Ghost from the past

Ain't no way to get you back now
Ain't no way to bring you back.
- Shihad, 1996

“So, there’s one thing I don’t understand,” Lena said finally, after some thought. She’d been contemplating her glass of red for some time now. We were on our second bottle, the most recent being unearthed from my pseudo-cellar downstairs, and it was inevitably slowing us down. The storm outside was also quelling its fury, calming to steady rain. Lena and I were back on the brown couch again, side by side. Without either of us particularly noticing, my arm had ended up around her shoulder, and she was leaning against me. It wasn’t anything big. She’d always been friendly when it came to physical contact (or ‘the girl’s an inveterate hug-merchant’, as McCarthy used to put it). To be honest, it was just nice to have her around. I’d missed her. Of course, I wasn’t about to admit that. That’s loser-talk, as my old mate Mad Mick Martin would have put it. Who he? We’ll get to that.

“What’s the one thing you don’t understand?” I replied, warily. Sounded like a setup. “I doubt it’s only one thing…”

“It’s just that… well, that’s your Magna downstairs in the garage?

“Yeah…”

She fingered the sleeve of my black T-shirt. “Where’s your cardigan then?”

The arm around her shoulder tightened into a head-lock, which she tried to squirrel and squeal out of. “Very original, Little Miss I Only Buy Expensive European Cars Because My Daddy Tells Me To.”

“Oh get fucked, not everyone wants to drive soulless Japanese whitegoods…”

“Soulless whitegoods? You get fucked. It’s the all-wheel-drive model, sticks like shit to a blanket.”

She looked at me askance. Then screwed her face up into giggles.

“Sticks like what?” she laughed. “You are one classy wordsmith, Dr Yobbo.”

“So what are you driving at the moment?”

“Right at this moment… would you believe, a rented Hyundai Elantra?”

I was relatively smug. “You were saying about whitegoods?”

“It’s more beige than white,” she conceded. “I actually asked for an Astra, of course. Never get what I want from hire car companies.”

“Just like men,” I moaned breathlessly in a poor imitation of her voice. “Oh woe is me…”

For about the forty-seventh time that evening, Lena told me to get fucked.

“Like I keep telling you, I can’t. Contractually obliged not to.”

“No contract in place yet...”

“It’s sort of a handshake deal.”

“It’d want to be a hand-something deal.”

“Yeah, not so much.”

Lena's eyes narrowed. “Damn, she has got you on a short leash. With no relief in sight.” Then shrugged. “Hell, if you’re expecting sympathy from me…”

That’s a point, I wondered. “Things not going so well for you on the romance front, then?”

She shrugged, with a face like she’d just eated a lemon. “Let me think. Single white female, early thirties, living in officially the gayest city in the Southern Hemisphere,” she listed. “Too loud and too tall to be considered attractive by any conventional measures, so I only attract other weirdos. What else... Lousy financial sense, no assets to speak of - for Christ’s sake, I’m still trying to pay off my 306. Even had to refinance it to stop them taking it off me...” She’d splurged on a new Peugeot 306 GTi about eight years ago when they were about to be replaced by the much less interesting 307, to replace her beloved but increasingly ragged Alfa GTV. You could tell it was hers by the thick buildup of black brake dust around the front alloys. To her credit, Lena knew how to use a motor vehicle in line with the purposes it was designed for.

“Probably shouldn’t have signed up for massive finance two weeks before quitting your job at Rolling Stone and going freelance. Just a suggestion.”

“Thank you Captain Hindsight,” she said. Presumably a colleague of our good friend Captain Obvious, who we’d idolized in song many years previous. “But you’re right, a complete lack of career direction and focus could probably be added to that list, you think?”

“Still freelancing?”

“Sort of. Not really. Back with street press,” Lena replied, with an ironic chuckle. “After over ten years, I’m pretty much right back where I started from. Even getting paid marginally less than I was in my first year out of uni.”

“How’s that work?”

“All casual staff now,” she said. “No permanents. Forget holiday and sick leave, also.”

“It’s the way of the world now,” I admitted. “The industrial relations damage done by your Libs will never be properly fixed. Gee, I’m glad I didn’t vote for those fuckers…”

“I haven’t voted Liberal in years,” she replied archly. Which was a surprise, given that her father was a member of the Victorian Liberal party and she’d once been as staunchly Liberal as McCarthy (and myself, I guess) were NOT. Watching Election Night Specials with the pair of them usually got more heated than watching Origin games with Dr Cletus. And were often at least as entertaining, particularly if the scores were close. “The point is,” Lena continued, “I’m having a drunken whinge about the state of my life and I don’t want to be interrupted. Particularly by you, Mister I’m Getting Married In March To Some Gorgeous Blonde Pilates Instructor Who Presumably Fucks Like a Fucking Banshee, Cos They Always Do With You, You Bastard... And while we’re at it,” she continued, clearly just warming up, “why are they always fucking pilates instructors? Or fucking swimsuit models, or fucking soapie starlets, or fucking ballerinas, or fucking Channel Ten newsreaders?”

“Never touched Ron Wilson,” I replied. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Anyway,” she said, “All I can say is, she must be fucking awesome in the sack for you to give all that up.” The dirty words, as ever with Lena, were directly proportional to the intake of alcohol. Give her two bottles of wine and she could make sailors blush. Depending on what part of the sailor she used them on.

I didn’t want to look like I was having second thoughts, which I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to agree with her either, which would reinforce my success and her misery. So I sat on the fence and got splinters up my arse instead.

“Well, to be fair, March is a long way off.”

“Yeah, but you clearly love her enough to be able to hold out that long. Look, dammit, you’re not supposed to get married before me. You weren't ever meant to give a shit. You were supposed to tour the world having incredibly debauched no-strings sex with gorgeous women for the rest of your life. I’m the one who was supposed to get the happily ever after story, remember? We agreed on this years ago.”

“I don’t know, incredibly debauched no-strings sex gets fairly tired after a while, should see my chiropractor’s bill,” I grinned. Actually, screw being humble and cushioning Lena’s feelings, I was very proud of myself. “I’ve finally grown up, I guess. Had to happen.”

“Guess it was always more likely to be you,” she said ruefully. “Of the pair of you.” I got the distinct impression she wasn't talking about me and Bethany.

“Yeah, well, baby, what can I say, you backed the wrong horse from the start,” I quipped. Badly. Awfully, in fact. Not one of my better timed comic interludes, largely because Lena was pretty much convinced that it was actually a statement of fact rather than comic exaggeration. It’d been Lena who blinked first, being the first to bring up McCarthy tonight, or at least allude to him. Funny how the conjuring up the ghost of Uncle Sam changed the atmosphere. Not funny ha-ha but funny peculiar, as you’d expect. I realised how much we’d both been consciously avoiding it so far.

Lena drew quieter, more contemplative still. I wondered if she was going to get emotional. That also usually followed after two bottles of red. “Wrong horse,” she smiled thinly. “Wrong rider, too.”

“He lost the plot,” I said frankly, to cover my poor choice of analogy. “He and the plot went their separate ways. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Whose fault could it be other than mine?” she retorted feistily.

“Mine,” I said. “Everyone’s. But mostly his. It was his plot to lose. He wasn’t handling things well and we all could have managed stuff better, but it was his plot to lose.” When painting over the cracks, I recommend a broad-brush approach.

Contemplative pause. The storm had eased to the point where the sound of the surf crashing onto the headland was louder now than the hammering of the rain on the roof.

“You heard from him recently?” I said, trying a change of tack. “I presume you’ll want to interview him for your story, for the liner notes?”

She seemed to be building herself up for something. “That’s… kind-of the problem,” she admitted. Aha, here’s the Something in question. “Noone in the industry seems to know his whereabouts. Knowing Sam, that probably means he’s not interested in his whereabouts being known to the industry.” A fair observation, I thought. “So I was hoping you could help me track him down. Or at least maybe talk to his family, old friends of yours, basically get some background information…”

“Lena, you were with Sam for years,” I pointed out. “When did you guys first meet, fifteen years ago? How much more background information do you need, for Christ's sake?”

“Apparently,” she replied curtly, “I’m not an unbiased witness.” She went on to describe the draft ‘treatment’ of the Flange Gasket story which she’d put together on the request of ‘Richie’ Richardson, as an outline of how her final piece would read. “Greg took the view that it unnecessarily painted Sam as the villain of the piece,” she concluded. “I don’t know however he would have got that impression...”

“So he wants someone close to the band to write the story,” I posed, “but not so close that their own viewpoint colours it? That’s bloody ridiculous.”

“You didn’t read the draft,” she conceded. “It was pretty fucking scathing.”

We both had a laugh about that. Only ‘a’ laugh, singular, but it was a start.

“So presumably we’ll need to catch up with the rest of the boys as well,” I suggested.

“We’ll need to?” she queried. “You’re volunteering already?”

“Merely a figure of speech,” I backtracked. “The Royal ‘we’, meaning ‘you’. You know where the others are?”

“El Martinez should be reasonably locatable,” she suggested, to which I nodded wryly. “I’m pretty sure the Duffer will be easy enough to find as well…”

“Hitching on the outskirts of Nimbin, presumably,” I suggested.

“You’re a presumptuous bastard, aren’t you?” That ironic smile was back. “Come on, give me a hug, you miserable fucking cynic.”

With a courteous request like that, how could I refuse? I gave her a big squeeze and told her I’d missed her, even though she was far too tall, too loud and too economically irresponsible to be my sort of fuck. She laughed, and said she missed me too, even though I was a big poo-poo-head.

“Honey, why is there some strange white car parked in our driveway? I had to park out on the street…” came the voice from the kitchen.

Which went to show just how relaxed and comfortable (i.e. completely fucking slashed) your correspondent was: I hadn’t even heard Bethany come in. Nor did I immediately realise how suspicious it would have looked, me reclining out on the couch with my arm around a tall, volumptuous dark-haired girl who my beloved fiancee didn’t know from Adam. (Adam, in case you were wondering, was our original stage manager and lighting tech, better known as Macgyver because he could fix anything, anywhere, anytime, from broken fan-heaters to lighting rigs, just using gaffa tape, superglue, rapid-set Liquid Nails, his well-used Leatherman tool, a big fuck-off hammer and/or the surgical application of brute force and ignorance. To be fair, Bethany didn’t know Adam either.)

“Oh, hey babe,” I said, or rather slurred somewhat. I was clearly more thought than I drunk I was. Or something. “I, uh, didn’t expect you home, so soon.”

If anyone has any suggestion for any string of words I could have possibly said, that could have sounded more appalling at the time - and so obviously, instantly appalling at that - answers on a postcard c/ the publishers of this book you are now reading.

“It'd seem not,” she replied. It wasn't among the most encouraging responses I'd heard in my time.

“Hi,” Lena advanced gamely, all buoyant cheer. “I’m Magdalena… I’m an old friend of Angus… erm, Andrew.”

“Really,” said my fiancee, remarkably restrained. “I’m Bethany, Andrew’s fiancee.”

Rather difficult silence. Wow, that surf’s loud, should go out tomorrow, probably be huge.

“Yeah,” I volunteered unwisely, “I’ve known Lena for years, she used to date Sam McCarthy. My old bestmate, from the band days,” I clarified. Realising, as I sank further into the couch, that I'd never actually mentioned my ‘old best mate’ to her in our best-part-of-two-years together. Bethany wasn’t into what she called ‘loud’ music - she was a B105 girl through and through - and had been completely ignorant about Flange Gasket when we'd first met, which had been absolutely fine by me. To be honest it'd been one of her most attractive assets, other than the obvious, and I'd never really tried too hard to enlighten her, even if it meant enduring her fairly painful choice in music. And even if the contents of her CD collection had provided Lena with much sardonic amusement earlier in the evening. Enrique, Britney, Shakira, Justin, Delta, most of the Idol kiddies - yes folks, it was all there, and it was all (in the words again of my man Mad Mick) ‘arse frosted with more arse’.

“So let me get this straight,” Bethany exhaled primly. “You two are just, what… catching up?”

“Yup,” I said.

“Actually,” Lena corrected suddenly, as though she'd just thought of it (and probably had), “I’m interviewing Ang…drew for an article about his old band.”

“Who’s Angdrew?” I queried.

“Oh just shut up, you... wanker,” Lena giggled, and biffed me. Bethany appeared to wince at the profanity. I was thankful Lena was, in fact, attempting to self-censor; an entire sentence without forceful reference to copulation was a massive fucking achievement in her state. I also recognised through my alcoholic haze that this was going appallingly, hideously, train-wreck badly.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Just a few,” I said truthfully. Bottles, to be completely truthful, but I didn’t go that far. Let’s not get carried away here. Let’s not get carried away with this honesty-in relationships caper. Not this early in the evening. Erm, morning. What was the time again?

Bethany shook her head. “Aren't you working tomorrow?”

“Uh, no... not at this stage, don’t have any classes for Friday. Unless someone pulls up crook of course.”

I hadn’t yet told Lena, but like her, I was also a casual. It must have slipped my mind. Something about making my new career not sound so impressive, I suppose.

“Well, that’s all right then, I guess. Perfectly reasonable behaviour.”

I’m sure she could have been more sarcastic had she really tried, but it would have been a stretch. To be fair, though, I didn’t blame her for being pissed off. As my head cleared, I was beginning to realise just how dodgy the situation looked to an outside observer. And realising that Bethany really was quivering with barely restrained anger, it wasn’t just that I was so drunk she seemed to be vibrating at high frequency.

Lena, though, bolshie as ever, simply laughed it all off. “You wouldn’t like a drink, Bethany?”

“No, sorry,” she said curtly, “I’m working in the morning. And since you two appear to be here for the duration, I’ll leave you to it, shall I?”

She turned and paced back through the kitchen, swinging her gym bag over her shoulder.

“Bethany…”

“Call me when you’re sober,” came the direction, before the door slammed and she beetled off down the street towards her parents’ place, like a yellow Hoover with ideas above its station.

“Hmmm.” It was about all I could come up with.

“Sorry, Angus,” Lena sighed, getting up. “I’ll go too. I’ve screwed things up for you enough.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I replied, making conciliatory hand-wavy movements that probably made perfect sense at the time. “It’s nothing, it’ll sort itself out. Anyway, you’re too fuckin' munted to go anywhere, crash here tonight.”

“Munted,” she giggled, “I haven’t heard that in years, since you guys used to tour with Hayabusa. That’s such a Kiwi thing to say.”

“Well, that’s choice, eh bro.”

Lena groaned at my poor attempt at South Aucklandese.

“You sure everything’s going to be OK? She seems pretty pissed off. For a total fuckin' ice queen... sorry. Sorry.”

“It’ll be fine,” I lied through my teeth.

“You ever do anything like this before to her?”

“Hell no,” I said, which was actually true. “I’ve been the very model of constancy.”

“Fuck me, you are out of practice,” Lena marvelled. “I remember back in the day, you used to pull bastard stunts like this on girls all the time…”