New Australian Stories 2 (4 page)

In my head I barked retorts, but we were getting close to the train station so I kept my mouth shut.

One time about three months ago I got caught by an elderly lady who was validating her train ticket. She must have heard us arguing. Or she just heard me, I guess.

‘Shut up, Cancerface!' I'd yelled. ‘Terminal fucking Cancerface!'

The woman was not going to work or anything, but dressed for grocery shopping or maybe volunteering in a thrift store. She was wearing a pretty straw hat and when she looked around the corner from the station all she would've seen was me shouting at a cat.

‘Terminal!' I'd screamed.

So I said nothing to Cancerface this morning. I said nothing to any of them. I just boarded my train and tried to catch glimpses of myself in the shadowy window reflections. They were right about my hair. They were usually right, at least partly.

When I got to work I started an email to Marla.
Hey
, it began.
I have a new haircut. The cats hate it, but I think they
might be exaggerating and it will probably be okay if I give it
time to grow out a little.

There was nothing I could say to Marla that did not sound stupid and desperate, including this. The subtext of my messages to her was always so obvious.
The cats hate the way I
look too, but maybe they're wrong about us.

I went and made a cup of tea while I reconsidered the message. By the time I returned I'd resolved not to email Marla anymore, but then I pressed send anyway. What the hell.

Marla used to be my girlfriend. I could hardly believe that my life of mundane deskwork and silent public-transport travelling had been touched by something as uncanny as the presence of Marla. She was funny and kind and interesting. Marla knew stories about explorers who died in horrible and tragic ways on very long treks. Usually they were just half a day from their destination when they were eaten by a dingo in their sleep, or their camel fell down dead and they died of thirst rather than slice open the flesh of their only companion. Marla loved explorers because they dedicated themselves to one thing above all else. I loved Marla just because.

When I told her about the cats she was very understanding. I knew she would be. That's why after about six weeks of knowing Marla I decided the time was right. We sat on my bed one night, and I started talking. It was probably the best night we spent together. Marla's hair is dark brown, which matches her eyes, and I remember how much they were shining, her hair and eyes, as the sun went down outside, and we climbed under my blankets with our clothes on.

The next morning Marla woke early.

‘Let's walk together,' she said. I didn't want to walk to the train with her because the presence of the cats put me in a difficult position. It took a lot of focus to ignore them, and I wasn't sure I could maintain a normal conversation with Marla at the same time. But I said okay. Now that I'd told her the truth it didn't seem right not to.

‘Just ignore them,' she whispered, gripping my hand. ‘Focus on me now.'

The sight of the two of us together had whipped the cats into a frenzy. They'd seen Marla before. It hadn't taken long for them to put things together.

‘Got yourself a girlfriend, I see,' the black cat had announced. ‘Quite a girlfriend! Enough for two girlfriends!'

Cancerface had loved it. ‘I bet you had a good time with her last night. I heard you … Yeah, outside your window. Oh, oh, Matty, Matty, Matty! Yeah, I'd like to show that bitch! I could really show that bitch!'

I'd never acknowledged them — but the morning I stepped out with Marla it went off the scale.

‘Matty and Fatty!' the white Persian chanted. ‘Look! Matty and Fatty!'

A variety of cats followed us; some I'd never even met before, regaling me with long stories about what they'd like to do to my girlfriend. I gritted my teeth and picked up our pace.

‘It's okay,' Marla said quietly. ‘I'm here and none of it matters.'

She was trying really hard, but I just wanted it to be over. I walked even faster.

Cancerface spotted us about fifty metres from the station.

‘Well, well!' he shouted. ‘If it isn't the screamer. In the flesh! And look at that flesh. She's got a big arse, Matty. Have you got her on a diet? I'd get her on a diet.'

Marla and I kept on. Cancerface trotted by Marla's feet.

‘I can see up her skirt, Matty. Whoa. That's quite a bikini line. Christ!'

I could see he was making Marla nervous. She quickened her pace and almost tripped, but caught herself as we reached the station's steps.

‘Lucky!' Cancerface called out. ‘If she'd fallen on me I'd be a goner! Big one like that! Whoa, lucky escape, nearly got fell on by a whale! Boom! A big hairy whale!'

I was seething with anger, both at Marla and the cats. She shouldn't have insisted. Things were just fine before that, just perfect.

On the station platform I stayed quiet. I tried to calm myself down.
Just let me stay quiet.

Marla interrupted. ‘Matthew?'

I ignored her.
Just let me stay quiet.
I needed a few minutes. It would pass.

‘What is it?' she insisted. ‘What were they saying?'

‘Nothing,' I said, through gritted teeth.

‘It's okay, you can tell me. I think we should be open about it. Let's not let these silly cats come between us.'

That's when I snapped. The idea that Marla could ever understand!

‘Just stop it! They're not saying it to you; it's not about you. This is my thing, okay? They're my cats.'

‘If they're saying things about me I have a right to know.'

‘Do you? Do you really?'

‘Yes. Yes, of course! I mean it, if you don't tell me …'

‘Then what? You'll leave me?'

She paused and lowered her voice. ‘I'll have no choice. I just want us to get through this together.'

‘The cats said you're fat,' I blurted. ‘They said you're fat and hairy and they made a whole lot of sexual jokes about what it must be like for us to have sex. That ugly cat, the tabby with cancer that nearly tripped you up? He looked up your skirt too.'

The train arrived then, so I wasn't sure if she'd heard all of what I'd said. The roar of the train tumbled over my words and her response. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but I saw her face contort, horrified and ashamed.

The train stopped at the platform, but we didn't get on.

‘Is that what you think about me?'

‘No. No, it's not. It's just what the cats think.'

She didn't believe me.

That was the last time we spoke in person. The email I sent today was just one of many I've sent Marla over the last few weeks. I've explained everything. I told her the truth about the cats, how I don't really know what they are and I can't guarantee I'm not crazy or that the things they say aren't my thoughts after all. Of course I reassured her that I find her unbearably attractive and that I have never thought that she was at all overweight. She really isn't, or if she is then I haven't noticed because Marla is truly ideal in every way — with the exception of her sensitivity to the attitudes of the cats. I explained how, given my uncertainty about the cats, I'd tried medication, counselling and owning a dog, but ultimately my only choice was to get used to the cats and to hope that, one day, someone else would get used to them too. I tried to make it sound like a singular adventure. The type explorers committed themselves to and risked their lives for.

Marla has never replied.

I caught the train home today. I braved the walk from the station with typical resolve. I kept my eyes down as if nothing was different.

‘Looking good with that new hair!'

‘Still hasn't grown back then?'

‘Did you think that fat chick of yours would come back for your new hair? Ha! Not likely! She's never coming back.'

‘Never coming back, Matty!'

I waited until I was a third of the way down the street, then I broke into a run. They followed me.

‘Never coming back!'

A black cat darted in front of me. My neighbour's Persian trotted out to meet us. I bolted into a stranger's yard and did the first thing I could think of. I grabbed the garden hose and I twisted it on as far as I could. The cats were still coming towards me so I turned the hose on them. I sprayed them all then I focused on Cancerface. Got him right in the nose and I saw his eyes roll back in pain as the jet of water crashed through his broken skin straight into his cancer. He coughed water, his head tipped back, choking. Then he fled. All the others ran too. In a rage, I turned on the only cat still nearby. The fluffy white Persian yelped as I whipped the hose in her direction. She twisted and rolled, unable to make sense of the threat. I backed her into a bush, saturating her fur as her body spasmed and her stupid eyes widened in fear. She didn't even run. Just rolled over and over and over.

I threw down the hose. It convulsed in the grass and the Persian fell still and cowered. As I hurried home the front window of my house reflected my clumsy frame — uneven shoulders and sticking-out ears. Stumbling up to the front door I went for my keys. They weren't there. I figured I must have dropped them in all the commotion. I had a coating of wet grass almost up to my knees and I just wanted to get inside and into the shower.

I doubled back and headed across to the neighbour's yard. No sign of the white Persian, but my keys were there so I ran over, relieved. I bent to collect them. When I straightened up I saw him. Cancerface. He was at the edge of the lawn, his paws unhappily wet, his mouth drawn in a dour expression. I stood my ground.

Cancerface was quiet. Completely silent.

I opened my mouth to say something, but Cancerface just turned and walked away. I went after him.

‘Hey,' I called. ‘Hey!'

He went on walking.

The cats weren't talking to me. I guessed they were so angry they didn't want to know me anymore. I could have been happy about it, but I wasn't. I ran and caught up to Cancerface and, although he kept on ignoring me, I saw something in his expression.

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘Cancerface! I'm really sorry.'

He paused. When he spoke his voice was small. ‘We just wanted to protect you, Matty.'

Cancerface must have sensed my doubt. He sighed and walked on. I called out again, but he had nothing to say. None of them did. The silence around me felt so huge then, so foreign, and in the space left by their voices I suddenly understood: they never thought Marla was fat. They thought she was as beautiful as I did and that's why they drove her away. The cats knew someone like Marla wouldn't love someone like me for long.

The wet grass squelched under my feet as I went home. I imagined the voices of the cats:

You get what you deserve, Matty!

We're never coming back, Matty!

I unlocked my door, took off my wet shoes and went in. I stuck my head outside and looked around one last time.

‘See you in the morning, Cancerface!' I shouted into my darkening front yard. There was no reply, but I knew it was true. He'd be back. They were my cats. I knew they'd be back.

After Rachel

TONY BIRCH

I wasn't surprised when Rachel left me. I'd seen it coming in her mood swings and long unexplained absences from the house. But when she finally broke the news to me, in a note she stuck on the fridge door before leaving for work one morning, I felt betrayed. I thought the least she could have done was to let me know in person. I don't recall much of what was in the note, as I tore it into pieces and flushed it down the toilet after reading it. But I do remember she commented several times about needing her ‘space'.

I thought I'd be okay on my own, but my life quickly fell apart. I stopped eating and found it hard to sleep. One of the other attendants at the city car park where I was working at the time, Alan, noticed I'd lost weight and was chain-smoking. He invited me for a beer after work. I wasn't keen, but he insisted. We went into a crowded bar across the street. We shared some small talk before he put a hand earnestly on my shoulder and asked if there was something wrong.

Without a couple of beers to loosen my lips I would never have confided in Alan. I hardly knew him. I skolled half a pot of beer, wiped my mouth and told him about Rachel's decision to leave the note on the fridge door.

He knowingly nodded his head, as if something similar had happened in his own past.

‘Space? You know that's a code word?'

‘For what?'

‘Rooting. I'd bet my last pipe of weed she's fucking another bloke.'

The thought of Rachel sleeping with another man shocked me.

‘No. It's not like that. She just needs some time to herself.'

‘Whatever,' he said with a smirk. ‘A few months down the track, you'll run into her on the street, a café or somewhere, and she'll be with some fella, probably a bloke you already know, one of her mates from work, most likely. She'll blush and pretend that this thing between them has only just started.'