[ The Hard Green Rain
]
It had always been dark by the
time he set foot on the platform but even the dim florescents weren’t working
tonight. To the west, and upwards into the escarpment, the usual street
light haze was replaced by short bursts as cars turned into black corners.
At the top of the pass the orange heliums from the expressway were still
glowing and the fog was lit from within as it rolled past the lookout and
into nothing.
Extraordinary events usually
fascinated him in a detached, proprietary way but tonight there was no
inclination to view things as he used to. The train was almost underway
again before he realised where the hell he was. So he slammed through the
vestibule door, ricocheted onto the barely visible asphalt and then stood
groggy, sick and shivering as the last train from town crept south. The
only passenger left in his part of the carriage looked through the partially
frosted window and gave him a hateful look. He couldn’t get used to those
and so next time, maybe, he’d just slump in the seat and wait to get thrown
off at the end of the line. It might even be a sort of fun to get stuck
thirty kilometres south with no money for a cab.
There were a number of smells
drifting up from the front of his body. He tried standing still and thinking
about them but the slight incline on the platform made him sway with discomfort.
So he found a hard railway seat nearby and eased himself down. The few
other late-night commuters gave him a wide berth but one of them went so
far as to almost fall off the concrete edge onto the tracks. He missed
the look of revulsion that came his way because he was too engrossed with
sniffing the air. The pungency of spilt whiskey was easy to find. So was
the richness of the pepper cream sauce that had smothered his steak and
the tang of blood from his gashed forehead. But there was something else
that he couldn’t quite distinguish. He smelt and thought for at least five
minutes, with a look of growing concern, until he fingered the scarf and
remembered. Then his brain seemed to tug loose from inside his skull, flipping
and twisting, until his stomach roiled and most of that night’s food and
drink was ejected from between splayed hands to lie in a spreading pool
on and around his shoes.
He sat in the same position
for a long time : fingers extended, dripping strands of bile, in front
of a wasted face; stomach clenching and unclenching in spasm; leg muscles
so rigid and strained that he thought they would split wide open. A closing
wave of liquid came only part way up his throat. He fought it down and
swallowed hard but then he started shivering. Eventually he controlled
himself and dredged up just enough strength to move his feet away from
the cooling mess. He looked vacantly around the station, over to the shops
and houses and up to the enclosing blackness and wondered what was wrong.
Another five minutes passed
this way till he finally realised that all the lights were out. He creased
his forehead in concentration and winced when the cut opened slightly,
then his bulk sprung up all at once, narrowly missing the puddle of vomit
at his feet. He pushed his legs further apart to steady his movements and
wiped his mouth and hands on the front of the tired coat with a dedication
that he thought had left him forever. He dragged out a crumpled soft pack
of cigarettes from an inner pocket, marvelled silently that there were
some left, and lit one using a pink disposable lighter that had been shoved
in with the broken remnants. He coughed roughly whilst gently tightening
the scarf around his neck and began the short walk home.
The last leg of his trek was
through a council car park and each time he reached this point he’d look
up automatically, away from the scattered gravel and old chook pellets,
to the large trees in the back yard: always beautiful. He could vaguely
make out their massive cone shapes in the enclosing darkness but he felt
nothing for them now. Two weeks ago he’d thought that this view might have
some recuperative powers but, little by little, he’d come to realise that
they never would. So he moved his gaze downwards and scuffed the dirt as
he battled his unwilling legs and feet across the expanse of blue stone
and tar.
A familiar sound filled his
ears when, at long last, he moved under the comforting bell of leaves.
When he’d first experienced this soft patter his initial expectation was
for the start of a sudden downpour but then he’d noticed the flutter of
wings and, finally, had made out the mass of white birds spread out amongst
the twisted limbs. They quietly chewed through the husks of spiky seed
pods, nibbling at the pliant inner flesh, and continually dropped a mixture
of emaciated left-overs and saliva onto the packed dirt surrounding the
massive tree trunks. If he left this detritus, for even a day, an inch-thick
swamp of mulch would cover the soil which he’d happily shovel up each season
for use on the garden. This would last for weeks until the casings were
all disposed of and the birds moved onto other food trees. Now he turned
his face upwards with eyes closed to let the hard, green rain drift over
his numb cheeks and nose. He held himself in this position until his balance
gave way and, swaying jerkily, he trod on a partially devoured pod, tripped
over the cracked concrete pavement and fell heavily onto an already wounded
knee.
His explosion of pain and anger
triggered the flock into a noisy panic. They echoed his swearing as they
wheeled off to a temporary safe haven and his mind wanted to go with them
as well. Still screaming hoarsely, he remembered again: quick glimpses
of yellow from a hundred elegant combs; stray feathers fluttering through
sun-dappled leaves; a tidal flow of white bodies in flight; a mounting
sense of dread as he ran up the steep incline to the back of the house;
a sound so uncommon, sharp and vicious that he stopped momentarily, frightened
to the core; the familiar shapes of the dogs folded near the steps in intolerable,
unfamiliar ways; the peculiar, acrid smells that invaded him from the depths
of the laundry; the splash of blood and fragment of bone squashed beneath
his boot; the beautiful crop of greying hair matted with darkening red;
a favourite silk scarf edging her sad, battered head; her ruined face;
her punctured chest; her twisted and broken arms; fear cutting through
the shock as a swift, deliberate movement positioned the barrel of the
gun at his chest; greater pain than he’d ever felt as a massive sound filled
the doorway; the slow unwinding of blood, mind and body as he drifted down
to join the ones he loved on the foul, wet tiles.
The memories ebbed slowly and,
once again, a pain settled in his chest. He knew this time that it would
never recede. He cradled his injured knee with his forearms and then thought
about the mass of pills he’d bought last week from a quiet, nervous man.
They were stored safely in his bedroom and would go down easily with the
expensive bottle of aged Shiraz he’d bought the same day. So he lay down
on the prickly mulch to regain his breath and slow down his pulsing heart.
He looked into the surprising blackness as the last of the hard, green
rain settled. He struggled slowly to his feet as the power surged back
and the street lights flickered gently. He edged his way up the backyard
slope holding firmly onto the scarf and imagined the biting, sweet tastes
to come.
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