up. Mist rose from the damp ground and clung to their heels after the rain. The sound of crickets filled the trailer park. Irma stopped at one of the cleaner caravans and unlocked it. She reached inside and flicked on a light, then handed the key to Jo.
“Thanks,” said Jo.
Ben and Jo stood by the door waiting for Irma to leave, but the strange woman lingered. She stared at them with wide-eyed enthusiasm and an insane grin on her face, looking like some demented clown. Finally, Ben nodded goodnight to her and limped inside the caravan to escape. Jo hesitated and smiled awkwardly at the woman, then did likewise. When she closed the caravan door, Irma’s crazed, painted face continued to smile at them from the dark.
Ben kept his distance from Jo, as she drew the curtains and hurriedly stripped off her wet clothes, whipping a towel out of her pack. Her movements were sharp and aggressive. She proceeded to roughly towel her hair dry without looking at him.
“This is stupid,” said Ben. “We need to talk about this.”
Jo ignored him. She made the bed up with the fresh sheets Irma had supplied, took her creased paperback from her pack and climbed in between the covers. She lay there with her back to him, reading, or at least pretending to. Ben hovered, thinking about approaching her, but deciding against it. His frustration was getting the better of him though, threatening to boil over into anger.
“I said I was sorry,” said Ben finally. “Anyway, you were getting high together. He was flirting with you, and you know God damned well you were flirting with him.”
Jo kept on reading in silence.
“OK,” he said. “Just remember one thing Jo. If I’ve ever had doubts about you and me, it's because you created them. That's on you.”
Ben leant his pack against the wall and left the caravan, slamming the door on the way out, making the whole edifice shake. Outside, He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He then quickly rolled himself a cigarette. His match flared against the night as he lit it and inhaled. Then he heard it.
Faint music coming from somewhere in the trailer park. He cocked his head to one side and listened intently, trying to pinpoint its source. He scanned the darkness for a moment, and then walked off in what he hoped was the direction it was coming from.
As Ben drew closer, he recognised the music. It was Scott Walker crooning “Best of Both Worlds”. He saw a campfire burning up ahead, with two characters silhouetted against it. Crazy and Leyton sat drinking out in front of Crazy’s own drab caravan. Both men looked up as Ben approached. Crazy’s eyes followed each of Ben’s limped steps without reaction. Ben could now see that Leyton was clearly stoned. The surfer just grinned at him with a glassy expression, seemingly unconcerned by their run-in that morning.
“Evening gents,” said Ben.
He nodded a greeting to the two men, and they did likewise. Ben warmed himself by the fire and watched the vinyl rotate on a chunky, dated turntable.
“Hey sit down, man,” said Leyton. “You're blocking my sun.”
Ben sat down on a creaking deckchair next to them. Crazy poured a mug of the hard stuff and passed it to him, without speaking.
“Hey you’re pretty wet, mate,” said Leyton. “You been for a dip or something?”
“Just been enjoying the weather around here,” said Ben.
Leyton leaned forwards and slapped his hand on to Ben’s prosthetic knee joint.
“Well better make sure your working parts don’t rust.”
Crazy shot the stoner a “shut up” look, but the other man was too far gone and missed it. Leyton tried to pass Ben the joint he’d been toking on, but Ben waved it away.
“No thanks.”
“So, where’s your girl tonight?” said Leyton.
“Drying off.”
“Now there’s a thought. Go and give her a shout. She was a good laugh, she was.”
Leyton took another toke.
“So, are you two serious?”
Ben nodded slowly.
“Yup. Serious.”
Crazy watched the exchange carefully. He knew where it was headed, but wanted to see it play out nonetheless.
“Shame,” said Leyton. “She’s pretty fuckin’ hot. Too hot for you mate.”
Ben slowly sipped whiskey from his mug, trying like hell to let it slide.
Leyton stared at Ben’s Denim clad prosthetic leg.
“So how did you lose yours?”
“I think that’s his business,” said Crazy. “Don’t you?”
“He doesn’t mind,” said Leyton, “Do you mate? So, what happened? You cut yourself shaving your legs?
Ben took a drag from his glowing cigarette and then flicked it into Leyton’s face. He immediately followed it with a fist and caught the surfer square on the jaw, knocking him, and the little camping chair he was wedged into, backwards. Leyton tried to jump up and retaliate, but he couldn’t. He was stuck in the chair, on his back, like an upturned turtle pivoting on its shell. Crazy stood up and pushed Ben backwards.
“OK ladies,” he said. “Simmer down.”
Ben realised the music had stopped now, replaced instead by the slow and steady scratch of the needle against dead vinyl. Crazy motioned with his palms up for both men to wait, while he hovered over the deck to reset the needle. Leyton tried unsuccessfully to lunge at Ben several times. On each attempt he'd try to stand, only to lose his balance and fall back, giggling. The reset record needle picked up the album's first track and Scott started serenading them with the melancholy pantomime of “If You Go Away”.
Crazy returned from the turntable and stood toe to toe with Ben, staring him down into submission. The older man watched Ben back down and return to his seat. He then lifted Leyton out of his chair and dusted him down.
“Battling cripples,” said Crazy. “I should sell tickets. Now shake hands, or I’ll drop both of you.”
“Easy old man,” said Leyton. “It was just a bit of fun.”
The surfer looked at Ben, then slowly extended his open hand. Ben reluctantly reached in to take it. Just as they were about to shake, Leyton jerked forwards and bitch-slapped him in the face. Ben remained still. He just stared at the laughing Aussie, watching him turn away and quickly limp out of there.
Crazy shook his head.
“You know you’re turning into a real sweetheart, Leyton.”
Leyton lifted up an old red moped that had been left on its side in the grass. He hopped on it and turned the engine over.
“Where are you going now?” said Crazy.
“Down the Cat,” said Leyton. “To find some drunks with a sense of style.”
“I still got style,” Crazy said to himself.
Leyton’s moped whined and strained and he pulled away. The remaining two men watched his red taillight buzz away into the darkness like an angry insect and then disappear. Ben and Crazy sat down again. Crazy sighed and topped their drinks up.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “The little prick won’t remember any of it in the morning.”
“Do you mind if I just sit here for a bit?” said Ben.
Crazy eyed him. Then a faint smile played across his craggy features, and he nodded. Ben stared up into the night sky. The clouds were breaking. Beyond them, the blackness hung heavy with the weight of hundreds of bright stars. Crazy followed his gaze and found an almost instant sense of peace and relief up there too. Both men smoked and drank and watched the stars in silence.
It was later, when the fire had burned down to just glowing embers, and a harsh, cold wind stirred through the camp, that Ben decided to finally speak. He and Crazy were both slumped in their stretched deckchairs, staring into the last of the fire.
“I lost my wife in a car accident,” he said. “It was my fault.”
Crazy reached over and drained the last of the bottle into Ben’s mug. He gestured towards the false leg.
“Yeah,” said Ben. “My permanent little reminder. I got off light. Real light.”
Ben smiled, but it was a smile as hollow as the prosthetic leg that supported him.
“I never thought there would be anyone else. And then...then there was Jo.
“So?” said Crazy.
“I got a second chance and I’m screwing it up,” said Ben. “I can’t let us work, I can’t let her be.”
“Meaning what? Talk straight man.”
“I can’t relax. What she does, where she goes, who she talks to. She’s on my mind, all the time. It’s like there’s some kind of threat all around us. And it’s my one purpose in life to save her.”
“Save her from what?”
“Everything. I just can’t chill out. I can’t let her live, and it's killing us.”
“So, you’re carrying a ton of guilt,” said Crazy. “I'm afraid there’s no medication, no magic remedy for that. You’ve just got to suck it up and give each day the best you’ve got.”
Ben drained his drink and mulled this over, as the last pockets of fire crackled and died.
“I’m making her nuts you know,” he said. “I can see it. She’s cheated on me once already. I’ll probably drive her to it again.”
Crazy began a dry laugh that eventually cracked into a coughing fit.
“What's so funny?” said Ben.
“That’s what we do,” said Crazy. “We drive them crazy, and they give it back to us in spades. That’s the way it works. The way it's always worked.”
“Are you married?” said Ben.
“Sure,” said Crazy. “This is just my weekend pad when I’m singing at the Cat. I spend the rest of my time painting my white picket fence and drinking daiquiris with my other half on our terrace. No, I’m divorced, like most sane people my age.”
“What went wrong?”
“Oh, you know, everything. I picked her up when I was on tour. She was a waitress with big ambitions and a cheap streak a mile wide. We were made for each other. She believed in me. She thought I was going places. I wasn’t.”
“You made it here.”
“No, I got stuck here, there’s a difference.”
Crazy stared at the ground. He looked up again at Ben and sighed a trail of smoke into the air.”
“Listen,” he said. “Sweetwater is...a strange place.”
“It sure is that.”
Now it was Ben's turn to stare into space, the whiskey and emotions of the day having taken their toll.
“I love her you know,” he said.
Crazy saved his words for another time. He drained his mug and then leant over to nudge Ben.
“Go to your lady,” he said.
“Huh?”
“What are you doing getting drunk with an old fart like me, when you’ve got a good thing waiting for you in a warm bed?”
“But what do I say to her?”
“Just put one foot in front of the other and keep walking. You’ll figure it out by the time you get there.”
Ben looked at the old man and started to sober up a little. He stood and smiled at Crazy.
“Thanks man. Really.”
As Ben turned to leave, Crazy stood too and grabbed his arm.
“Listen, you’re a decent guy and I can see you’ve had it rough.”
The old man seemed to be struggling to find the right words.
“Don’t hang around here longer than you have to. OK? Sweetwater’s trouble waiting to happen.”
Crazy's look was earnest, and Ben saw a great sadness wash over the man after his words came out.
Ben nodded and left.