seven

The aunties didn’t want to do a funeral, and Aunty Jane had this idea that it was traditional for Scottish or Irish or, like, English people to keep the body in the house for a bit, and we were sort of Scottish or Irish or English, so Nana spent the next day in an open casket in her lounge. The casket was made of bright polished wood, with a spotless interior of white and pillowed satin. It looked way too new and shiny to be sitting in Nana’s house. This was the house that all my aunties grew up in, and it showed. The orange and yellow carpet was worn down to its plastic weave at the doorways, and there wasn’t a single piece of furnishing that didn’t bear the marks of Nana’s children and grandchildren. Nana had decorated the house with the twin principles of addition and thrift—I figured she started hanging pictures and placing trinkets sometime before the advent of colour TV, and basically never stopped. Like, it wasn’t a hoarder house. It was clean, you know? It was just very full.

I slumped in an armchair by the window. I still hadn’t confessed to Daddy that I’d broken xyr rule, even though it was an accident. I hadn’t meant to cum. To be honest, I hadn’t even known that that could happen, like, hands-free? Still, it was the one rule that I had to follow, and I’d fucked it up. I knew I couldn’t lie to xem or pretend it hadn’t happened. I couldn’t even message xem, because if I did that and didn’t tell xem everything then and there, I would still basically be lying, and good girls don’t lie. I know it sounds stupid, but the thought of Thorn calling me a bad girl made me sick.

At some point a hearse was gonna turn up, but until then it was the same as before Nana died, minus the death rattle: we were all just sitting around her, except for Mark, who waited outside in his car instead, like a guard dog in his kennel. I still hadn’t written my application, but like, Nana had literally just died, plus, I was so upset about the whole orgasm thing that I couldn’t summon the will to even begin to care about it. I could just go back to hospo work. I figured I’d lost my old job by now, but someone in Te Whanganui-a-Tara would hire me; rude tranny baristas were good for business, surely? Or if worse came to worst I could just move back here, to Kirikiriroa. I didn’t have any savings, because who the fuck has savings? But I knew Fi and John would give me a bed and feed me. Which was wonderful. I was very very lucky to be the kind of girl who had that sort of support from her family, wasn’t I? I was very very lucky, and the idea of living in this town made me want to crawl into the casket beside Nana and close the lid. The sun from the window had moved and now it was on me, like really hot, and I felt kind of short of breath, so I got up and squeezed my way around the aunties and husbands and little kids and through the kitchen and down the hall and out into the backyard.

I stepped into the shadow of the house and pressed my face against its cold bricks. I could hear cars flying by on the bypass at the end of Nana’s driveway. I screwed up my face and did a big gritted-teeth silent scream.

‘Hey! Sorry, hi, are you alright?’

It was a cheery voice undercut by a nervous tremor. I recognised it immediately and turned to face him.

He was skinnier than I remembered but, other than that, he looked just like a younger and longer-haired version of John. He was giving me this deer-in-the-headlights look, and I realised I hadn’t seen him since I used to think I was a boy. When I came out, I told Fi and John to please please just tell people, ’cause the worst thing in the world is having to tell people yourself. Like it feels really silly, as a woman, who’s been living as a woman, to have to look someone in the eye, someone who can literally see you, see how you’re dressed, how you move, someone who is perfectly capable of picking up all the social cues you’re laying down, and have to say to them, because you’re obviously so shit at being a woman that they can’t possibly figure it out for themselves: Ah, I see you’re confused. I am, in fact, a woman. But I guess no one had told Hamish. Which wasn’t that surprising. He wasn’t really part of the family.

I looked at Hamish, and he looked at me, and I just gave up and did it. ‘I’m a girl now. You can call me Rosemary.’ The words felt so fucking stupid as I said them, but at least it was done.

Hamish nodded slowly. ‘John told me about your grandma. I’m really sorry.’

‘Oh, thank you.’ I did a sad little smile and nodded, because I figured that was the appropriate reaction? But I wasn’t sorry, not really. Nana had died quickly from natural causes after a long healthy life. The rattling was awful, but that was over now. Nana got off pretty lightly, to be honest. And it’s not like I’d been seeing a lot of her anyways.

Hamish was kind of swaying from foot to foot, like he didn’t know what he was supposed to do next. I was waiting for something to happen to me—for the shaking, or something—but, honestly, I just felt awkward for Hamish. I knew he knew that he didn’t really belong here, and I was pretty sure he knew that I knew it too.

I shrugged. ‘Everyone else is inside, if you want to say hello?’

Hamish scratched his neck and did a nervous laugh. ‘I might just take a minute in the car.’

I had a sneaking suspicion about what taking a minute might mean to Hamish, and I really didn’t want to go back inside, so I did the roach-smoking mime, my thumb and forefinger pinched together, and asked him, ‘Is it okay if I take a minute with you?’

Hamish did a real smile, with teeth and everything. ‘Of course. Fuck yeah.’

We walked down Nana’s long drive, past the fuchsias and begonias, past Mark, napping like a total creep in his white Ford Falcon, and out to the bypass. Hamish unlocked a midnight-blue Subaru Impreza. It had black tint windows, a big goofy-looking spoiler, and the mandatory sticker with Made In Japan, Perfected In My Garage plus Imperial-rising-sun graphic on the back windscreen. I’m not sure whether boy-racers know that that flag is, like, a symbol of colonial genocide, human experimentation, and many other war crimes, or if they just don’t care?

The inside of Hamish’s car was a mess of dead Burger King bags and empty Monster cans. Hamish reached across me to pop open the glove box. He smelled like cigarettes and Lynx body spray. I couldn’t detect any of the waxy mousey boy smell I associated with him in my head. His elbow touched my thigh and I felt a jolt of nausea, but weed is good for nausea, right? Hamish tore apart a bud and packed a small metal pipe. Somewhere in the back of my head I knew that I wasn’t supposed to be smoking or drinking or doing any of the dumb bitch shit I’d been doing in this rotted little town but also like, if I was out of a job, if I wasn’t going back to school, if I was gonna be living with Fi and John, then what did it matter? My life wasn’t here in Kirikiriroa; it was happening somewhere else, with all the queers and sweeties in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. Right now, I was paused, looking at the in-game menu, unwashed, unshaven, masturbating, living off pot noodles and diet cola—metaphorically I mean. Obviously I was still washing and shaving and doing my skin care and make-up and generally looking hot, but I’m trying to explain that what I was doing here didn’t count, because I wasn’t living right now, do you understand?

Hamish coughed and the car filled pretty much instantly with smoke. He handed me the pipe and a lighter, and I carefully wiped his spit off the stem with my T-shirt. The lighter was a skull and a snake that spat out a hot blue flame, like a little blow torch, I guess? Anyway the pipe was only short and when I pulled on it, the smoke was dry and hot and immediately I was coughing, and Hamish was laughing, so I was laughing and it had been a minute, shit, it had been a quick minute since I got high, so that one hit was already making me feel pretty spinny, and Hamish packed another bowl but I said, No thanks, so he hooned the whole thing up on his own and the smoke was thick in the car and the windows were electric, I guess? I was pushing on the little go-down-window thingy but nothing was happening, and then Hamish turned the key and the window went down and the sun was so bright outside—like, way too bright—and then Hamish glanced at me, and he looked alarmed.

‘Do you want some of this?’

Hamish handed me a small bottle of Clear Eyes and I unscrewed the cap and tilted my head back and dripped it into each eye and blinked and then rubbed my eyes and then looked at my fists, which were covered in mascara and eyeliner, and I panicked for a long second and then looked up at Hamish, who was spraying himself with Lynx, and I laughed.

‘It’s a funeral. I’m supposed to look like this, right?’

Hamish nodded and did an impressed frown. ‘Fuck, you’re totally right. You look perfect.’

Hamish was giving me a big stoned stare and I felt really uncomfortable, like, what was he looking at? And I wanted to say something to stop the staring, but all I could think was, Who did it to you? Who fucked you up? And then I realised I hadn’t been thinking it, I’d been saying it out loud.

Hamish squinted. ‘What do you mean, who fucked me up?’

‘I mean, you fucked me up.’ I felt a big wave of vertigo, but I’d started now, hadn’t I? Why shouldn’t I ask? Plus I was sure Hamish wanted to tell somebody, because everyone wants to tell somebody, don’t they? So I just kept going. ‘Who diddled you? Was it Chris? Or did your mum molest you? Like, what happened to you, Hamish?’

Hamish’s face had gone real white and blank and I figured he was nervous, but I felt fine now, no nausea, no shaking, and Hamish looked so skinny and pathetic, like a stray dog, and I was worried for him, you know? So I pressed.

‘You can tell me, Hamish. I’m not angry at you. Like, for anything. All the stuff you did to me, I know someone must have done that to you first. It’s not your fault.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He said it real quietly.

‘What? It’s okay, I know someone molested you. I just don’t know who.’ I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t just say. We both knew what had happened.

But then he was shouting, like properly shouting. ‘Get the fuck out of my car, R­—.’

He barked my old name in my face and I just froze—like I didn’t know what to do; I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move—and then Hamish was outside the car, on my side, throwing open the door, and he grabbed my arm and the collar of my tee and wrenched me out, and I tried to step and my shoe caught and I fell onto the pavement, and Hamish was spitting.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know shit! You fucking faggot!’

And then he was in his car and it was roaring out onto the road and another car was swerving and laying on its horn, and my hands were sore, there were little flecks of dirt and gravel mixed with blood on my palm, and I was staring at Hamish’s car speeding off, and it occurred to me that it wasn’t just the sexual abuse, but that Hamish’s whole life was fucked, right from the get-go. His cuckold ‘dad’ abandoned him, John wasn’t around, his mum was a nightmare, he was never safe at home, he had an awful stepdad, no one protected him, not even CYFS protected him, his best friend’s mum fucking cradle-snatched him, he couldn’t seem to do anything without being high out of his fucking mind, he was a grade-A fuck-up. Like, a total fuck-up. And then I was thinking about what Hannah said, It’s John’s fucking fault, and I think maybe I got it now. If John hadn’t been a horny idiot and fucked his own brother’s wife, then none of this would have ever happened to Hamish. I mean there wouldn’t even be a Hamish, but that would have been better, right? Surely? Even now, picking gravel out of my hand, I couldn’t blame Hamish. He never stood a chance. Hamish was just fucked up, end of story.

I sat on the grass verge by the sidewalk, licking the blood off my palms. I realised I was probably getting sunburnt. I looked up, and a woman with a pram was peering back at me.

‘Are you okay?’ She frowned.

At first, I was confused. Why wouldn’t I be okay? I felt okay. And then I remembered how I looked. Blood on my lips, smeared make-up, tights torn at the knee: I looked like one of those messy dead trannies they put on Law & Order episodes. Which was kind of hot, actually. I imagined a stern doctor appraising me, lifting my skirt and frowning at my little girl dick before pushing a blade between my tits and peeling back my ribs on a cold mortuary slab.

‘Do you need me to call someone?’ She had bleach-blonde hair with brunette roots pulled back into a high pony. Her pristine grey and beige athleisure was expensive, but her caked-on foundation was kind of trashy. I imagined her hard-working, hard-drinking builder husband, their golden lab, and her new black SUV.

‘I’m okay.’ I got up and hid my hands behind my back. ‘My nana died.’

‘Aw, babe. I’m so sorry.’ She pushed her stroller across to my side of the pavement. ‘My mum passed away two years ago. From kidney failure.’

‘Oh, that’s awful.’ I wasn’t sure how to respond beyond that. I’d only told her that Nana died because it seemed like a good excuse for the state I was in.

The baby grizzled in the pram.

‘But then little Jamie came along, didn’t you, Jamie?’ The woman bent over and tickled Jamie’s chest.

Okay, I guess that made sense. As far as I can tell, when cis people have a life crisis they default to breeding. I think it’s because a baby is, like, something everyone congratulates you on, it’s this huge success, as if it doesn’t just happen because you want to raw dog it, plus you don’t have to decide what’s next, you know? The baby’s what’s next. Like maybe I’m bitter, because obviously no womb, no conception, no divine feminine pregnancy yoga class, no discernible life path etc. etc., but that’s what it looks like to me. I didn’t know why this woman was still talking to me. I didn’t know why she thought we had some kind of connection. Couldn’t she see I was a freak? Like, what was wrong with her?

‘Jamie’s our little angel, my little miracle baby—’

‘Have a good day.’ I went back down the driveway.

‘Oh, okay.’ She sounded shocked. ‘Take care!’

I was slipping past Mark’s Ford Falcon when the driver’s door swung open and fenced me in. Mark leaned out of the car, and I stepped back.

‘Excuse me!’ I spoke clearly and cuntily.

Mark just stared, holding the door open and in my way, so I spun on my heel and walked back around the other side of the car. The passenger door kicked open, blocking that side of the driveway too. Mark stuck his hand out of the door and waved me in. Honestly, I was ready to kick the door off its fucking hinges, but Mark was giving me this stare, his head cocked to the side like Your move, and I kinda didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, so I smiled, tight and polite, and slipped into the passenger seat.

‘Yes?’ I snapped.

‘You’re Fi’s boy, aren’t you,’ Mark stated.

I blinked slowly, and I realised I was shaking my head in that quick and tight-jawed pissed-off way that Fi shakes her head, that Nana shook her head: little fast movements, side to side. ‘No, Mark,’ I spat. ‘I am not Fi’s boy.’

Mark kept his gaze steady, locked onto mine. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing with all this—’ his eyes flicked up and down my body ‘—but it’s a bit bloody much for a funeral, isn’t it?’

Mark was doing that kind of wide buddy-buddy smile that guys do when they want you to know that they fucking hate you, and that they’re not at all afraid to put that hatred into action, but I was pissed off too, like really pissed off, and to be a hundred percent completely honest, I wasn’t feeling particularly attached to my body or its physical safety in that moment, so I leaned in close to Mark and my voice shook as I said, ‘What the fuck is your damage?’

Mark’s eyes got real wide and his grin got real small.

‘Tell me, Mark. Did your sisters dress you up like a doll when you were little? Or what? You don’t like the way trannies make your dick hard? What is it? What is your fucking problem?’ I grinned at him. ‘Hmmm?’

Mark grabbed the front of my shirt and pushed hard. The back of my head bounced off the passenger window, and I knew I’d done it now, like properly fucked up, but at that same moment there was a knock on Mark’s window, and a balding man in a black suit and black tie was peering in, and Mark was turning to him and I caught my breath, and scrambled for the door handle, stumbled out of the car, and there, parked behind us, was a long dark hearse. Mark was talking to the undertaker, and I kept moving. I was kind of shaking now, just a little, and I had to shimmy back through the living room to get my tote bag, which would have been humiliating if I wasn’t so high. As it was, I really didn’t care. The aunties were looking out of the living room window at the hearse anyway, so no one really paid attention as I slipped in and out and back down the hall to the bathroom.

I washed my face in the sink and set my lipstick and highlighter down on the windowsill beside a half-empty tube of toothpaste—its tail rolled up into a little porcelain machine that used to help Nana squeeze out every last bit. My hands shook as I washed my face and put myself back together.

Everybody was crammed into the lounge now, all standing around the open casket. Mark lifted the lid, to place it down over Nana, but the aunties howled—like a big animal howl—and Linda threw herself over the body.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Mark.

The aunties went quiet. Linda shrank back into the mass of aunties. Mark flipped the lid into place, then twisted the small brass pegs that fastened it shut.

‘Alright boys.’ Mark swept his Clint Eastwood squint over the men in the room. ‘Who’s gonna carry the old lady out?’

The men looked to their wives—the aunties—and the aunties looked to the ground.

Aunty Deb raised her head. ‘I’ll carry her,’ she said quietly.

Mark sighed. ‘Let’s not be silly, eh, Deb?’

She didn’t step back. Instead, she met his gaze, and stepped forward, towards Nana.

‘I’ll help,’ Fi said, her fists balled. She was sticking out her chin just like Nana used to when she got angry and scolded us—just like I had, outside with Mark.

Mark opened his mouth, but it was too late. Just like that, it was all aunties, swarming past him and lifting Nana up, two hands to each brass handle, and many more reaching for the pine sides and lid. Mark stomped his feet, like an actual child, but no one was paying attention; we were forming a train behind the aunties, out the front door and down to the hearse. The driver opened the boot and Nana slid right on in. Fi was getting in the passenger door, tears streaming down her face, and all the aunties were crying and the driver had to do a circuit of the hearse to make sure there weren’t any cousins underfoot before he climbed into the driver’s side. The hearse pulled out, and Hannah emerged from the throng of relatives and took me by the arm.

‘We’re going with John.’

John unlocked the ute. Hannah dibsed not middle, so I got into the cab first, and Hannah followed, squeezing me into John on the driver’s side. John pulled out onto the bypass and followed the hearse. He was watching the road, but Hannah was watching me.

‘You stink, Sis. Why do you smell like that?’

‘What? I don’t smell like anything,’ I lied, and stared straight out the windscreen at the hearse. And then I remembered the best lies are close to the truth, so I added, ‘I’m wearing Juicy Couture. You’re probably just smelling your own stress sweats.’ When Hannah was stressed, she smelled like a skunk.

John sighed. ‘You’re obviously stoned.’ He didn’t take his eyes off the road.

Hannah hissed, ‘What the fuck, Rosemary? There’s a time and a place, isn’t there?’

‘I don’t know.’ I felt sort of angry and sort of hurt. I hated being judged, but I also hated it when Hannah was mad at me, so I didn’t know whether to lash out or to cry. I just felt very very tired.

‘Leave it.’ John slowed as the hearse stopped at the lights. ‘Let’s just focus on being there for Fi at the crematorium, okay?’

‘Unbelievable.’ Hannah shook her head. I felt her try to scooch away from me, but our bodies were inescapably pressed together in the tight cab of the ute.

‘I’m sorry, Hannah. I didn’t mean to.’

‘What? You got blazed by accident?’ Hannah turned her face to the passenger window. ‘Honestly, I don’t care. Forget it.’

It sounded like she did care, but I didn’t know what else to say, so I just pulled at the hem of my skirt and said I’m sorry again.

John gave me a quick pat on the knee and a tight smile.

We drove in silence the rest of the way to the crematorium.

Only the aunties and Mark were allowed into the actual crematorium—with the furnace—so the rest of us waited on the cemetery lawn outside. There were headstones in every direction, and little stands of native trees and bushes ringed by brass plaques that marked the urns full of ashes buried beneath them.

Hannah wasn’t talking to me, so I stood by John. He unbuttoned his jacket and half-slipped a flask from his inside pocket, flashing it at me. I followed John behind the ute and we took turns pulling on the flask. It wasn’t much for two people, and I reckon John took the lion’s share, but then it was his flask. The vodka felt nice and warm in my belly, and I knew Hannah wouldn’t be able to smell it on my breath. Maybe that was why John had picked it.

I remembered stealing sips from a flask in John’s glove box while he got cash out from an ATM. After school maybe? I think I was in intermediate. I couldn’t tell you what was in the flask back then, but it burnt on the way down.

On the way back to Nana’s we stopped at a liquor store. Hannah bought tequila, and John took ages picking out some kind of expensive scotch to mark the occasion. Fi had gone on ahead in Jane’s car, because there was only room in the ute for three.

I had a bunch of messages from Daddy.

Good morning kitten! I hope you had a good sleep

and then

Have you heard of the ‘traffic light system’? I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it. It’s like having a safe word but it’s better for checking in while you’re playing without having to stop and start. I really like using it 😈😈

and then

Thinking of you

plus

Just checking you’re okay? Sorry if I’m being overbearing, I’ve just gotten used to hearing from you a few times a day Let me know if you need anything!

I wanted to message back (like, badly), but, as I said, I was a bad girl now, and I really didn’t want to admit that to Thorn, so I opened and closed my messenger app and typed traffic light system BDSM into my search bar instead. But then John had finally picked something, and the guy behind the counter wanted to check my ID, so I took a deep breath and fished my purse out of my tote bag. I should have just waited in the ute. My purse was blue, with glittery yellow stars embroidered all over it, really pretty, and I unzipped the little gold moon-shaped zipper and pulled out my driver’s licence. I tried not to look at it, I just handed it over, and the man took a long look at the card and then a long look at me. I had an excited second where I imagined him shaking his head—Sorry, this isn’t your ID; this doesn’t look anything like you—and then we would have to leave empty-handed and find somewhere else to shop, but obviously that didn’t happen.

Instead, the man said, completely straight-faced, ‘You looked better with the beard.’ And then he slipped the card back to me across the counter.

I snatched the card and walked quickly out of the store. I don’t know if Hannah or John said anything; not that it really mattered, because it was my own stupid fault for even going in. I hadn’t been in a liquor store, or even bought booze from the supermarket, since I’d come out, and it’s not like I went nightclubbing. I wasn’t drinking, so I’d literally just forgotten that people check IDs. I didn’t even need to be in the store. Like, it was completely in my power to avoid. Stupid.

John and Hannah came out of the store with their brown paper bags. John gave me a sorry-about-that frown and Hannah rolled her eyes.

‘What. A. Wanker.’

I shrugged and Hannah slung her arm around my shoulder. She must have forgiven me.

‘I hated the beard, by the way.’ Hannah poked me in the ribs.

I squealed and leaned against her. ‘Urghhhhhhh. Me too! The bearded lady thing is not for me.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Hannah, and we all piled into the ute.

Back at Nana’s place the aunties were boiling pasta and grating cheese and filling little bowls with frozen peas for the kids. A band was setting up in the lounge, right on the spot where Nana had been laying in her casket. The band was made up of older musicians. I knew them from, like, house parties and punk shows. The violinist was an old friend of Fi’s. She played jazzy dance music on violin, like Django Reinhardt kind of stuff, accompanied by two guitars and a huge old double bass. The double bass was made from some sort of very dark wood riddled with cracks, as if it had been smashed at some point and glued back together. The guy who played it, Gordon, was equally huge, like six foot plus and broad, with a massive grey beard. He was dressed in a wrinkled woollen op shop suit, and a pair of worn-out oxblood Doc Marten boots, which was what I always saw him wearing, at least as long as I’d been going to house shows. I remember one time at a show, he spat on a touring band—which was apparently, like, a sign of respect in the eighties—and after the gig the singer in the band posted online, What the fuck is wrong with that homeless santa?

Anyway, Fi was chatting to her friend the violinist, and Gordon stepped out through the front door. It was already getting dark, so I flicked on the porch light as I followed him out. He sat on the steps, and I squeezed in beside him. He smelled a bit like bacon fat and red vinegar.

‘Oh, hello,’ he sort of grunted, not looking up from the filterless cigarette he was rolling. I noticed his pouch of tobacco was an almost half-and-half weed to Port Royal split, and honestly, yum.

‘Hello, Gordon.’

He squinted sideways at me, head still bowed over his task. After a moment, he grumbled, ‘You’re Fi’s . . . kid?’

‘Yup. I’m Fi’s daughter.’

‘Sorry about your nan.’

‘Thanks. It’s fine though, really.’

Gordon nodded. ‘Eighty-five?’

‘Yup.’

‘Not bad.’

‘Not bad at all.’ I giggled.

Gordon lifted the smoke to the gap in his beard. A dark red tongue flickered out and wet the rice paper. Gordon sealed it with a quick back and forward twist between both sets of forefinger and thumb. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Uh-uh.’

Gordon took a crushed box of matches from his jacket, fished one out and struck it, lit his cigarette (his spliff, I guess), shook the flame from the match, and slid it back, upside down, into the box. I could feel the vodka in my belly, and the Port Royal and the weed smelled really nice together, and Gordon looked kind of handsome in the half-light, like a gigantic jazz club Karl Marx or something. He raised his eyebrows at me, and I nodded, and he passed the spliff.

The end was wet with his saliva, which I found immediately revolting, but I tried to tell myself was actually kind of hot? Like sort of animalistic perhaps? I pictured Gordon as an actual monster, like an orc or a mountain troll, like a big scary creature, one who was nice only to me, one with primal beastly needs and desires that I had no choice other than to satisfy. I imagined Gordon’s dick, a big beefy fat-guy-dick standing in a thick thatch of grey hair. I imagined rolling back his foreskin and running my tongue under the ridge of the head, licking it clean.

Gordon took a drag and I leaned into him, running my hand up the inside of his thigh. He spluttered and batted me away.

‘What are you doing?’ He looked kind of bemused.

‘I’m sorry.’ I blinked and shook my head—we both knew what I’d been doing.

Gordon stood up and stubbed his smoke out against the brick exterior of the house, before tucking it back inside his coat. I opened my mouth, but Gordon shook his head. ‘Just forget it. Alright?’

Gordon went inside.

I felt numb and stupid and gross, which is, as it happens, absolutely the appropriate way to feel after you grope someone, but I also felt a lot like it would be really nice not to feel that way, and I felt like the sooner I didn’t feel that way the better, so I walked round to the back door, because I didn’t want to bump into Gordon, and it was dark, and you could see the stars now, you could just see them in a sky fringed by electric orange light, and I went back in through the back door and into the kitchen and Hannah was there taking a big swig from a bottle of beer and then topping it up with tequila, and the band had started in the living room, and I picked up Hannah’s tequila from where she had set it down on the kitchen bench and I took a long pull from the bottle, and did you know tequila is the only alcohol that isn’t a depressant? It’s a stimulant, and that’s why it’s a party drink, did you know that? And then, in the lounge, the band was playing really fast, the violinist was tearing her bow through her strings and it was all really loud in the little lounge room, and did you know that a blackout is a kind of brain damage and that every time you black out, the easier it is to black out the next time, and did you know that it’s not forgetting, it’s that your brain actually stops recording memories? Like once you black out you’re literally running on autopilot, just reacting, not even really awake, not even really alive, and the aunties and their men were leaping about, pogoing and jigging, and the bigger little kids were bouncing on their dads’ and cousins’ shoulders, and John handed me the expensive bottle of whisky he’d picked out, and I took a big slug of that and it tasted like dirt and farts and mould and it was actually really tasty and I had another big drink, and then we were all dancing

leaping as high as

I could up and down

lungs burning

breath steaming in the cold air

cold bricks and the yellow porchlight

Hannah is passing me John’s whisky, he’s smoking one of Gordon’s spliffs, we’re sitting in the driveway

to Hamish do you realise that? Do you ever think about that, John?

John is staring at me

he is shaking

fucked. Hamish is completely fucked, like, where were you? Do you

and my throat is raw

Hannah is standing me up, she’s holding

me

John is wiping his eyes with the back of his hand

Hamish never had anyone. Do you understand?

he can’t look at me straight

Do you?