The Colour of the Night Read online

  Stef glanced at her husband, twelve years her senior, and marched towards the kitchen. ‘Are you ready for your show?’

  ‘When is anyone really ready?’ Simon called from the sitting room. ‘I’ll get done what I can and work it all out in situ.’

  Stef carried a bottle of sav blanc to the lounge where Simon had already slumped into one of the black leather couches. She poured two glasses.

  ‘Are you going to use the bag piece?’

  ‘The bag piece …’

  ‘Yes, you know, those plastic bags you collected with the beach sand and –’

  ‘This new work isn’t about environment, Stef. Did you read the catalogue essay?’

  ‘Of course. But it’s hard to see exactly what you have in mind for the … you know … what you intend to –’

  ‘Not even I know that. Not precisely. I want osmosis and transmutation to play a role.’

  Longstanding experience had taught Stef that it was time to switch subjects. She took a sip of wine and leaned back in her own armchair. The radio was whispering in the corner and Stef heard mention of a squabble for leadership. It reminded her of the special service they’d attended at the National Gallery for the passing of a leading Labor man.

  ‘We should invite that couple we met at Clive Cunningham’s funeral.’

  ‘It was a Memorial Service, Stef.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Those collectors, what was their name?’

  Simon discharged one of his trademark huffs. ‘Those two haven’t been buying for years; they just live off their reputation. I can’t stand people like that, swanning in and swanning out, expecting the art world to court them.’ He looked away. ‘But I think it was appalling that our own National Gallery director didn’t show.’

  ‘At the service?’

  ‘Yes. He should have been there.’

  ‘He was there, I saw him.’

  ‘Really? Damn it, why didn’t you mention it?’

  Just then Jess came through the front door, their daughter. As she reached the foot of the stairs, her mother called after her.

  ‘Jess.’

  ‘Yes Mum.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Oh, hi Mum.’

  ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Did you go to the interview?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Won’t know for a while.’ She put her hand on the banister.

  ‘What do you intend to do now?’

  The girl turned to face them. Jess was typical and atypical; she did not look like many eighteen-year-olds yet she looked exactly like some. Self-created tartan bondage pants, platform boots, remnant top over a grey T-shirt, a clutter of silver rings and requisite piercings, spiked hair both black and fuchsia-red, black kohl surrounding fiery green eyes, face as pale as parchment. She was not quite goth, not quite emo.

  ‘You mean right now, this minute, or some other time?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Are you going to apply for something else, or do you intend to wait on the job at the electrical store?’

  Jess thought for a minute, avoiding her parents’ eyes.

  ‘I’ll let you know, okay?’ She turned and stomped up the stairs.

  Her mother watched her retreat. The girl was younger than James by two years and when she was born, Stef had already decided on a different approach to her upbringing. James was squeezed out less than a year after she and Simon married – and was completely unplanned, completely unprepared-for. During that pregnancy she’d cursed ten times a day – putting the tally somewhere near three thousand – spat bile regularly into the bathroom sink and kicked the vanity which vibrated the full-length mirror causing her reflection to shake its head disapprovingly. It was one thing to flout the rules and ignore social correctness, another to disregard the incredible stamina of sperm. But she lived through it and before long she was pregnant again. Stef was now equipped with considerable experience and expected to raise the newborn differently. But her plan had anticipated a particular type of person, a version of herself. Jess, unfortunately, seemed like the product of another woman’s genes.

  If James was a crier, Jess was an outright anarchist, even as a four-year-old. Was it a clash of personalities? Couldn’t she expect her darling daughter to respond decently, logically, sensibly? But the tiny child had screamed and kicked and rejected every approach. What were she and Simon failing to notice; what were they missing; what did the child want? She had toys, books, musical instruments; they took pains to explain complex issues, introduced her to the best art, food, restaurants, people – and still the child rebelled.

  Even now as she sat sipping wine with her husband, Stef knew that they’d failed in some way. They’d both long recognised that being highly trained artists did not equip them for parenting. Yet couldn’t they expect a little encouragement? Like the children they were attempting to raise, they needed nurturing too, just a little confirmation, a sign that their actions were a tiny bit appreciated. But they received no such incentive and found it very easy to capitulate.

  Stef recalled her daughter going through puberty and shuddered. It was then that the girl adopted a real penchant for deviation. Beyond logic or reason, she’d entered a behavioural realm that required two years of mental-health professionalism to finally dispel. Stef was reminded of the sleepless nights monitoring her daughter, and the day the kitchen knives came out of hiding and were again returned to the drawer. Was that period finally behind the girl?

  ‘Anyway, I’ve never liked that man.’ Simon appeared to be addressing the bookshelves.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He always acts so superior, when it’s the curators who do all the work. A figurehead, that’s all he is; someone to address the media.’ He looked at his wife. ‘I’m talking about the Director.’

  Stef wondered where her wine had gone, and poured another, her eyes drifting again to the empty staircase.

  SHAUN CRAWLED under the Fringe Myrtle. Sure enough there they were: a small cluster of Gnat Orchids, their flowers not much bigger than gnats. With his stomach embracing the warm earth, he counted them: about twenty, and each was turned in the one direction; towards the best light, the boy assumed. Why were they there? He’d not seen Gnat Orchids in the forest before. But he was used to nature’s peculiar way of throwing up something unexpected, as though all things were possible if one only waited. That was the interesting thing about life: watch patiently, remain observant and the nuances revealed themselves.

  ‘Shaun! Wood! Wood!’ It sounded like the cry of a native pigeon echoing through the forest – wood wood wood – but his mother’s high-pitched calling reminded him of a different mission. He sat up to see her in the distance, standing on the deck, leaning out like the figurehead on the front of a sailing ship. ‘Okay!’ he yelled. He took hold of the wheelbarrow and pushed it down the track. Further into the bush, his father had taken the chainsaw to a fallen wattle and the logs were still scattered in the grass. Twenty Gnat Orchids; who would have thought it?

  STEF AND SIMON wanted their daughter to remain living with them, even if they were obliged to support her forever. At least that’s what they told others. But whispering across a yellowing pillow in the dead of night, they sometimes wished to Christ she’d snap out of her morbid self-pity and take some responsibility for her life. Maybe a stint on the dole in a rented flat would shake some maturity into the girl, make her part with the tongue stud, labret and clitoris ring – the last, an act she’d defiantly announced to her mother one Christmas Eve. What was going on in her head? If only she would put some meaning in her life.

  Meaning; it was everything to Stef and Simon. Above all else, life and art – not necessarily in that order – had to be meaningful: One’s actions should always add new substance to the world. It was the least they could expect of their daughter, raised as she was in such a rich cultural environment. But Jess had a response to this which was difficult to deflect: What does meaning mean?
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br />   Jess went upstairs to her room and closed the door. She sat on the bed a full minute before turning her attention to the tattoo on her forearm. Was it fading? Was it turning green? She was sure it was darker and clearer a year ago – what’s the point if it’s going to fade? A fleur-de-lis, its crossbar had been artfully placed along the raw rib of a scar, still red and raised, giving the tattoo a slight 3D look. It was very special; that little ridge of raised tissue, the first experiment, followed later by the full production. And how alive that had made her feel! For a short and precious period, a unique kind of knowing, unavailable in the outer world, eclipsed everything and left the emptiness far behind. She lightly touched the image on her arm and lifted her gaze to the cracked mirror sitting on the dresser. She could barely see her own eyes, hidden as they were in the surrounding kohl and overshadowed by her shock of wildly disarranged hair.

  She was not to know it, but Elton’s room next door was exactly opposite hers and at that moment, if the party wall could be magically removed, he’d be staring precisely at her.

  She sat for a few more minutes before going into the passage and along to the old nursery at the back. That room had a wide window looking down onto her brother’s bungalow. She saw lights on in James’s kitchen. It was a good time to catch him, between his working day and his wandering night. She slipped quietly down the stairs, glancing at her parents, whose backs were now turned, their eyes fixed intently on the latest TV news atrocity. Sirens wailed, at least twelve dead, she heard the newsreader say.

  She went out the back way across the small concrete yard and tapped on her brother’s door. James was in the bedroom and had seen her coming.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I come in?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. Why do you always ask that?’

  ‘Got anything to eat?’

  ‘Have a squiz if you like. I don’t know.’ Jess didn’t bother. She sidled through and sat on his bed. James was kneeling on the floor with his back to her, his new bike upturned on sheets of newspaper. He was spraying it black.

  ‘Shouldn’t you do that outside?’

  ‘Too damp – you need dry conditions. Don’t you like the fumes? Thought you’d be into it.’

  The idea did appeal and she felt her heart skip. ‘I need some stuff, Jimmy. Do you think you could get something for me?’

  ‘Jessica.’

  ‘Just a bit o’ speed or something, mate … Don’t freak out. If you can’t, you can’t. Just thought I’d ask that’s all, no biggy.’

  ‘I told you, Ryan doesn’t like bringing it to work. And I don’t like it either. Means one of us has to carry it around all day. Anyway, I can’t afford it anymore.’ He looked sharply at her. ‘You’re costing me a fortune, Jess. Wean yourself off it or get your own money.’

  Jess picked up a pair of his underpants and held them to her nose. James snatched them away.

  ‘Fuck off, you freak! What do you think you’re doing?’

  Jess laughed.

  ‘Can I come with you tonight?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Wherever.’ He rattled the can of spray. ‘Is your computer working?’

  ‘Nah, still fucked. Must’ve downloaded some fucker’s viral shit. Don’t want to touch it, ’case it climbs up my arm.’

  ‘I might know someone who can fix it,’ her brother suggested. ‘The guy next door. He sold me this bike. He’s a tech head, got an amazing stash of gear. Do you want me to ask him if he can have a look at it? I bet he’ll do it – for a price though; the prick knows the value of things.’

  ‘I don’t want no stranger in my room. He might be some mutant geek that, you know –’

  ‘He’s not like that. ’Bout your age, straight as a freakin’ flagpole, lives in the total dark – you might like him.’ He flashed her a grin.

  ‘Can you take it over to his place?’

  ‘No way! I hate his cooped-up idea of a life, him and his mum squirrelled away, sleeping through the day.’

  ‘What’s his mum do?’

  ‘Christ knows. Nurse, I reckon – or a prosty.’

  ‘You lookin’ to root her?’ She bounced lightly on his bed.

  ‘Bloody hell Jess, was that necessary?’

  She reached out with her foot and pushed him in the back.

  ‘Piss off, woman!’

  ‘Get the geek to fix the computer, okay? Take it over to his place. As long as he doesn’t want the world for it.’

  James spat a little more spray onto the shiny black frame. ‘Don’t worry, I’m keeping a record of every cent you owe me.’

  Jess left and James righted the bike, studying it carefully. He could see himself flashing down side streets, no lights, silent and unseen as a blacksnake, keeping to the shadows. A helmet was hardly necessary and was only needed for his signature style. Like the Green Lantern’s logo, he’d paint it up symbolically, though the artistry would hardly approach his parents’ ideals.

  Just then there came a tap on his other door – the one that led into the back laneway. Behind all three terraces there ran a cobblestone alley along which, a century earlier, the nightman had travelled, emptying battered drums of human waste into a horsedrawn tank. But now that artery was hardly utilised, except as James’s usual access.

  The knock came again and James called through the door.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello! It’s Nikos from the corner. Got a minute?’

  James opened the door to find a thickset middle-aged man standing in the fading light.

  ‘Nikos,’ he repeated, ‘but people call me Nick. That’s my property on the corner, number 40, where the verandah is.’

  James knew it well, the third of the three terraces, the one right on the corner of Frederick and Ward. It had an awning out over the footpath straddling both streets and beneath it, the original full-length shop windows were still in place.

  ‘You like the verandah? I built that. Used to be one there in the old days – I got me ’ands on an old photo, out of a newspaper. Someone knocked the original one down, so I put it back up again – and painted it two-tone. That’s what they used to do back then – paint the verandahs two-tone.’

  James wasn’t sure how to reply.

  ‘Anyway, I didn’t wanna trouble ya,’ the man said, ‘but don’t you work for the council?’

  James nodded.

  ‘Thought so. Seen ya doin’ that new footpath on Johnson Street – that’s my café over the road. Know that one? Best spanakopita in this fair city and that’s a fact. Proper Greek tucker.’ He looked into James’s eyes. ‘Tell you what I want; I need the services of a man who knows how to use an excavator and I thought, if I hire one, an excavator that is, maybe you could drive it for me? Make it worth your while o’ course. How much do ya think it’d be? For cash?’

  ‘Sorry mate, I don’t want any afterhours work, okay?’

  The man stood in the laneway, hands on hips, and lightly angled his head. James could see his brain ticking.

  ‘I’d make it worth your while.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Cash in hand.’

  ‘Sorry, mate.’

  He didn’t want to leave. ‘Tell you what: I got the original plans to this building. Want to see ’em? Pretty amazin’. There used to be a cellar in my place, right on the corner. It used to be a butcher shop and I bet they stored all their meat under the floor. In the cellar. Pulled up the floorboards expecting to see a bloody great hole but it’s all been filled in. I’m going to dig it out again. What d’yer reckon?’

  How, James asked, did he expect to get an excavator into the room? Through the side window, Nikos declared, unperturbed. Not the whole thing of course, just the bucket. He admitted it would require real skill and again implored his neighbour. Cash in hand, he repeated.

  ‘I wouldn’t try it if I were you,’ James warned him. ‘Too risky. Anyway, I can’t help you. Sorry.’ He stepped back
and put his hand on the doorknob.

  ‘Right. Okay. If you change your mind you know where I am, eh?’

  NIKOS CHRISTAKOS expected to score handsomely from the purchase of number 40. It had been passed in at auction and he’d made his successful offer a month later. From that moment on he told anyone whose attention he could arrest, just how rapidly his investment was multiplying, adding small increments weekly. In Nikos’s opinion it was already worth fifty percent more than he’d paid, and with the ongoing renovations – for more than a year now – its value was rising like the morning sun.

  He didn’t live there himself. Instead he rented it to two tenants who had a bedroom each upstairs and a shared bathroom and kitchen on the ground floor. He’d had no trouble finding renters. He’d placed a small ad in the suburban newspaper and a dozen people turned up. Most recoiled immediately, one woman actually reprimanding him, declaring that he had no right to offer such shabby conditions to potential tenants with the advertised claim: Excellent shared accommodation – suit professional couple. But two people put some cash on the line, there and then, no contracts, no agents, no anything.

  One was an Afghan, the other an Englishman. They’d eyed each other curiously on that first day as they handed a month’s rent to their new landlord. The older Englishman was tall and blond, with a narrow face and pale complexion. Pronounced pockmarks climbed up his neck and scrambled onto his cheeks. The Afghan was short and dark, his hair, beard and eyebrows as rich as black velour. He was perhaps ten years younger than his fellow renter and wore a blue, long-sleeved shirt and grey trousers. The Englishman was similarly dressed – blue shirt, grey trousers – which was something they both noticed. But their cultural differences far outweighed any coincidental dress code. Regardless, as each nodded in agreement to the landlord’s lack of terms, they tacitly accepted one another, though as neither could produce a single reference, the decision was hardly theirs to make.

  WHEN ARMAN Khan took off his shoes and stepped into his new sleeping room, six metres by five, it felt as though a significant milestone had been reached. His room and his window that looked down onto the side street and onto the bright yellow roof of the taxicab he now drove. He scanned the interior and smiled at the immensity of the double bed with the sturdy steel legs and decorative headboard. He did not require it, an extravagance of space he would not normally consider, but it came with the room. So too did the freestanding wardrobe and a wooden dresser, not antique but very old and of a style not seen in Afghanistan. The dresser had a mirror affixed and Arman gazed at his reflection within its bevelled edges. He’d had his hair cut since arrival, believing it aligned somewhat with his new country, but he’d kept his full beard in accordance with the Prophet’s example. He noted in the poor light that only the whites of his eyes were apparent between eyebrows and beard. He exposed his teeth; white and straight, though a back molar sometimes throbbed. His own mirror and his own dresser.