Part 4 (1/2)

And it wasn't Nat's hypocritical questioning of his dealing or his life outside that really bothered him - she smoked his cones and dipped into the goey - it was her presumption that he wanted her advice and opinions. Or even her v.a.g.i.n.a, or her presence.

She said he was sulky since he'd gotten out.

But he didn't dislike her enough to ask her not to come around anymore - he couldn't have given her a real reason anyway - so he stayed sulky, and ignorant, and withdrew.

SIX.

His car was in the carport, as it had been on the several other occasions Sonja had walked towards his flat, but had found small reasons in the asphalt not to go further. It was the only car to be seen within at least six carports - that is, of course, except for the police cruisers that came and went with alarming regularity. She hadn't seen him since the hospital. Maybe he'd moved and left his car. She hoped not. She wanted to know someone, someone who lived here; and he'd been so close. And she hadn't been able to stop thinking about him at all. And the fact that he lived so close - actually in this same block of unattractive flats - was driving her wild. She'd felt so confused, and then depressed, after that day with Raz. It'd been, as she predicted, the last time they spoke, let alone spent time together. For a while she thought she might love Raz, because she couldn't stop thinking about him. But eventually, and a bit disappointingly, she realised it was simply that - although she'd never ask him - she wanted to know what he thought of her, why he'd acted so bizarrely. But since the day of the hospital, any thought of Raz was totally eclipsed. This new boy had cured her of him. And filled her with a new set of feelings that burned hotter, but were much more positive than those Raz had caused her to suffer.

So she climbed the steps - uncomfortably identical to the ones leading to her own door - and knocked, wincing with what could be such a naive act. She could see no movement through the peephole, but could sense it. The door opened.

-Hi, he said, and then, as though the G.o.ds were watching, she thought, Sonja, is it?

He didn't seem as tall, but darker, and with much bluer eyes than she'd remembered from that day in his car.

-Yeah, hi. I don't actually know your name, she said, and was unexpectedly pleased with her response which seemed so mature and clear.

-Oh, it's Patrick. Sorry, I thought I told your mum.

-You probably did. She forgets Australian names.

-Well, I hope there hasn't been another accident. He smiled with one side of his mouth.

-No, no. I, um, just wanted to thank you, you know, properly, and to get you something, but I didn't know what to get.

-No, nothing. You don't need to get me anything. We're neighbours, right? he said, maybe reddening a little, Sonja saw.

-Please. My mum insists, Sonja lied. We thought maybe a case of beer.

-A case? No. Maybe a bottle, he said, leaning further out the doorway.

-What about a bottle of wine then?

-No, no, it's all right.

-Please? she laughed, bending her knees in mock frustration.

-Okay, but ya really don't have to.

-Red or white?

-Um, red. The cheapest. Honestly.

He rubbed his stomach, maybe nervously, under his T-s.h.i.+rt, and she saw the trickle of hair running from his navel into his jeans.

-Okay, well, I'll see you soon, Patrick, she said, and backed away.

-Okay, bye, Sonja. Nice to see ya well, too.

-Thanks.

She hit the bottom of the steps and suddenly thought that maybe she'd left too quickly, like a schoolgirl. Maybe she should have stayed a while more, extended the conversation. But then, Patrick did seem to be a man of few words.

People he didn't know always seemed to drive him to politeness. Now he would have to accept a gift from this girl, which would have to lead to more politeness, which made him a little uncomfortable. But as he sat back down on his two-seater, and sifted some heads and tobacco between his thumb and index finger, he realised that the polite exchange he'd just had was more satisfying - he could still feel a lingering burn of endorphin - than the unchanging lump of words he and his mates (customers) dropped at each other's feet.

Someone knocked on his door. Westie, after two sticks and a half-weight.

SEVEN.

It was a risk, driving around in an unregistered 1979 particoloured - thanks to several transplanted panels - Commodore with bulk drugs. He only felt this on his third pick-up though, because he was only just beginning to get over the authority that went with driving again. It was probably more of a risk walking with the drugs anyway. He picked them up from Ronnie's place. And Ronnie got a quarter oz - which he sold - for letting Whitey use his place for the exchange.

Waldo, who always brought along his dog, was - at least as far as Whitey knew - the source of the drugs. The heeler-cross sat and examined his fleas and the damage they'd done to his sheath. He relaxed everyone. Helen mimicked the counting and weighing, right down to the dipping and licking. And the ignition and blowing-out-the-window of the bong smoke.

Waldo and the heeler were happy. One drunk and speeding, the other thoroughly content. Ronnie stood with his beer, maybe ready to run - if there was a cop-knock. Whitey drank, because the freshly opened case on the floor looked so inviting, with its photograph of a crisp-looking, perpetually full beer bottle. They laughed about school. But Whitey didn't really remember Waldo from those days, except that they'd both shared unfortunate acne and an English cla.s.s. There were no laughs between them then. But now, there was micro-capitalism. Laughs of the small-businessmen.

Waldo left after a phone call from his missus filled him with doubt and his speed hit visibly skipped a beat. Whitey and Ronnie drank the rest of the case with speedy, flared nostrils. And were amazed at each other's power of chemically sharpened mimicry of mutual acquaintances.

Afterwards, he dropped Ronnie at the bottleshop, but Whitey had to get back to Brunei because of the promises weighed and bagged under the back seat of the car.

The act of getting drugs from the car to the flat had to be covert, but the best he could manage was an outdated sports bag. The bag was quickly dropped and unburdened, the stash of drugs replenished in their various locations in the toilet/laundry. Not so much hidden from a bust, but from customers. Pot in the toilet-brush holder; goey under the twin tub.

He dropped another fingerful of speed, then tidied up. Clothes, dishes - which made him realise that he hadn't been eating for the last couple of days. And he wouldn't eat today. Hot doubt rushed with the speed of speed through his chest - a side effect of the drug he could never get used to. But someone knocked, a bit lightly, on his door.

Looking through the peephole, wondered who told this girl from up the next stairs, Sonja, that he sold. The speed allowed for quick, if not accurate thought. Maybe she isn't here to score - like last time.

-Hi, Patrick, she said. It sounded a bit like a question, so he answered: -Yeah, Sonja.

-I just thought I'd bring this over. She held out the thickness of a bottle in brown paper.

-Cool, thank you. He motioned for her to come up the step she'd backed down.

She handed him the bottle her mother had bought.

-Do you wanna come in? he asked, because the stairwells at Brunei reverberated, and sound became like the graffiti - random and coa.r.s.e.

-Okay.

He took the bottle out of the paper bag and looked at it, as if he knew something about wine. He was not sure how long he should keep looking at it.

-Thank you, he said. And thank your mum, too.

-I will, she said and leaned on the bench in his kitchenette.

-So how've you been? Head okay?