Beyond Carousel (13 page)

‘No, we left last year. Then lived up in the hills for a while. Before here,' I replied.

‘But you haven't been to the city?' asked Georgia.

I shook my head.

‘Oh wow. It's amazing there. The Collective is intense,' she said.

‘What is it?' I asked.

‘Just a big community of Artists. People started gathering there when they finished their Residencies. You know, safety in numbers and all that. But now they collaborate on projects, hold forums and concerts – tons of stuff,' said Georgia. ‘There are some totally famous Artists there.'

She was wistful and excited and, for some reason, I felt immediately sceptical.

‘How many people live there?' I asked.

‘Hard to say. People come and go. There aren't really any boundaries. Some people live in houses nearby. Others just crash in tents or wherever,' said Georgia.

‘Is there food and power?' I asked.

‘Oh yeah. There are vegetable gardens and fruit trees. I think it used to be a community garden or something,' she replied.

‘City Farm,' I said.

‘Right. That's it!' said Georgia.

I knew the place. It was just east of the CBD. A ramshackle place full of sheds, cafes and gardens set up through volunteers and community funding.

‘Oh my god, Nox. You have to go there once Taylor and Lizzy get back. You can work on your writing. Meet heaps of cool people. Seriously,' said Georgia.

‘How come you left?' I asked.

‘Oh. I don't know. I can get pretty restless,' replied Georgia.

It seemed vague, but I left it alone. The whole discussion had been fairly overwhelming first thing in the morning. I also felt a ripple of panic about how I was going to broach Georgia's arrival with my landlord Rachel.

Rachel shrugged off the news of the casino's newest resident. Told me she didn't give a crap what happened on the lower levels and I wondered why I had bothered telling her. But I knew that if I didn't she would have been majorly pissed. So I let her be and went back down to Georgia's room with some more food. I waited at the door and hoped I wasn't being a massive freak by showing up again so soon. Georgia flung it open and asked me where the hell I had been.

We made out for what felt like the whole rest of the day. It was like we were teenagers renting a room on some tiny anniversary. Fixed to the bed to eat, drink and fool around like it was an island we couldn't leave. Our conversations were polite and friendly, but felt more like filler than anything.

I liked Georgia. She was a year or so younger than me, but super sharp and worldly. And she seemed so decisive and confident; from small things like what she wanted to eat, through to massive, weighty decisions like
becoming an actress or travelling alone to the casino. In others these traits may have been rooted in naivety or recklessness. But with Georgia I got the feeling that she was aware of the stakes.

In spite of all of this I still wondered whether my want for her company was mainly driven by the fact that I had been living without it for so long. And whether this was the same for her. As if we were avatars with icons for
love
or
emotion
that had been run so low they would take days to replenish before we could consider setting off again.

So we hibernated in her room. Rolling around the bed in our clothes. Taking them off and remembering what we knew about sex. Waking up in the middle of the night to find ourselves clinging to each other. Skipping big and important relationship junctures because our bodies, and maybe our souls, didn't have time for first dates and dinners with friends. It was primal and simplified. Maybe that was how this stuff worked in the world now. Maybe it was the only way it could work.

The following day, when I missed the third scheduled trip to the foyer for the Finns, Georgia checked with me that I didn't need to go down there.

‘It's fine,' I replied. ‘I'll go down there a bit later. I'm sure they will leave a note or something if I'm not around.'

It was a lame response, but Georgia was happy to buy it, neither of us keen to disrupt whatever it was that was happening.

Gradually we found out some basic information about each other. Georgia's parents were both drama teachers, but divorced. She had a younger brother, Brad, and a stack of friends she missed ‘like crazy' from high school and college. She had applied for WAAPA, along with a list of other high-ranking acting schools, having burnt the first year out of college making showreels and posting headshots to agencies in LA. Two of the applications came back with a Yes, and she chose WAAPA on a whim one night when she flicked a channel and found Wolverine on TV. The Disappearance happened in her second year at the course. She told me that if it had come a year earlier she would have probably curled into a ball and never left the campus. It was as good a testimonial to WAAPA as you could ask for.

She and Claudia had ventured straight into the city upon completing a one-woman play at their Residency. They had a brief run-in with some dogs that sounded like Bulls, but otherwise reached the city and Collective without issue. From here the stories turned hazy and took on a Hunter S Thompson vibe. Week-long parties. Iconic and obscure figures of the art world. Epic theatre productions in empty houses. Installation art merged with plumbing projects and windmills.

I didn't really delve for too many details.

They had eventually left with some filmmakers and actors to shoot a film on the grassy slopes of Guildford, north-east of the city. Georgia wrapped her scenes early
and ventured back south with a few other actors. She hadn't bumped into Claudia again since, but seemed totally fine with this.

Then came a few intense months practising ‘method' in a beach house at Trigg, a play in South Perth, and, eventually, a trip east that led to the casino.

My story seemed shorter and less adventurous. Still, Georgia dropped a tear at my account of Rocky's death, and shared my worry over Tommy and the fires. She had heard rumours of people being lost in them, but was quick to add that the city pretty much ran on rumours these days. The biggest of which was the Curator himself.

Georgia hadn't seen him. Nor had anyone else she had met with any real credibility. She told me that the stories originated from the sounds and noises of a solitary car driving the streets in the hours and days after the Disappearance. Some say they saw it from windows and doors. A regular white ute making its way calmly through the carnage. Lonely tail-lights traversing back into the hills at night. Others say they heard it pull up and idle outside Residencies, as if to check that everything was in order.

Then there were the stories of actual meetings. These varied wildly, each one contradicting the next. Georgia said that some people clung tight to the myth of the Curator for direction or purpose. Others resented it and refused to speak of him. But, more and more, he was becoming a forgotten figure. People were moving on
with their lives. Grappling with the significant challenges of survival, here and now. Like a superhero or prophet, he was mostly myth and memory these days. My heart went out to Tommy when she told me this. Just a few months ago his resolution seemed so strong that even Taylor believed him. I hoped to hell that it hadn't cost him everything.

A thin blanket of drizzle blew in for an afternoon, shadowing the sun for the first time in months. Georgia and I snuck upstairs to my room for a proper bath and some movies. It took forever to fill the huge corner tub. We gave up halfway and slid down low so the water still covered us over. We watched Pixar Blu-rays on the wall-mounted TV while a westerly blew flurried waves of soft rain against the windows. It was the first time we had just hung out without sex, conversation or sleep, and it felt like something.

When we eventually got out we draped ourselves in towels and robes and tiptoed through the darkness to my bed. It was still early but we slept and whispered our way through to the morning.

I woke to find Georgia sitting on a couch with an old diary. I wandered over and took a seat beside her.

‘How is your week looking?' I asked.

Georgia flashed a smile. ‘Where do I even begin?'

‘Is that thing current?' I asked, nodding at the diary.

‘Nope. Last year's,' she replied. ‘I still like to use it
though. Just to see where I've been.'

‘So it's retrospective?'

‘Yeah, I guess,' she replied. ‘Hey, have you been to Fremantle much?'

‘Not for ages. Obviously. But yeah, I used to hang out there sometimes,' I replied.

‘I'm thinking of trekking down to spend the winter there,' said Georgia.

I nodded and tried not to panic.

‘Apparently there are some Artists working in the western end in some of those big old buildings. It sounds pretty awesome,' she added, eyes dancing with energy.

‘Cool,' I replied.

Georgia looked at me with a slight smile.

‘Do you want to come with?' she asked.

I felt a wash of relief, but also something else.

‘I don't know if I can right now,' I replied. ‘Because of Taylor and Lizzy.'

Georgia tilted her head and studied me.

‘But you know they're not coming back,' said Georgia.

I looked at her.

‘Why would you say that?' I asked.

‘Because it's true, Nox. You haven't even been down to the foyer since I arrived,' said Georgia.

I felt trapped and judged.

‘I've been with you the whole time,' I replied, sharply. ‘I know. It's been awesome. And you should come with me to Fremantle,' said Georgia.

‘What are you going to do when you get there?' I asked.

Georgia shrugged. ‘Meet people. Find somewhere cool to stay. Hopefully do some acting.'

‘When do you want to go?' I asked.

She shrugged again. ‘Later today.'

My head ached like I had been drinking.

‘Sorry, Georgia. I can't leave here yet. I have to give them some more time,' I said.

We sat there in silence. The last night and week suddenly a million miles behind us. Eventually Georgia took a long breath, turned and gave me an amazing smile. It was warm and hopeful, but final.

I felt like it would haunt me forever.

Autumn drifted nervously across the pensive city. I wandered the halls of the casino cloaked in robes and sunglasses, brooding over the past and squinting away from the future. Georgia had left. The Finns were gone. Rachel tolerated me at best and bemoaned me at worst. If I were Conor Oberst or Ryan Adams this would be the perfect time to scrawl out my new album. But I wasn't a musician. Or an actor. Or even a writer. I was part-time stationery assistant Nox, and yes, winter was coming.

The foyer was cold and dim at seven in the morning, and much the same twelve hours later. But I didn't dare miss a day. Convincing myself that it was this dedication that had kept me from joining Georgia on her trip to Fremantle. That one night the Finns and Chess would stumble in, tired and dirty but so thrilled that I had waited. Their stories would be long and crazy, but the thought of abandoning me would form no part of them.

Rachel was the weird lady who lived next door. Somebody I would bump into in the hall for an
awkward conversation. Or hear up late drinking on a Tuesday, alone and celebrating something tragic like the birthday of her long-lost son. Occasionally we would share a meal when some seafood was about to go bad. Sit out on her balcony and sip our favourite drinks while groaning about the resort like it was a regular apartment building. I left her to do the golf cart runs alone and she seemed to prefer it that way. She would take along my list of items while I stayed back and minded the place. ‘No promises,' she would say, but always come through with the goods.

When the nights turned cold and Rachel was too stubborn to come in from the balcony, she caught herself a brutal head cold. It was right about the time we needed to do a golf cart run. Rachel put it off for a few days, but only got sicker. When I ventured in with my list and saw the state of her, I reluctantly decided to step in.

Rachel croaked through some directions and gave me a fairly random list of requests.

‘No promises,' I joked.

She just coughed and glared at me.

‘Is there a chemist near that IGA?' I asked.

‘Why?' asked Rachel.

‘I could get you some cold and flu tablets or something,' I replied.

‘Just get me Nurofen like it says on the list,' she grumbled.

‘Okay sure,' I replied.

I took the keys and turned to leave. Rachel said something I didn't hear.

‘Sorry?' I said.

‘Ten minutes. Two bags,' she repeated.

I gave her a nod and left for the golf cart.

It took me a while to find my way out of the overgrown gardens, but eventually I linked up with a path and followed it out until I bumped down onto the highway. It felt wild and expansive. A breeze blew across with a soft whistle, shifting sand and leaves from one side to the other. I edged out and carefully rounded a couple of lonely taxis until there was a break in the island where I could cross over.

Aside from the casino, the suburb of Burswood was predominantly made up of car yards and light industry. Rachel had given me a list of specific streets that would take me to the supermarket, but I quickly lost track of them. I wasn't too worried though. It was on a main road that I had sometimes used to get from my place to Heather's a few years back.

What was more on my mind was the cracky poet we had run into the last time I had joined Rachel in the cart. Confronting him, or others, with the ever-assured Rachel for company was one thing. Dealing with him on my own was another. Rather than Impulse deodorant I had brought along a small can of the super-strength bug spray that Tommy had suggested we use on the
Bulls. It rolled around on the dash as my eyes searched the streets for signs of movement. But Burswood was a sleeping graveyard of cars. Row upon row of filthy new Toyotas and Mitsubishis with signs barking
Finance Available
and
Free Auto
.