warehouses. The other, Nick’s side, featured expensive homes perched on a slope overlooking the river. Unlike his fictional character Zack, I didn’t get a park out front. A BMW, Toorak Tractor and rubbish skip were in my way, so I pulled in half a block up and doubled back.
The sun beat off the asphalt and I was hot in my Portman’s skirt suit. If Nick was actually home, I was sure he’d get a kick out of my corporate look: court shoes, black-rimmed glasses and sleek ponytail. Four years of stripping costumes and characters had made me not only a master of disguise but a halfway decent actor. I wasn’t going to be performing Shakespeare at the Globe in a hurry, but was pretty confident I could nail Neighbours or Home and Away if I had to.
I rapped on the steel door, bruising my knuckles, and waited. No answer. I found a bell to the side of the doorframe and pressed. Nothing. I tried again. Sweat was beading on my forehead and beneath my pantyhose, causing the gusset to sag. I tried to tug up the nylon through my skirt, thinking that although gusset was probably the most disgusting word in the English language, it’d make a good name for a female punk band.
With my ear to the metal I pushed the button again, heard the bell chime and something else—music, turned up pretty damn loud. At least that meant he was home. I tried the door, assuming it would be locked, but the handle depressed, the mechanism clicked, and it swung open a couple of inches. Not a good sign. No one left their doors unlocked in the big city, especially not in a fancy house a couple of k’s from the housing commission towers.
A small kernel of fear cracked open in my stomach, my mouth dried up and very bad thoughts swirled around my mind. Nick on a bender since Saturday afternoon, falling over and hitting his head on the side of the coffee table. Nick pissed and choking on his own vomit; or worse, drunk and despondent over Isabella, he’d slit his wrists in the bath, hung himself or got hold of a gun . . . I knew from personal experience what a couple of those options looked and smelled like, and graphic images danced in front of my eyes. I thought of calling the cops so I wouldn’t have to go in, but what the hell would I tell them? For all I knew he could be in there relaxing on a Jason recliner, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, drinking a piña colada and getting a blow job from a fan. Nick would be pissed off, the cops would have the shits and I’d be a laughing stock.
I glanced down at my hand on the door handle. It was trembling. You’d think the things I’d seen would have made me hard-edged but it was the opposite. I was turning into a sissy, a nancy, a goddamn girl. Toughen the fuck up, I told myself. Get your arse in there. Go.
I pushed on the heavy steel door, took a couple of steps and found myself in an entrance hall. Down the other end was a door, to my left the garage access, and in front of me, a little to the right, a suspended staircase made of polished blond wood. A shattered gin bottle lay on the floor, and as well as the solvent stench of cheap booze I smelled something underneath it, organic and nasty. Something like blood? My stomach spasmed and the bones in my ankles felt brittle all of a sudden. The music was coming from the top of the stairs so I took a deep, ragged breath, crunched through the broken glass and climbed, calling out all the way.
‘Nick? Nick, it’s Simone. Are you there?’
There was no reply. The music was very loud and I realised I knew the song, although I hadn’t heard it for years. It was a duet by Kirsty MacColl and Shane MacGowan from The Pogues. ‘Fairytale of New York’.
The landing at the top of the stairs turned into a large open-plan space. It was gloomy, with just a little ambient light filtering through tightly closed blinds at the other end of the room. I made out a stainless steel kitchen to my left, a red ‘feature wall’ next to it, and a long living area stretching out in
The sun beat off the asphalt and I was hot in my Portman’s skirt suit. If Nick was actually home, I was sure he’d get a kick out of my corporate look: court shoes, black-rimmed glasses and sleek ponytail. Four years of stripping costumes and characters had made me not only a master of disguise but a halfway decent actor. I wasn’t going to be performing Shakespeare at the Globe in a hurry, but was pretty confident I could nail Neighbours or Home and Away if I had to.
I rapped on the steel door, bruising my knuckles, and waited. No answer. I found a bell to the side of the doorframe and pressed. Nothing. I tried again. Sweat was beading on my forehead and beneath my pantyhose, causing the gusset to sag. I tried to tug up the nylon through my skirt, thinking that although gusset was probably the most disgusting word in the English language, it’d make a good name for a female punk band.
With my ear to the metal I pushed the button again, heard the bell chime and something else—music, turned up pretty damn loud. At least that meant he was home. I tried the door, assuming it would be locked, but the handle depressed, the mechanism clicked, and it swung open a couple of inches. Not a good sign. No one left their doors unlocked in the big city, especially not in a fancy house a couple of k’s from the housing commission towers.
A small kernel of fear cracked open in my stomach, my mouth dried up and very bad thoughts swirled around my mind. Nick on a bender since Saturday afternoon, falling over and hitting his head on the side of the coffee table. Nick pissed and choking on his own vomit; or worse, drunk and despondent over Isabella, he’d slit his wrists in the bath, hung himself or got hold of a gun . . . I knew from personal experience what a couple of those options looked and smelled like, and graphic images danced in front of my eyes. I thought of calling the cops so I wouldn’t have to go in, but what the hell would I tell them? For all I knew he could be in there relaxing on a Jason recliner, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, drinking a piña colada and getting a blow job from a fan. Nick would be pissed off, the cops would have the shits and I’d be a laughing stock.
I glanced down at my hand on the door handle. It was trembling. You’d think the things I’d seen would have made me hard-edged but it was the opposite. I was turning into a sissy, a nancy, a goddamn girl. Toughen the fuck up, I told myself. Get your arse in there. Go.
I pushed on the heavy steel door, took a couple of steps and found myself in an entrance hall. Down the other end was a door, to my left the garage access, and in front of me, a little to the right, a suspended staircase made of polished blond wood. A shattered gin bottle lay on the floor, and as well as the solvent stench of cheap booze I smelled something underneath it, organic and nasty. Something like blood? My stomach spasmed and the bones in my ankles felt brittle all of a sudden. The music was coming from the top of the stairs so I took a deep, ragged breath, crunched through the broken glass and climbed, calling out all the way.
‘Nick? Nick, it’s Simone. Are you there?’
There was no reply. The music was very loud and I realised I knew the song, although I hadn’t heard it for years. It was a duet by Kirsty MacColl and Shane MacGowan from The Pogues. ‘Fairytale of New York’.
The landing at the top of the stairs turned into a large open-plan space. It was gloomy, with just a little ambient light filtering through tightly closed blinds at the other end of the room. I made out a stainless steel kitchen to my left, a red ‘feature wall’ next to it, and a long living area stretching out in
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