3 RECONSTRUCTING THE NIGHT

Brett slithered out of bed and stood next to the window. It was a bright clear day and in the distance he could even make out the pale blur of the Coromandel coast. For a moment he was reminded of family holidays there. He was seven years old again. Blissful times in a village of tents. Long hot days lived in the company of kids. The only time adults were needed was for feeds. Or maybe for running repairs to small injuries. That was the golden age. Before his father died, before his mother drank, before they began the slide into chaos.

He turned back to look at the bed. The woman’s bare back was showing an early tan line. Sun lamp, he thought. Too even to be natural. She was face down; all he could see was her hair. A tormented swirl of blonde silk. Who was she? Where had she come from? Had they had sex? This was getting bad. Time to lay off the booze. At least while he was doing E. Mix the two and your brain was mush.

In the shower, slowly it came back to him.

She was one of Ozzie’s girls. It had been a night of Ozzie hunting. Why was it when people owed you money they were always hard to find? It was like those laws of the universe. Physical laws. E=MC2. Ozzie owes six grand = Ozzie was here a while ago … should be back soon.

Finally chased him down at the Slipper. Was palmed off with two yards and this chick. ‘A livestock raincheck,’ Ozzie called her. But what was her name? Leanne? Roxanne? Marlene? Raylene.

That was it, Raylene.

On to it, at last!

Then the drinks. That’s what did the damage: Ozzie standing him these cocktails at $20 a pop. Not that he would have paid. Ozzie never paid for anything. It was always money coming in. The old prick, so hard to get money out of.

After that the night had pumped. The shitty little dance floor at the Slipper become a glittering stage and his usual un-co dance moves turned into cranked up free form. He remembered bombing and snorting with Raylene in the staff toilet. Kissing everyone. Even Ozzie, Jesus, what a shrink!

And then the big strip. Why did he have to do that again?

Happened every time.

First the shirt, understandable, he was sweating like a rapist, but why did he always have to go all the way? It had become a party turn. Couldn’t stop himself. All because of that little pink ‘love everyone’ pill.

Had he fucked her? That was the $64 (+ GST) question. Now that he remembered where she came from he hoped not. He’d paid the price with an Ozzie chick a year ago. Ended up with a three month antibiotic rash. Nearly turned him into a monk, that did.

But now there was a bigger issue. He had been summoned. He was called to the mat, as they used to say at school. But now it was Miles Vercoe. No such thing as a rain check with Vercoe. Any sign that he lacked readies was a black mark. People with black marks seemed to get a visit in the middle of the night.

Time to jump clear of this scene. If only he could. Too many wired bastards. It was OK for Vercoe, sitting up there on cloud nine. Property developer, entrepreneur, the papers called him. Add hypocrite and arsewipe and you were nearer the mark. Channeling Flutex pills his way by the van load. It was he, Brett, who had to hook up with people at ground level. Most looked like they belonged below ground level, actually. Halfway there already too. Trogs they were. People who saw him as Jesus one day and Jack the Ripper the next.

Like that mad bitch off the TV. Case in point. If all the goggle-eyed readers of the Woman’s Monthly only knew the half of it. At first it had been the phone calls. The ‘darling’ this, ‘kissy kissy’ that. ‘It’s all so beautiful.’ ‘Love ya.’ ‘Later.’