Category: Peccadillos and Pecados

Quod erat demonstrandum, ‘that which is to be demonstrated’ had been drummed into me in Year One science. The facts must be accepted as irrefutable evidence. But these results – 99.9% likely paternity – utterly unbelievable – I always wore protection!

I reread both the pathology report, and her letter. If Mum were still here, she’d skin me alive, and then pester me for details of her new granddaughter. I realise I’m humming the 23^rd Psalm’s wonderful descant – when stressed, it’s always such a comfort.

There is a small photo, a petite redhead, glasses suggesting a slightly schoolmarmish young woman. She is thirty-two years old, born in November 1993. My mind swirls back.

I’d just finished Uni, living in that grungy three-bedroom flat in North Carlton, with Roberto and Stavros. There had been outrageous parties, a lot of booze, girls, music, not much sleep. I reckon I must have just met Anna! I clearly remember her insistence on the need to get out of that flat, gain some privacy, an early precondition, she said, if we were to become ‘an item’.

I remember some indignation at her ‘Terms of Engagement’; we blokes had been together since high school. I recall stringing Anna along, assuring her that I had started looking for a new rental. The parties continue:  she is getting antsy, threatening. I lie:  I tell her I have found new digs, but they will not be available for another eight weeks.

Jeez, there was that fantastic weekend. Late summer, we’d hired a shack. It was somewhere on the Goulburn River. There are indelible memories of sheep, green paddocks, still waters; an outdoor table setting: we all bought swags, mobs of booze and a few snags. Anna had an exam coming up. She didn’t come.

What was her name? She had red hair, a great body, just finished her Pharmacy at Latrobe and was trotting out with Roberto: somehow, we ended up in the river together. One thing led to another, swish-oh, and there it was. Roberto stumbled upon us entwined, asleep, compromised. He was furious, and drove back to Carlton that afternoon, alone!

I tried to explain to Roberto that it’d been a ‘spiritual, preordained encounter’: the green pastures, the river, I was being led: there was nothing personal. It took years to achieve a reproachment!

I move out, and then in, with Anna. We set up house in Northcote, settle down, start a family and eventually get married. Three wonderful kids, the eldest just turning 30, is about to get married.

I never did give Anna many details of that Goulburn River weekend. My memory suggests I probably fudged most of the specifics: time erased the rest.

I scrunch the pages into my pocket as I wander purposefully outside. I climb the railway embankment behind the house, following the path to the high street and its café.

I order my usual long black, dropping the scrunched paperwork into the bin. QED be buggered. Not me: no way, Gungor Din!

I am two-thirds through my degree, but the course is starting to do my head in. I sit in the Union bar, the fire provides warmth, its flickering light illuminating the gloom of my thoughts. Do I really want to be a Social Worker?

There are two empty schooner glasses on the table beside me, I am working on the third as my mind continues to wrestle with the realisation that I am pursuing the wrong career path!  Why on earth do I think listening to other people’s problems, offering a sounding board, a reflective space is for me? I have enough demons running through my own system without loading extra baggage!

Despite enthusiasm, and promises made in the dead of night to walk a new, redemptive road, I fall off my perch regularly. Two years wasted, and I am also now the owner of a significant HECS debt.

My entertainment, my escapes have broadened somewhat from my earlier dalliance with weed. I now have a serious engagement with ‘the dragon.’

It is easily found, in the right quarter. It’s where I meet Sheila, a final year Med student and we quickly become companions: bonded journeymen. When the Student Allowance hits my account, I have the wherewithal to buy us a snorted entre’, and a few hours later, an injected piece de resistance. We fly to exotic destinations, places where life’s worries and cares are just a breeze. Long-sleeved shirts conveniently cover our travail.

Sheila finishes her basic medical studies, an Internship at St Vinnies follows. Her script-pad provides a wonderfully handy accoutrement.  But she gets sprung early in her placement and is now receiving rehab servicing at Long Bay. That’s an absolute bugger, as treats become just that much harder to score!

Despite my self-assurance, my studies slip. My feelings about the course harden: I skip classes, a new crowd gathers in the dark recesses of my days. I still occasionally catch the bus to Uni; at the back of the Union is a good place to score.

A couple from the Salvos find me: in amongst the refuse skips off Victoria Street. Several of the staff at St Vinnies remember Sheila. One of the nurses tells me she visits Sheila every other month: she is clean and uses her time to study for a Social Work qualification.

I ease my withdrawal with naloxone, pampered but after three weeks, I discharge myself. I walk with high intentions into the bright sunshine and score a kip with Mum and Dad for a few weeks. I even start to attend lectures again.

But it’s not long before the uppity lecturers start to climb my nostrils again: how on earth would they know what the people on the streets need? Listen, show compassion, offer advice, provide advocacy: yarda, yarda, yarda.

I tell Mum I have an offer of a shared flat. I meet Tom, Gary and Felix at the back of the Union. We score, and share a couple of preliminary hits.

I have one semester left for my doctorate, and then the hard slog of the Internship starts.  Both Mum and Dad were here before me, it’s a natural fit. They anticipate me joining their practice. To be honest I have never considered any other career options.

Uni hasn’t been too taxing; a lot of friends on the same medical course, great parties, camping trips, a few special mates.  There has been a bit of weed shared around, several monumental hangovers – I so like that sparkling tipple. But yes, at twenty-five, I am looking forward to settling into the hard grind of the next couple of years.

I have accepted an Internship at St Vincent’s Hospital and my Paddington flat will mean I can cycle to work in the daylight, or easily Uber home after a night shift.  Things look to be working out.

I meet a cool guy at the Union during the last few months. We click – Luca’s almost finished his Social Work, although he sometimes confides that he is unsure if his degree is the right fit. We party hard, a lot of laughs: we snorted coke together, my first.

St Vinnies is demanding, more than expected. The occasional double shifts are exhausting; fifteen hours straight and then a daytime, fitful sleep. Luca, and the coke help me relax, some rest before the next shift. My enthusiasm is being sorely tested.

I cop a bollocking from the Director of Nursing after I blow a shift; she isn’t interested in my explanation of the four double shifts, and I don’t tell her about the South Coast party!  What a crowd.  Luca had a surprise and thinking back, I met the Devil that weekend. The Dragon, Skag, Smack, China White – a syringe by any other name -could be so sweet!

Funds are sometimes strained: I have the idea of using my script pad. It is mine; nobody will ever know. It takes five scripts for the cops to arrive.

I am now a resident at Long Bay, for a stretch of reformation. No more treats, although they do give me Naloxone, to handle the withdrawals.

But Long Bay is my saviour. Six months in: I’m clean and there’s lots of time to consider the road I am on. Mum comes in every couple of weeks. The early tears are way behind us, we talk of the future. It will not be Medicine; I’ve burnt that bridge, but she is talking of Practice Manager, as an interim, when I get out next year.

One of my mates from St Vinnies catches the bus and pops in every couple of months. She is always full of the latest doings; she confides that the Salvos brought Luca in. He was in for a few weeks, before self-discharging. He died a few weeks later – a bad batch of something!

The bloody Dragon. I still have lots of time to contemplate my relationship with that terror, to harden my resolves, my defences. I’m ready!

Why do I venture out on such a miserable, Melbourne winter’s day? The simple truth is that I miss the smells, the hubbub and the clamour of the South Melbourne market. It’s been three years since I moved away, but I still journey to Coventry Street when possible.

My tram interchange means a brief exposure to the cold winds of Collins Street. Some early 20th century wit describes these drafts as the “laziest winds in the world, their habit of blowing straight through you, not around…” and so it seems on this Wednesday. My jumper, puffer jacket and beanie are just no match.

Fellow travellers, eyes ever downcast, screen lights reflecting individual pockets of intimacy. I seek shelter in the lee of others more directly exposed to the weather. Rural folk would no doubt recognise this ovine, defensive positioning, as we wait, coldly, at the tram stop.

The 234 tram glides quietly to the stop: it’s one of those new ones that move gently along the streets, engineered without the acoustics of yore – the clangs, screeches and bells so intrinsically linked to the Melbourne tramways. My shopping trolley, and I, muscle aboard.

Everyone’s glued to their telephones, flicking up and down, some with white earplugs, further distancing themselves from social intercourse. The tram jiggles along, but nary a face lifts off their screens. I consider using my leather to join the network. What the heck, I take off my shoe, punch the sole viciously and ask to speak to the operator. Still no reaction. I speak louder. “Hello, is anybody there?” I see a singular face lift briefly, a quizzical expression before it drops down screenward.

At the market I beeline towards the fish shop, I am tossing up between Tuna and Flathead. I’ve heard some tuna fisheries have a big impact on dolphins, so I am leaning towards the flathead. I buy baby Brussel sprouts; they will complement the fish wonderfully. A cauliflower, carrots, olive oil, freshly roasted St Ali beans and a 12-pack of toilet paper. Despite medical advice, I am also budgeting a few shekels at the Fromagerie. They usually have a wonderfully rich Limburger and a few weeks ago they even had the Vieux Boulogne, that impossibly smelly, beer-washed northern French offering.

I am meeting Geraldine at Clement’s for coffee. She and I have both bought mobile machines and U3A classes are teaching us about texting, photography, and being on the alert for scalpers. She will send me a note from her telephone when her shopping’s complete.

I am making my way across to the café. I realise I have forgotten potatoes and detour to buy kipflers, Spanish onions, avocados and some mandarins.

OK. I am now ready for a cappuccino! I see Geraldine on the corner, head down, focussing on what must be her new telephone. She is punching wildly at the keyboard. She looks up, I wave and she abandons her device. “Bloody telephone” is her only greeting.

We enjoy croissants, coffee and camaraderie.

I can stop over before or after Marseilles. I will miss the funeral regardless of my decision, so I go to Rome first, planning Madrid, with free time, afterwards.

Our loving is erotic, comfortable; mostly uninhibited, albeit always within the constraints imposed by an affair. We have been lovers for fifteen years, intermittent, opportunistic, international by circumstance.

I get the email – from the Janitor downstairs – Emmanuel, always such a happy man, ever cheery as we rendezvous, as our schedules provide for loving and togetherness. I am in no doubt he put two and two together long ago; the small overnight bags arrive, mostly singularly. Our agreement was that Emmanuel would be our emergency contact, should ever the need arise.

I am here in Sebastian’s bathroom, rarely ventured before, the mirror fogs as the water steams over my hands. His razor, tissues, toothbrush, band-aids, his blood pressure tablets and a new packet, Nitroglycerin 5mg, made up the benchtop detritus. The steamed glass carries the message “Maybe if… but no! Steph, I love you. Until we embrace again.”

My legs tremble, and buckle – the toilet catches me, wounded, bereft as the tears fall. My chest is heaving, breath forging through intermittent hiccupping, the past tense’s omnipotent being, imposing on my ineffectual attempts to stay in the present!

We shared the cost of this flat, two ensuited bedrooms, lounge, laundry and kitchenette, a stone’s throw from the Plaza Mayor, the old city, a cobbled square, cooling orange trees, benches underneath. The flamenco guitarists stroll, spruiking, wistful expressions ever ready for the wayward visitors, long ago identifying us as unlikely prospects.

He knew but chose not to share the knowledge –never wanting to burden me, the condition perceived as something not to sully whatever linear time we have left. God, he could be – I correct myself: he had been a stubborn prick, at times. He has alerted Emmanuel of impending doom and left instructions.

It takes me a week to get to Madrid. The funeral is done, but Emmanuel gets me the details of the cemetery. I have sunflowers, our favourite statement of happiness, and intended to stay a while to share reflections; say goodbye.

I recognised her from photos; the widow weeds, yellow scarf pushed back off her forehead, and lilies, walking towards the freshly mounded soil. We speak briefly, me explaining that I worked with Sebastian several years earlier in the London office. I brought condolences from several of the longer-serving staff. We part.

I am back at our bower. Emmanuel shares tears as I pass his door, and he agrees to arrange for a local charity to take furniture and other resaleables. I collect stuff: my anniversary cashmere wrap and Channel, underwear, make-up, a few bits of dressy evening gear, and jeans. I close the door on a wonderful chapter.

I momentarily lean back against the door. We were good with each other. The walks, theatre, books, dinners, conversations, the loving. A sniffle.

I give Emmanuel the keys, and a hug.

A kitchen knife claimed my attention, protruding from below her right breast, its dark handle bloodied but I noticed, curiously, little else on the front of her pyjamas was sullied. I remember the music machine was repetitively playing ‘Hotel California’. I dialled 000 and retreated, dazed, and confused to her front verandah and waited. Sirens heralded the arrival of ambos and cops.

It all started in October 2021. She bought the house next door; sharing a glass of homemade lemonade on our front verandah while waiting for her furniture van to arrive. It eventually did and her ‘… thanks for the drink,” were the last words we heard from her. No words; no loud, nor soft music, come to think of it; no conversations drifting over the back fence; gardening noises; no accidental flatulence; nothing. Absolute quietude, as though next door disappeared.

Her brother Charlie was in the street as I pretended to fiddle with the irrigation system. He said G’day, explaining that his sister had just bought the property next door. At that moment she came into the street. “This is my sister Jane.” “Janet” she corrected him, fumbling with an explanation that Jane was a bit too ‘Becky-ish’, too many negative connotations! I let that one drift back to the keeper and invited them onto the porch for a drink. I sensed a moment’s reluctance from Janet/Jane but she propped, a little nervously on the couch arm and pretended to sip the cordial.

“So where are you moving from,” I posed and while Charlie said eastern suburbs, she simultaneously proffered western. Again, the foot-faulting explanation of a couple of recent moves. The furniture van finally arrived and with palpable relief, she quickly disappeared. Charlie finished his drink and followed.

I was in the garden for the next couple of hours and saw some magnificent furniture being offloaded. Idle consideration of the western suburbs suggested the pieces were way out of their comfort zone; possibly more suited to the eastern leafy burbs. But it was time to take my sticky nose indoors.

Most mornings, usually before sunrise, I hear her gate noisily open, and moments later her old VW Beetle roundly churbles into life. At some stage during the day, it returns and sits quietly in her driveway, behind those noisy, locked gates. But that is it.

She has visitors: usually dark-suited types, short-haired or shaved heads, driving expensive European cars. I saw her brother occasionally, in the distance, but never to speak to. It sorta felt like we were beneath her purview, infected with some socially undesirable aura.

I was interviewed by the cops. I recalled hearing the deep-throated rumble of big bikes a few nights before I saw her front door uncharacteristically ajar: and the repetitively playing ‘Hotel California’ drifting softly into the street. I knocked, called out and tentatively ventured down the hall.

The Herald Sun was carrying reports of a witness-protection program gone terrifyingly wrong. They also reported a high-profile, criminal prosecution case collapsing.

I almost gave up roulette forever, after losing my shirt, in about thirty minutes, at the Monte Carlo casino. But not quite!

In the summer of 1975, $2,500 was a heck of a lot of money for a young divorcee, licking wounded pride in Europe. I had this failsafe system, refined on a toy wheel in my Darwin living room, tested at an illegal joint in Queanbeyan and in Hobart. 18; 29, 7, 28 and 12, five consecutive numbers, ante always straight up – potential 35:1 returns. That was it. I walked out of Hobart with several thousand dollars. I didn’t do that on the Riviera!

Forty years later, a work trip took me within taxi distance of what was still branded as Jupiter’s Casino. I frocked up, a tux, hair slicked, $4,000 provided by the bank, and I was at the tables.

I sipped a soda, lime and bitters on my stool. Despite my long abstinence, the sounds, the lust, the intoxicating atmosphere reached for my soul, immediately!

I watched the croupiers across three tables, their handling of the pea, their spin techniques, timing the intervals between staff changes. They changed on the half-hour. OK, on a staff change, me seated, buying in, settling, that would give me twenty-four minutes of play. Three minutes per spin, eight plays.

There was a tall skinny redhead, she had a particular mannerism – she was squeezing the pea into the wheel. It was a consistent foible. I liked that. I watched the Hot/Cold number record: none of my numbers were featured during her 30-minute shift. That was good, better odds into the next 30 minutes! Sixty minutes later, she started a shift on a nearby table. I moved, buying $4,000 of table chips. I was ready.

$100 straight up on each of my five numbers! Three. $100 straight up again on the same numbers. Seven drops in. $3,500 moves across the table to me! The pea then visits Fifteen, then Twenty-One. Twenty-Nine drops in, another $3,500 heads my way. Two hosts the pea, then Seven again, another $3,500. Three drops and the eighth spin: Thirty. I’m on the right side of the ledger!

Staff change and I cash in, retiring to my corner and another SL&B. I deposited $2,500 via their ATM. The remaining house chips, in my jacket pocket, provide a seductive pulse. I wait, enjoying the tangy Lime and Bitters combo. I watch my girl, she returns to a different table, and I move in, buying my $4,000 table chips.

Some people say my system is as boring as batshit. I retort that I am not in the entertainment business! Same numbers, same ante. Three of my numbers in a row, Seven, Twelve, Eighteen, then four numbers drop against me, and with the eighth spin, Twenty-Eight. Mine! Net position $10,000, plus the $6,500 from my earlier foray. Not bad for an evening’s work! I cashed in, deposited the $14,000 into the ATM, had a G&T and left.

I was pre-absorbed with my success as the cab took me back to my Air BnB. I didn’t notice the grey Alfa also leaving Jupiter’s. The cabbie dropped me and left. The Alfa pulled up, two guys got out, casually walked over, ostensibly seeking directions. My mouth was tapped, my hands’ cable-tied, a blindfold secured. I was left in the garden, my wallet lifted and they were on their way!

I arranged replacement cards and bought a new wallet. I told the cops that I thought they were from Jupiter’s! Next day, I flew back to Darwin and I’ve never, ever played the wheel again.

I had been chasing their ‘Account’ for months and the call from Scotty, in Marketing suggested I was finally on their radar! He wanted a face to face, to discuss their previous campaigns, targets, budgets, placement mix, and their kpi’s. He was keen to meet, suggesting Friday.

I was excited, quietly confident that my longstanding reputation for razor-sharp cut-through would again deliver sensationally persuasive “… words from our sponsor”. But not wanting to rush, I was able to postpone the meeting for a couple of extra days. That would enable me to prepare my material, to undertake a reflective SWOT-analysis against what I had seen of their previous campaigns, and to ensure I would deliver precisely to their specifications. I went down to our Anglesea shack for a couple of nights.

I had not won any new Accounts for a couple of years and had found solitude to be a necessary tool when I needed to think. To avoid any distractions, I had generously provisioned myself before leaving Melbourne, including a few aged Merlots, some classy Roquefort, a crusty loaf, oh and an aged Malt!

The computer, the cheese and a small whiskey were on the table. I opened the laptop and considered my approach. I sipped the whiskey – oh my, that’s good! I took it with me to the wide, panoramic window.

The sea was a dirty, roiling fury below, blurring where a paynes grey horizon met vast, luminously pregnant clouds! Seagulls wheeled, and I noted a couple of wrapped souls, tramping along the beach. I loved this outlook. We had bought the shack four years earlier purely on the strength of this view. I added a tot more whiskey, savouring its wonderfully smooth, sherry-oak nose. Mmm, this was going to be an excellent Account to win.

The bottle shop didn’t open until eleven on Saturdays. I needed to restock, and I knew they had a great range of whiskeys! I chose a Macallan 15-year-old malt; what the hell, I got a second one.

Back at the shack, the ice tinkled as I wandered across to the window …

The €10 chip flew high, glistening in the late afternoon light as it fell. Heads. I took the right fork, Mister Chips snugly, securely back into my pocket. My once pretentious brogues, broken, flapping as the sole and uppers continued their separation, sunk into the muddy track.

Mister Chips always made the hard calls, my way forward, predestined, so to speak. I just hoped they would have memory, room for some forgiveness when they saw their prodigal, returning.

So much for my commitment never to revisit these tracts. Here I was, mostly broken, a shouldered bedroll, a black billy secured, gently bumping at my hip, and my scant provisions in a haversack – a small skillet, a couple of spuds, onions, carrots, dug from a roadside garden the other day, a small bag of flour, a twist of salt, my snares, a handline, extra hooks, and a lighter. My, how the mighty had fallen! Francois, why are you doing this? I stopped and fingered Mister Chips. He flew high, dictating that I continue. My pits released bitter staleness, my clothes ripped and stained.

I passed over the creek I played at, as a youngster. My dam was in evidence, although mostly breached by many winter rains. There was the tethered rope, still thinly dangling from the overhanging branch – there had been good times, mates, dreams, adolescent plans discussed at this waterhole, after school. I sat for a few quiet moments.

I had a spring in my step when I left. Dinner suit packed neatly into the Louis Vuitton suitcase, matching my future, as Mum and Dad drove me to the airport. I had written to my cousin in Nice, alerting him to my arrival, a bed, family, a base to pursue my dreams. Hobart’s casino has equipped me, I fingered Mister Chips, as my memory rewound.

Dad and I would regularly spend Saturday morning pouring over the form guide, considering jockeys, possible ‘roughies’, the short-odds favourites at Rosehill, Flemington or Glenorchy. Dad took my few shillings down with him to the TAB. We both had a few wins, enough to keep us engaged. As my stubble arrived, and my voice deepened, I was invited into the evening poker games.

The casino fitted my trajectory. At interview, I demonstrated my skills with the deck, explained via the weekly euchre games at home. I became a cadet croupier. I knew Draw, Stud and Hold’em Poker and Blackjack, but was introduced to Baccarat, and Roulette. I learnt of the hierarchy, poker machines at the bottom of the heap, the games of skill, of memory, at the head.

The school went over and over the games, from the basic plays, the handling of the shoe, feeling the chips, spinning the pea, payment protocols, common croupier lapses, what to watch out for – the spivs, their methods to blindside you, to cheat the house. It was six months of intensive, exciting labour.

The big night came with my first blackjack table. There were a few nerves, my supervisor watching, and of course, the overhead cameras alerted to my “solo” flight. But the cards were on my side, they slid effortlessly, smoothly – the game went forward without a hitch. I was away!

Over those four, Hobart years, I saw the punters, good and bad. There were the happy holiday crowds, bragging, laughter, a little drunk. There were the sweaty desperadoes, just chasing the next roll, the dudes, dinner-jacketed, pretentious, their chattering bling. There were the professional gamers, emotionless, watchful, considered. These were the punters that were the real entertainers, the ones that I could appreciate, the ones that held my attention!

From my side of the tables, it was a career that I secretly revelled in. But I needed a bigger pond. I considered the alternatives of Macau, Atlantic City or Monte Carlo. Mister Chips spun high, tails dictating that we head to Europe.

So here I was, sitting with my luggage. There had been no familiar faces as I cleared Immigration at Nice. An hour, I waited and sure enough, cousin Pierre eventually came running along the concourse, “…the bloody traffic, merde” as he kissed left, right and grabbed for my luggage.

His car was impressive, a little convertible number, the canopy down, the summer heat blowing over us as we headed west towards his Antibes flat. High chalky cliffs on the right, the bluest blue water on the left, beaches, sand, deckchairs, sunshine and deep shade. Money oozed – the cars, poodled-pedestrians, skimpily-clad chicks, the locked, gated villas, the date palmed avenues, even the birds seem to have a glint in their eyes. Yep, this was where my life was really going to start!

The interview panel were impressed, albeit there would be regulatory formalities to transfer my licensing from Hobart to Monaco. That happened, and I was working the main floor, small-timers, maximum bets €1,000, Roulette, Baccarat, Blackjack.

The constant, mooted conflation of canned music, laughter, the tinkle of glassware, the roulette’s hollow, bouncing pea, the croupier’s call, last bets “dernieres mises” an intoxicating, heady fog that comfortably encircled my being! I was back in the play, I could feel that certain je ne sais quoi, a sense of arrival.

The nightly commute from Antibes became a pain. I found a flat much closer, in Nice and moved in with Brigitte, from the High-Roller’s room. There were a lot of laughs, late afternoons before work, on furlough, bubbles, the clubs, the lines, eventually tumbling into an occasional intimacy. We had it all, for a while!

A group of us, mostly Casino staff, fell into a regular poker game. Five of us, in the pre-dawn hours, at shift’s end, secretly playing, sometimes continuing through to dinner-jacketed employ. Lines replaced sleep, means started to fail, skipped meals, ragged edges were appearing.

There was some discussion around the table of possible security anomalies, camera blind spots, consistent staff lapses at shift changes. Our games intensified, the ante increased, we were regularly playing for ten hours straight. Opportunities to beat the house were being explored. Alcohol, weed and mounting losses drove the discussions more intently.

Our proposed scam was refined and trialled successfully. Cashflows were resecured, I walked taller until the gendarme approached me in the changerooms. I ran up against the French Justice system, learning that its Riverian subset had a particular meanness when it sensed that its’ main source of income was under threat.

I met a hardened mob inside Baumettes’ penitentiary! Scammers, pimps, several innocent murderers, thieves, drug dealers, a few casino staff convicted, as I, after perceiving and exploring Casino weaknesses.

Over the years I learned to survive. I lost my habit, my innocence, my French language improved, albeit I was to learn that some of it was not recommended for polite society! I worked for several years in the infirmary, a year or so in the library, also in the kitchen. Mister Chips and I continued to consider the options, reduced as they were, but we occupied time.

My cousin Pierre came to visit every few months, driving the 180 kilometres down to Marseilles. The stories of his doings, his Antibes antique’s export business, broke up some of the monotony. But he returned to Hobart three years after I went inside.

Mum used to write, her birthday card always included gum leaves. Tears usually followed, a small expression of remorse, shared with Mister Chips in the privacy of my cell. She included snippets, sometimes cuttings from the Mercury, family events, my brother’s marriage, the arrival of two children, my nephews! The letters stopped, a year or so after Pierre went back!

I was eventually released, extradited, at the Republic’s expense, back to Melbourne. My prison allowance provided a modest nest egg. I had Mister Chips. He suggested I head for Hobart and family. I wasn’t even sure anybody was still there, alive, that might remember me. I think it was a first, but I went against Mister Chips and chose the banks of the Goulburn River.

I spent the next eight years on the river, walking, sitting, thinking. I joined a regional library, finding contemplative introspection in Sartre, Marx, Nietzsche. I was quietly content, Mister Chips remained pocketed, mostly retired. Librarians and shopkeepers provided my scant tag to humanity.

I made do, usually able to find shelter, as needed. Summer fruit, autumn spuds, rabbits, sometimes roadkill. Winters could be a bit sparse, but hey, I was making different calls now. Odd jobs provided a basic cash flow, kept me in tobacco, matches, an occasional beer. I sometimes missed Mister Chip’s directives, but there was an inner contentment with my lot. Even in retirement, he provided the rationalization, a window into my being, and friendship.

The seasons rolled on. A fisherman found me and got me to the local hospital. A terminal diagnosis came as a not unexpected, quite appropriate punctuation!

I had help with the ferry fare across to Devonport. I walked and hitched down south. I wondered if Mum would remember me?

 

I was in our local library, not quite resigned to accept the threatened onset of relevance deprivation. I had attended a post-retirement workshop, suggestions included dancing, cookery, gardening or a research project. The kitchen provided sustenance, I killed plants and the thought of dancing in the dark filled me with dread. I reckoned a research project suited me nicely.

Local street names, the who’s, whys, and contemporary relevance of them, seemed an interesting subject for my research. Two weeks in and feedback confirmed I was turning up rivetingly-relevant material, but explanations, they were far trickier – mostly lost in the mists of time.

One success was the pathway linking two cul-de-sacs in our village. One byway was named Kilmore, the other, Madder and had been connected via Psycho Path. True! They had official Council signage! Records suggest the Council’s nomenclature staffer had a penchant towards the occult! The librarian assured me that that same officer also came up with Fear Street, Stalker Road, No Name Lane – that last one probably reflecting a bad-hair day. But I was trying to dig deeper, to uncover the rationale behind the names.

Viz the Psycho, it transpires that several decades earlier, a young psychologist had had a run-in with the Council over his proposal to construct a Headspace clinic. Bitter revenge?

But there were other mysteries. The homesick Danish émigré, naming his property Farht, accessed via Farht Close. There was a Cumming Court, a Beaver Close, a Finebush Lane, Hookers Drive, and even a Cockshoot Close. (I was still to uncover a Peckadillo Road, but we had a Salubrious Hill.)

What was behind these ‘earthy’ names? Imagine the awkwardness of providing an elderly aunt with your address at 41 Back Passage!

The Village was established in the decadent late 18^th Century, a time when Fanny Hill and Tom Jones roamed the streets, long before Aquarius, dope and free love were in the ascendency, a time I suspect well before Tarana Burke‘s Social Media leadership.

Funny thing was that nobody seemed to be particularly offended by the names, in fact, the opposite. From the library, I turned left along Crystal Street, determined to survey my neighbours. Of 120 respondents, all but four thought our name was ‘too tame’. Proffered suggestions included Crystal Passage or Lustre Lane with one degenerate suggesting Bottom Road. For the moment it remained unchanged but a Blog site is seeking nominations!

She’d rarely got in a funk, but when asked to cover the Northern Territory’s Cannonball Run, she was unsure whether to book flights to Canada or Australia. Motor Sports were her journalistic gig, covering some of the biggest races on the international circuits, so WTF was she doing in Darwin, this hot, steamy, godforsaken backwater. The quiet odium she’d noticed among her colleagues suggested she had drawn the ‘short-straw’!

She found the stories inside the stories, race-strategies before they were strategies, gossip or innuendo on the drivers and team members, factual, or not, it didn’t matter, so long as the legal-eagles’ were sweet.

She collected languages, she had six as her tools-of-trade, milking loose lips, insider scoops. She also had a passion for men, and gear stick knobs, in no particular order, although, in a moment of perfunctory contemplation, realised her peccadilloes were all interconnected, each fed off the other, so to speak!

Her Parisienne school gave her French, German, and Italian. Hungarian came from her mother, English, picked up on the circuit and Spanish/Brazilian came from the bedroom of an engineer, working with Senna’s Formula One team. She left the Northern Territory with a seventh – Walpiri.

She arrived into a steamy Darwin, humidity at about 95%, clear skies, save a translucent, smokey wash. An air-conditioned motel was something, but the next day started with one of the worst coffees she’d ever had. “Do ya want fluffy milk with that, love” queried the waiter.

She taxied down to the ‘pits. The Japs had Ferraris, the Italians’, Maserati (noting she needed that knob), a German team were tinkering with a Porsche, and there, an Alice Springs team – surely not, an old Morris Minor. On closer inspection, the body was the only original component. A pregnant pastie had more room inside, space just for a driver, and part of a huge motor, occupying the rest.

She knew a story when it blocked her view. There was a pair of dirty overalls, covering a colossus demolishing a plate of toast. She met Jagamara Jack; “I’m the Engineer. Can I help ya?” as a slice disappeared into his maw. “Could I share some of that toast?” “Sure love, there’s jam in the pot.”

One thing led to another and they had dinner together that night – a tough steak, a limp salad, mixed fruits and custard! Jack became quite effusive, as things progressed, an invitation out to his country, west of Alice, after the race. Jack shared the story of the ‘Morrie’, “… came from the Coniston Station tip, rusted as buggery, engine kaput, but, well, I love Morries.”

The Morris lacked a gear stick, let alone a knob, but she managed to flog the Maserati’s after its’ crashed. She stayed with Jagamara for several weeks after the race, exploring the tips at Yuendumu, Haasts Bluff and Coniston. She was in quiet ecstasy, finding knobs from a Monaro, and a Moke.

Three knobs, a bloke and a language. Her collections continued to grow!

I sat alone, the car at the clifftop park, facing the ferocious redness of sunset. The gift remained unopened on the seat, despite temptation leading me to undo the curled ribbon, to reading the card “Yours, affectionately.” I knew what was inside. I wanted innocence reinstated!

Opening the package would confirm complicity, condemning my ethical self to eternity in the gutter, hollow speculation, familial derision. But months of connivance, planning, and questionable-decision making, had led to this cardboard box. I had desperately wanted it, but now, within my grasp, I started to snivel, snot and tears moving down my chin.

The backstory was long, convoluted and boring: an explanation would waste time, so too, justifying my travelled road!

The car and I flew seaward!

I grew up in regional Victoria: Kilmore. Good school, free Uni, job on graduation, yet I had murdered by the age of 21! We were competing for the same guy – those chalky clifftops, where we all used to hang, an arranged meet, a push – problem solv-ed! I just explained to the cops how the crumbly edge collapsed.

I scored a placement with a hedge fund’s Melbourne franchise, helping the rich get richer. Top End of Collins Street, 34^th Floor, and within four years, Junior Exec, keyed access to the rooftop bar. French fizz, after finishing a feverish Friday, always a few of us gathering for the weekly brag.

Julie and I were the last to leave, she was pissed, revelling in her latest foray into the US Bitcoin scramble. Made a motser, she reckoned.

We stepped out, more booze, dinner, my place for a line, before Southbank clubbing. She was found in a laneway at dawn: dazed, disheveled, distressed, disorientated.  A garbled Police interview, both with her, and me, eventually led nowhere. Julie resigned and moved to Sydney.

Booze and powder were sustaining my capacities, but I was too self-absorbed to pick up the vibe, the collegiate odium. I was good, just going through a rough patch. The ‘readies’ were drying up.

I lost a weekend at the Lemon Tree pub, and a bloke, vaguely known, approached with a proposition. We met at the beach the following weekend to discuss details. His financial competitor needed wasting! Twenty grand was being offered. Could I do it?

It took a couple of weeks to consider and plant the dodgy ‘molly’. But by Sunday evening, job done!

It was a couple of years later, the phone rang. “Frank said to talk to you…” We met, discussed circumstances, fees, and timeframes. Timing was critical as the intended victim was giving evidence at the Banking Royal Commission.

I flew to Brisbane with gent’s clobber, an adhesive goatee, gloves and wig. A pistol was purchased locally. She opened the front door, a perfunctory single shot to the head. She dropped neatly. I chose the least travelled fork in the road, into the darkness, driving directly back to Melbourne.

The calls were regular, every few months. My methods varied, but I was experiencing unexpected euphoria, as I planned each MO! Shooting delivered instant results, the ‘Chicago Overcoat’, mmm, sometimes, but the boat launchings were too public. Car accidents were ok, but danger lurked in randomly passing dashcams. That nearly brought me undone a couple of years ago – took me several days to track down the car and eliminate the evidence!

If I had to choose a favourite, I reckon it would always come back to the elevated dispatch. It’s surprisingly easy to get the target to high, isolated spots – buildings, lookouts, from the top of a high voltage transmission tower once – results were always the same.

Life was good. However, I increasingly reflected on the possibility that things were actually predestined – maybe absorbed through my childhood water supply!

“OK. Let’s be upfront with this stuff. It has relationship-defining consequences if we don’t get things right at the outset.”

That sounds way too structural, but I agree to play his game. “Yes. OK. Sooo, I like to start way up high; a gentle massage, scalp to toe, stopping at strategic points for extra attention – ears, lips, nipples, inner thighs, buttocks, soles of my feet. Kissing throughout your bodywork will yield results. My nipples probably need extra attention on the return journey, and light brush strokes across my clit, as you pass. Reactions will alert us to the effects of your work at each station.”

I could see his hesitation, the wheels turning, cogitation and a smile slowly starting to form. “OK, yer, I also like a little head focus, a playful start that can bring me to attention. Fingers, playing incidentally across my nipples, not too much oral exploration, some nut-grappling, but I like to get down to dick-central pretty quickly.”

“How long until you are ready for me” he asks, “I mean, should I get ready? Do I need extra lube on the ol’ fella? Are there signals I need to learn, to ensure we’re both ready for ‘rootin’? It’s important that our journeys come together, eh!”

Youthful ignorance to overcome! “Absolutely, mon ami, absolutely! It can be the difference between the sticky, delicious nibbling on fairy floss, the flow of sweetened nectar or the cold heaviness of a wet concrete block. And we don’t want that dampener, do we, mon cher. Oh, and what exactly do you mean by rootin’?”

The Q&A is starting to wear thin. The lad’s naivety, the forty-year age difference, does it matter? He’s not concerned, so I will ignore my own anxiety.

I really wasn’t in the mood to be his instructor, but I sense long-term returns! I’ve just got to work around those “relationship-defining” issues!

We are lying back on a sheepskin. His nipple work is ok, albeit blind, with his mouth, tongue and teeth engaged elsewhere. He abandons my nipples. “Get back there!” I command, and his fingers roughly reengage.  Moments later “It is time, mon cher” I whisper into his ear, as I move to better respond to his straining prick. We move in delicious unison.

I notice a steamy mist, small rivulets moving down the bay window. The room is warming, ‘things’ are warming, tentative movements become assertive. Someone gasps, we both do, breath catching, muscles tensing, gathering.

We are reaching a shared urgency, our involuntary tremors, a noisy animalistic duet fills the room. But he is staring, unsure. A dawning to hitherto unknown delights, his eyes now tightly shut. He concentrates, as my fingers explore his arse. There are lessons to teach! I will be his teacher.

We slowly, deliciously descend into the sheepskin. Relaxing heaviness; we smile, an embarrassed giggle, an involuntary shiver, despite the warmth. Time slows, and the late afternoon light hits the loungeroom wall, way up high, higher even than the chimney tops.