One Way or Another (13 page)

Late in June of 1984, I received a disturbing phone call. Guy McDonough, the guitarist for Australian Crawl, had died of complications from pneumonia. I sat in our lounge room, frozen to the spot, listening to rain drum down on the roof and the distant buzzing of an anonymous electrical appliance. Lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply, I let the tears roll down my cheeks. Guy was twenty-eight. It was the eighties. I couldn't understand how a young man could succumb to something like pneumonia. Surely hospitals were equipped to fix things like that. Like all of us, Guy might have indulged in some risky behaviour – but he was a gentle soul. I could not believe he was dead.

Remembering our roof-top conversation years before, and the musical duet we'd played in my parents' lounge room, I put on an Australian Crawl album, cracked open a bottle of cheap champagne and raised a glass. An incredulous hush descended over the music industry for a few days. Guy was buried in Melbourne and then life went on. Live now, pay later – it would take more than one mishap to make us question that motto.

*

Months passed, and gigs began to blur into one long fuzzy din. The late nights left me with puffy red eyes and a bad taste in my mouth, while boredom left me on edge. I was becoming cranky. Intolerant. Homesick. Our friends were fun and good for a laugh, but there was a competitive, bitchy undercurrent to these friendships. Our social life was inseparable from the drug scene and it was all beginning to feel rather shallow. I found myself ringing home more often, just to hear the voices of people who loved me.

Late in the year, as the first warm sea breezes hit the air after a dry spring, I was home alone and woke at my usual time: midday. There was no bread in the house and I was completely addicted to soft white bread. Billy told me it would be the death of me.

‘You'll blow up into a soggy white mass and die. That stuff is bad for you,' he'd lecture.

It was hard not to laugh at this advice, coming as it did from a man who enthusiastically smoked, drank and snorted whatever was on offer. I banged and crashed my way through the kitchen cupboards and bent down to peer into the mouldy fridge, to no avail. The mould was a clue that Joey was overseas.

The humidity was already spilling into the house, bathing me in a layer of sweat. Dressing in a light summer dress, with no bra or knickers, I found the keys and unlocked the deadlocked front door. As I closed the front gate, I bent to give Possum a tummy-tickle. She was sprawled out on the hot sidewalk like a bearskin rug. Purring, she rolled her legs into the air and gave a long stretch, before licking the skin of my hand with her sandpaper tongue.

‘I'll bring you some tuna, Poss,' I smiled, giving her another scratch.

Wandering up Goodhope Street to the local deli, I took in the terrace houses, which continued to fascinate me. A mansion across the road still had its old carriage house, with a driveway running through to what were once the stables. The walk was a steady uphill climb and I was puffing just a little when I noticed two punks approaching from the opposite direction. They were hardcore, their faces full of metal and their hair spiked up about their heads as high and sharp as bayonets. I smiled nervously, but their close-set eyes and surly expressions did not invite friendliness. As we passed each other, one leered and called in a gravelly accent, ‘Nice tits, bitch!' I frowned and hurried on, cursing them very quietly under my breath.

The corner deli was expensive and upmarket and we rarely frequented it. I found a small can of tuna, grabbed the softest loaf of bread I could find, paid at the counter and re-emerged into the glaring sun. Squinting, I made the easier trip downhill, unwrapping the bread and tearing into the soft, white dough with my teeth.

As I neared home, I could see Possum up against the wrought-iron fence. Something about the way she was lying chilled me to the bone and I broke into a run. When I reached her, I could see immediately that she was dead. Her neck was at an odd angle from her body and as I gently rolled her over, I saw that her eyes were glassy. She was warm and soft and a wad of pain caught in my throat. Coughing and reeling, wanting to scream, I stumbled to the front door.

Inside, shaking, I raced to the phone. Joey would know what to do. I ran my fingers over the tour sheet beside the phone and found that he was in Texas. A twangy receptionist answered and I asked to be put through to Joey's room. I had no idea whether it was 2 a.m or 10 in the morning.

‘Joey speaking,' came his chronically chirpy voice.

‘It's me. Possum's dead,' I blurted out. I was too upset to sugarcoat it.

‘What?' A gasp. A pause. And then, in a softer voice, ‘Was it a car?'

‘No, I don't think so. There were these punks walking down the street. Real arsehole ones. I think they killed her. Her neck's broken but she's nowhere near the road. She's near the gate and she never goes in the street.'

‘Calm down. Look, I'm just racing out to a gig … I'm meeting the band for dinner. I'm just as upset as you are, but what can I do? You'll have to bury her in the backyard. Maybe she was hit by a car and the person stopped and put her on the footpath.'

‘It was those bastards,' I fumed as the tears began to spurt. I sobbed and sniffled into the phone.

‘Put a blanket over her, honey, and wait till Billy gets home. Or call Pinky. I've got to go.'

Joey hung up and I blubbered into my hands for a while before taking some deep breaths. I couldn't leave Possum out on the pavement. It was undignified to have people looking at her or dogs sniffing at her. I got a blanket, gently wrapped her up like a little baby, and brought her cooling body inside. I sat on the couch and rocked her in my arms, singing softly as tears dropped onto her lifeless whiskers.

When Billy arrived home, he dug a hole in the backyard. We buried her and said some special words to send her off to cat heaven.

*

Being faced with death got me thinking about life. It got me thinking about my life. I felt like someone who had been following a false map. All that rags-to-riches garbage, all those Cinderella dreams sold to impressionable young girls. I'd fallen for it hook, line and sinker. Run away to the big city with a handsome musician. The spangle of fame is just around the corner.

I wished I had a friend I could confide in. Someone who would understand my fears and frustrations. A friend who would challenge me to be the best I could be. Billy was just too busy and I could feel the shadows falling between us. We were always surrounded by people – at home, at gigs, wherever we were – and yet I had never felt so lonely.

I determined to start looking for work as an actress. After all, that had been my prime motivation for moving to Sydney. If I wanted that Oscar and a brownstone mansion in New York, I would need to pick up the pace. I wanted to go home in a blaze of glory. Perhaps a ride down Cavill Avenue on a float, holding my Oscar aloft. ‘Gold Coast Girl Makes Good.' I wanted my parents to be proud of me and love me for who I was, not for what they wanted me to be.

I needed an agent; I needed work. But fame and fortune, I knew, were still a little way off – and a part of me knew I couldn't wait that long to see my family. I would find an agent. I would get work. But first, I needed to go home.

The train trip from Central Station to Murwillimbah was long and smoky. A fourteen-hour festival of nicotine and vodka. Billy and I had smuggled a bottle on board and had opted for the smoking carriage, which proved to be a mistake. A compartment full of people all puffing away like they were involved in some tribal smoking ritual, non-stop for hours and hours, is like being trapped in a noxious sauna. Smoking was a habit I'd picked up again after the move to the big smoke. That train trip cured me of it. Almost.

The north-coast township of Murwillumbah was steamy and lush. Mt Warning hovered behind it like an ancient gatekeeper, a relic of a volcano from eons ago. My dad and I had almost climbed to the very top some years earlier. Dad had always been a great lover of nature and I had a trove of happy memories of long bush walks in the Gold Coast hinterland.

Dad collected us at the station, tearful with joy. His chin quivered and he held me tighter than he ever had. He gave Billy a friendly handshake and seemed positively thrilled to see us. All my terror and apprehension about our reunion melted. My fears that I would be kidnapped back or chastised mercilessly appeared to have been baseless. At home, Mum held my hands and rubbed them, her eyes wet and her nervousness as palpable as my own.

After a loud and lovely reunion, my poor mother was most uncomfortable about where to accommodate Billy and me. Not wanting to endorse sin, she finally decided we could sleep in the same room – my little brother David's room – but in twin beds. David would sleep on a foldout bed in Rachel's room, which had once been my room. It was strange to be home again and I spent some time sitting in my old room before bed, remembering my teenage craziness.

My little brother and sisters had all grown up so much. That saddened me a little, and their innocent joy at having their biggest sister home filled me with guilt. Sister Annie by now had a steady boyfriend, but her opportunities for mischief were narrower than mine had been: she whispered that Mum and Dad had put security screens on the windows after I left.

I could see, reflected in my parents' eyes, the observation that a year had changed us too. Billy and I looked paler, thinner and a little strung out. Mum's dinner was probably the first well-rounded meal we'd had in months.

I tucked Rachel and David into bed and closed their door. I called out ‘Night, Mum. Night, Dad.' And it felt nice.

Andy Gibb, still in orange overalls and his ludicrous buck-toothed smile, now sat on Annie's bed. ‘I'll always have a soft spot for you, Andy,' I whispered, blowing him a goodnight kiss.

*

We also stayed with Billy's parents for a few days. They were much more relaxed than my family, probably because Billy was the third of four kids. We swam in their pool, drank their wine and were entertained by Billy's dad, who'd once had aspirations of being a concert pianist. He played so eloquently I almost cried. Late at night, I'd tinkle the ivories of their sleek black grand piano. My ‘Baby Elephant Walk' sounded better than ever, but I'd forgotten how to play anything else.

All of my old friends had spread out about the globe. Tammy was at university in Armidale. Rhonda had gone overseas for a stint. I couldn't find anyone else but I didn't try very hard. I'd had a gutful of friends and I wanted to bunker down with blood relatives. I'd adopted Billy's family as my own and felt unconditionally accepted by them. This meant a lot to me, especially given my own parents' warier welcome of Billy. I could hear the undercurrent of disapproval when they asked about his schooling and see that Mum's eyes kept creeping to his opal earring.

The day of our departure, Mum took me aside.

‘Why did you do it, Nikki? Was it something we did wrong?' Her eyes were full of pain and I winced, struggling to find the right words.

‘It wasn't you or Dad. Really, I love you. But …' my voice trailed away. I put my arms around her and we held each other, both with tears trickling silently down our cheeks.

‘I miss you,' I smiled at her.

‘I miss you too,' she smiled back.

*

On the train back to Sydney I cried for the first few hours of the journey, softly, silently to myself, while Billy slept. How does the gulf between parents and teenagers grow so deep? The bonds that were forged at birth seem to strain and fray during adolescence. It was like breaking out of the egg, I decided. The shell is going to get broken and the struggle might be painful, but if you stay inside because you're too afraid to leave or because the mother duck doesn't want to let you out, you'll die.

We arrived home to the news that my old guitar tutor, Bob, had joined the Angels, a legendary tribe of hard rockers with some classic tunes. This was a great break for him, and we agreed we'd go along to their next gig to congratulate him.

Selina's at the Coogee Bay Hotel sat perched on the esplanade of Coogee Beach like a glittering gargoyle ready to pounce. The venue had a reputation as a rough place; fights tended to erupt nightly and sometimes made newspaper headlines. The crush of punters was decked out in blue singlets, flannel shirts and jeans, mostly young men with more beer and attitude in their bellies than was good for them. Westies, we'd have called them. We squeezed our way through the crowd to get a better view of the stage.

Bob played his guitar like a weapon and the Angels' frontman, Doc Neeson, had an awe-inspiring stage presence. When he wailed ‘Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again?', the audience chanted back, ‘No way, get fucked, fuck off!' with irresistible enthusiasm.

Afterwards, we caught up briefly with a sweaty Bob and promised to keep in touch. The band was touring relentlessly and his schedule had suddenly gone into overdrive.

I was happy for Bob. He was so very talented and unassuming. I, on the other hand, felt quite artless and crassly obsessed with celebrity. I wanted fame so badly it hurt and yet I couldn't wield a guitar or sing and the only professional audition I'd ever had, I'd failed. Hanging around famous rockers was beginning to highlight my own pointless obscurity. It felt a bit pathetic, in fact. I didn't want to settle for being a moth flitting about the light, occasionally getting burned. I wanted to find my own spotlight.

Bob was being cheered by hundreds of fans, but he was absorbed in his music and couldn't care less about the adulation. I wished I could have been so noble. I was beginning to suspect that fame was not something you earned or deserved but entirely accidental. Yet deep down in my shallow teenage belly, I still believed I was one of those accidents waiting to happen.

‘Have fun,' I waved to him as we left.

‘Go well,' he nodded back.

*

We soon settled back into our old routine, spending long hours at Benny's. As we lounged there one night, I found myself eavesdropping on the booth behind ours, where a man was talking loudly, doing whacky impersonations and throwing out ridiculous banter. I crawled up onto my knees and peered over the tall seat that separated us. Big brown eyes and nostrils stared back at me for a moment, then grinned.

‘Dear God, it's an apparition!' he laughed.

‘Hi,' I smiled back. ‘It sounds like fun over there. Can we join you?'

‘What's the password?' He winked.

‘Mary, mother of God,' I retorted without missing a beat. A few drinks had loosened my brain and it was the first thing that came to mind.

‘That's as good as any. Come on over. I'm Rhett and you are welcome in my court.'

‘Your court?' I mocked, as Billy and I shuffled around to join his little posse. ‘Who are you, the king?'

‘No, my dear, I am the lord of all I survey.'

‘A god, then?' I asked.

‘Not a god,
the
God … come down to earth as a man.'

‘Well, that's a coincidence, because I'm the Virgin Mary.'

‘You lie!' he shrieked. ‘Mary, yes … but not the Virgin Mary. You are Mary, the penitent whore.'

Billy looked flustered, unsure of what was transpiring.

‘To Mary!' Rhett raised a glass to me.

‘To … the Lord, my God!' I responded, holding my drink aloft.

And so began my strange and bewildering acquaintance with Rhett. Billy was a key part of this friendship, and yet Rhett and I were so completely on the same wavelength – a strange frequency, and one which few could hear – that Billy often got quite jealous of our barely intelligible conversations, sure that there must be a subplot he was missing. He was wrong, of course – it was all just good-natured nonsense.

*

Despite my earlier resolve, my acting dreams were stagnating and I began to take my frustration out on Billy. He was spending his days in a valid pursuit. His stage sets were an outlet for his creativity and he was an extension of the bands he worked for. He was a notch or two up from being just
a friend of the band
. I resented that much more than was healthy and began to pick on him mercilessly.

When we met, I had been the rock chick, but now he was leaving me at home and living the dream – designing sets, jamming with the bands, joining them as an equal, not as a deranged fan. Meanwhile I wallowed through the days, dreaming of a career without doing anything about it. The turnstile of gigs and parties was draining. Nights were filled with the smoky haze of altered moods while the days were quiet and found me idle. I began to miss the old adrenalin rush of pursuing rock stars: aim, shoot and kill.

*

One night shortly after our return, I was walking down a staircase at Benny's when I bumped into a bloke walking upstairs with a drink. I looked up apologetically and drew a breath. It was Sex-on-Legs, a key player in some of my sordid fantasies. We knew each other a little, our paths having briefly crossed in the past. Only very brief introductions had ever transpired.

‘Hello, there,' he said in a soft, velvety voice.

‘Hi, I … um … sorry. I'll buy you another one.'

Looking down at my wet shirt, he smiled.

‘Nah, it was only a soda. I don't drink.'

He took my hand and led me back to the bar.

‘Mickey, pass us a towel will you?' he called to the woman behind the bar. In a sublimely sensual series of movements, he dabbed at my chest with the towel. My nipples startled under his touch and I blushed. He looked deeply into my eyes, then back down to my breasts.

‘It's good to see you.'

He gave me a wink and a handshake and headed back up the stairs. Staring after him, I took a deep breath. I felt something I hadn't felt since I'd met Billy, and it frightened me.

*

Back on the other side of the bar with Billy and our friend Suzie, I stared as inconspicuously as possible at Sex-on-Legs, who was nibbling his girlfriend's ear. I burned with irrational jealousy. She was an attractive creature with long black hair and a wide smile. Not surprisingly, she looked like a model or a dancer.

‘An exotic dancer,' Suzie whispered in my ear, catching my constant glances across the room.

*

Weeks went by and I couldn't shake those eyes and those fingers.

Given the nature of the Sydney music scene, I encountered Sex-on-Legs again before long. We danced a cryptic, sizzling dance, catching eyes, exchanging looks but avoiding any direct contact. Reluctantly, I appraised his woman. She was lithe and petite, but not awkwardly skinny like many muso-molls. Dark and mysterious with a body that was built for only one thing. Catching sight of myself in a full-length mirror one night at a party, I cringed at my frumpy presentation. My black tights revealed short but shapely legs, jutting out of impossibly sleek knee-high boots. But the pirate shirt made me look like Adam Ant's daggy little sister. Perhaps I needed to rethink the swashbuckling look and replace it with something slinkier.

I was sure I felt a spark between us, but could it all be in my head? The old tug-of-war between self-doubt and confidence began. ‘You're imagining it,' a voice mocked whenever I let myself fantasise. ‘He isn't interested in you. He just feels sorry for you.' But each time I saw him I felt lust boil in the saucepan of my belly.

Finally, one afternoon, he called Goodhope Street asking for Billy. Smooth. Billy wasn't home so I took the call.

‘Hi. Ah … hi. How are you?' I stammered, wondering how he'd found our number. Mind you, everyone probably had the number for Boystown.

‘Great, love.' His voice was sweet and oddly courteous and sent tingles racing down my body. ‘Hey, we're playing a gig tonight in the Cross. A little dive in Victoria Street. It's invitation only. No publicity. Thought you and Billy might like to come along.' He let the sentence hang for a lingering moment before exhaling, and I wanted to draw deeply, breathing him in over the phone like a cigarette.

‘Yes. Sure. Yes, we'll be there. Thanks. Great.'

He gave me the address and said we'd be on the door.

*

When Billy got home from the warehouse, he was in a terminal state of mind.

‘What if I don't feel like going out?' he yelled.

‘You always feel like going out!' I yelled back.

Stomping about the house, he worked himself into an indignant fury.

‘Why did he invite you, hey? Is there something going on? You fancy him, do you? I've heard he's hung like a horse.'

‘He rang for you, actually, and he's inviting everyone, I think. It's nice. He's just being nice. And for what it's worth, I don't fancy him!'

Billy eventually calmed down, but I was beginning to notice a pattern with him. Some days he would lie in bed and refuse to get up or wash or eat. He talked about giving up, as though life were a hopeless waste of time. Other days he would have moments of whirling mania, wild bursts of energy that crescendoed into anger. I put it down to all the partying we were doing, but sometimes I wondered if there wasn't some underlying problem. On this occasion, after a drink and a back rub, he settled down and we caught a cab to the Cross.

*

The intimate little venue was out the back of a hotel I'd never noticed before. Watching Sex-on-Legs on stage was mesmerising and primal. He performed like a man possessed by the devil, raw sexuality pouring off the stage like hot magma. At the end of the set he leapt from the stage and came over to us, handing me a fake rose he had clutched between his lips.

Billy, being an astute sort of fellow, stuck close to me all night, but as I headed to the bathroom before making my way home, Sex-on-Legs bailed me up.

‘Hey, I just wanted to say … if you ever feel lonely or want some company … call me. I'll come over for a cup of tea.' He handed me a slip of white paper with his number on it, stroked my palm and disappeared.