CHAPTER 12
Bradford
Aware that I’m going to have to deal with Jarrod, Bruno graciously drops me back at my apartment after we’ve left Little Bay. I’d much rather stay at Bruno’s; I can barely face going back inside here. Putting one foot in front of the other, I make my way through the front door and along the hall. The place is dark, and as I approach Jarrod’s bedroom, I see the door wide open. Thank God, he’s not home yet.
I don’t want to deal with any of this. Doubling back to the laundry, I stash all of Brendan’s stuff and fill his bowl with food. Leaving him to eat, I make my way to the study. There, I strip out of my clothes, slip on a pair of boxer shorts, collapse onto the sofa bed and drift off.
It must be quite a bit later when I come to. I’ve never been one for naps. The superficial sleep I get is rife with bizarre and uneasy dreams, and I always wake up with my mind in a nasty fog. Lately, though, I’ve taken to having frequent naps with Bruno. These are different. I doze in and out, half-waking to find him close to me, and I cuddle into him and fall back to sleep. With his warm body touching mine, my dreams are still bizarre, but they’re sexy and filled with intense loving overtones. After those naps, I wake up with a hard dick and a smile on my face. Like this afternoon on that riverbank.
Right now, though, I’ve just had that first kind of nap. The horrible one. Struggling to my feet, I decide the only way to deal with it is a long, hot shower. First things first, though; I’m parched.
Feeling my way through the darkness, I pad into the kitchen and switch on the light. The glare cuts right through my eyes and sears into my brain, so I stop a moment to let my shockingly sluggish pupils adjust. I almost wish I hadn't come in here, because Jarrod’s left a trail of half-eaten food over my clean counter and a pile of dirty dishes dumped in the sink.
These days, my reaction is automatic. I could get upset about the fact he’s messed up my tidy kitchen. I could get angry about his flagrant disregard for my feelings, his utter lack of appreciation for anything I do for him. But I’ve learnt that it’s not worth the stress it causes me.
One by one, I pull out all the dishes from the sink and turn on the hot tap. Glancing upwards, I notice my near-naked body reflected in the kitchen window. I don’t want to give the neighbours a show, so I wind down the blind, then get to work on Jarrod’s mess.
As I’m scrubbing, I’m also taking stock of what’s been going on here recently. It’s no wonder I’ve napped twice today; the quality of my sleep has been terrible. Jarrod and I are barely cohabiting. He also doesn’t seem to be doing many nursing shifts at all. And now the weather’s cooler and I’m not running the air conditioner in the study, I can hear people out in the living room at all hours. These people come and go; they don’t stay long. I can hear the rise and fall of their chatter, I can follow the pattern of their tone that signals their departure. Sometimes, when I’m in the kitchen or the living room, there’s a furtive knock at the front door. Jarrod always darts straight down the hall to answer it, and the random person’s brief doorstep visit is always punctuated by a short amount of secretive mumbling.
It’s plainly obvious that Jarrod’s dealing. It’s also clear that he’s well and truly sampling the merchandise. He’s become all gaunt and tetchy. He has facial tics and he sniffs and scratches at himself. Over the course of a few short weeks, I’ve been banished to the spare room of my own apartment and the rest of the place has been turned into a sordid drug den. How the hell did I get to this point? How did I let it happen?
I’m still up to my elbows in suds when the front door opens. I don’t even bother turning around, it’s not like we ever greet each other.
“Here’s your precious fuckin’ parking pass,” Jarrod’s voice snaps. I hear plastic slap and skid on the kitchen counter, but I don’t turn around just yet. I’m too busy taking a deep breath. I know it’s time to have this out.
Wiping my hands on the tea towel I have across my shoulder, I turn round to face the music. Jarrod’s all wired and jumpy, like some kind of aggressive insect looking for a fight. My heart is beginning to thud in my chest, but I can’t back down now. “Why do you hate me so much, Jarrod?”
“Oh, fuck. Here we go, playing the victim. Poor little fucking Braddy ,” Jarrod snorts.
“No. I wanna know. What did I ever do to you to deserve this?” My tone is firm. Harsh. I’m determined.
Jarrod takes a step forward, leering at me. “Isn’t it obvious? You’re pissweak. You’ve got no balls. You’re boring as fuck. You’re always here, you and that bloody dog. And all that fucking singing? I mean, give up already. Nobody’s listening anymore.”
I hold off on my response to let that last bit sink in. He’s gone about as low as he can go. The trouble is, I know he’s right. And this pause of mine is giving him all the validation he needs.
I cannot let him win. Steeling myself, I deliver the line I’ve been dying to voice for months. Years, even. “Why do you stick around then, Jarrod? Why don’t you just leave? There’s nothing here for you anymore.”
Jarrod’s eyes blaze. “No, you can fuck off out of here! I’m not going anywhere.”
And right there, my worst fear is laid out in front of me. I’ll never get rid of him. This is where logic would have me back down, but I’ve got so little left to lose. “This is my flat, Jarrod . You live here by my good grace. And it appears you don’t think you have to pay FUCKING rent anymore!”
The shock on Jarrod’s face at hearing me swear is so brief it may as well have not happened. But I saw it. Straight away, he’s on the attack again, moving another step closer and slapping his hand against the counter. “You miserable penny-pinching little cunt . You’re the one who owes me money.”
I’m so aghast, I actually laugh at this. “How the hell did you come to that conclusion?”
“I should have been getting a Centrelink allowance all this time and YOU never bothered to organise it. So there’s your fucking rent,” he snarls.
I draw air in through my nose, trying to stabilise my voice, but I can’t quite manage to contain the incredulity dripping from every word. “You think you deserve government money for looking after someone with a disability? I’m the one who runs around cleaning up after you !”
Jarrod has no answer to this. He knows it’s true, but he can’t possibly let me get the upper hand. Baring his teeth, he grinds his finger into my breastbone and moves into full belligerent mode. “ I am entitled to the carer’s payment !”
I take a step back. I’m truly worried this might get physical. Bringing my voice down a few decibels, I finally allow myself to point out the obvious. “You don’t care for me, Jarrod. Not in any sense of the word.”
In the blink of an eye, a hand connects so hard with my face that my neck wrenches sideways. I’m not even sure what’s happened. It takes moments for me to realise I’ve been slapped.
“Why the fuck did I bother coming home?” Jarrod yells. “I’m going back to Davo’s.” As I cower against the sink, near-naked, hand pressed against the sting on my cheek, he looks me up and down with a palpable sense of disgust. “And put some fuckin’ clothes on, for God’s sake.”
Jarrod turns away, but that’s all I manage to see. Suddenly the light is out and the kitchen is plunged into darkness. I want to open the window blind, but Jarrod’s still here. I can hear cupboards rattling, then a whole lot of clinking. All of a sudden, there's smashing. One after the other, glass tumblers shatter against the floor. I can hear the tinkling sound of the broken pieces spreading everywhere. I can feel shards hitting my legs. Standing there frozen to the spot, I hold my breath till the smashing stops. Till I hear Jarrod storm down the hall and leave, slamming the front door behind him.
I have no idea what to do. My head is spinning so fast I can’t slow it down long enough to form any kind of logical thought. I’m standing here barefoot in a pitch-black room and no matter where I step I’ll slash my soles on jagged glass.
The window blind. I reach behind me, keeping my feet glued where they are on the floor. Feeling first for the wooden edge of the window frame, I move my hand inside it, groping for the chain pulley attached there. It takes a dozen small tugs till I hear the blind reach the top. But it makes no real difference. All the apartment buildings and trees outside are blocking the moonlight.
The cupboard under the sink. There has to be something in there to help. I slide down slowly onto my haunches, fumbling around to find the door knob. There’s a basket in here where I keep a little dustpan and brush. I feel for the wicker sides, then the handle. I’m trying to pull it closer at an angle behind me while I’m twisting my back and swivelling slightly on the balls of my feet. At last it’s sticking out far enough for me to rifle through its contents, but the bloody brush isn’t there.
I want to scream. I feel like flinging the whole basket across the room, but instead, I slide it back. Patting randomly around the cupboard, I knock a few aerosol cans and bottles over, then my hand lands on bristles. Carefully extracting the brush, I twist my back around again, wincing at the cramp I’ve got from the awkward search.
First, I brush my immediate surroundings. Any direction I can, so long as it’s away from me. Delicately running my palms over the floor, I check it for random stray bits of glass, but I’ve done a thorough job. Now I can lean forward on my knees and brush towards the entryway.
It takes me a while, but I make it to the far side of the kitchen. A wet nose snuffles against me and I instantly want to sob. Brendan’s been waiting for me, keeping guard. I’m so relieved that I forget about switching on the light for a moment while I hug him, nuzzling into his furry neck.
After I’ve put on shoes and returned to clean up all the glass, I go down to the bathroom, strip naked and stare into the mirror. The adrenaline has all but dissipated now. I feel numb. Sickened. I can’t even face the magnitude of what’s just happened, so I don’t. I shower, dry off, then open the bathroom door to find Brendan waiting there pressed against it. He follows me back to the study, touching his wet nose against my leg every now and then, reminding me he’s close by in case I need him. I pull on a t-shirt and boxers, shut the study door and get into bed, calling Brendan to come and lie next to me. He knows it’s one of those occasions right now. He knows how dire things have become, so he scoots further up the bed and lays his head against my body.
“Bradford, do you remember when you were thirty?”
Mum’s voice is quieter than usual, but it startles me nonetheless. She’s perched on the foot of the bed with her hair pulled back and a paintbrush stuck out of it. “I should really be used to you popping up every few weeks by now, shouldn’t I, Mum?”
“Do you remember?” she presses.
I cast my mind back. I was so young, so green. Horny as hell, having great sex. Oh, Jesus, some of those men… I still masturbate over the memories. Shaking my head of those thoughts, I recall how much hope I had for the future. An opera career, a loving relationship—these things were all in front of me. “Yes,” I reply through my distant smile.
“Eighteen years ago, it was. Doesn’t seem that long, does it?” In a quick jump cut, Mum’s right by my side looking down at me. “I was eighteen years older than you are now when I died.” She lets this sink in for a moment, before proceeding in her most gentle of manners. “That could be all the time you have left. Eighteen years, gone in the blink of an eye. Please don’t waste a second of it.” I look at her freakishly crystal-clear image. I haven’t seen anything crystal clear since I was a kid, but it’s like this rule doesn’t apply to my mum. Slowly, she begins to fade. Just before she disappears entirely, I hear her faint last words. “Promise me.”
I promise, Mum. I promise.