hospitality industry: it reeked of desperation.
At the motel reception, which was not so much about being received as it was about being sussed out by the guy who ran the joint, Mike paid in full, as per The Policy. The guy took his cash and said quietly, âNeed anything else?â
Mike took a couple of moments to realise what he meant. The manager was smirking; he knew what Mike was. Sweat erupted at his hairline. It was so easy. Would be so easy.
The sudden cool air outside that reception building had the effect of an icebath on him, thank god. He shook his head like a dog shaking off water after a swim, shook the shitheadâs smirk out of him.
Tomorrow at the hospital in Margaret River, Mike had an appointment to meet his new nurse. Some specialist in relapse prevention, his GP reckoned.
Sheâd wanna be a specialist for this hard case
, Mike thought darkly. Would she be nice, he thought, would she be like Annemarie? He couldnât handle some tutting matronly woman frowning at him every time hehad to down his sickly dose. Wait and see, he said to himself. No point jumping to conclusions, just wait and see.
The bed sagged in the middle. Mike sat on the orange candlewick cover. Tiny TV, humming bar fridge. He pressed on the telly â Channel Two was showing one of the
Carry On
movies. Unbelievable that they continued to repeat them, unbelievable that he found himself laughing. No: chuckling â dirtily. Boobs and bums and scotch and nurses and stethoscopes. All very Benny Hill.
The bar fridge didnât have anything in it, but thatâs what you got for thirty-five bucks. He dug around in his bag and pulled out a bottle of vodka. Surprise, surprise. From one addiction to another. At least this one you could do with family and friends.
21
By the time Rosie was pelting along Calgan Road in the Woody it was nearly midnight. Apparently, staff drinks after the nightshift were a condition of employment, particularly when the boss had gone home early. It was a good twenty-five minute drive back to Greys Bay, and she pushed it up to 110. The black shapes of trees kept the curve of the road ahead. Moonlight eked through the break at the sky, where the canopy, separated by the snaking bitumen below, did not quite meet.
Rosie looked out for roos and other cars, pressed the radio button to the sound of Ted Bull â silly old coot, but she liked him â and tried to wind down from her evening. She hoped Cray would still be up, but she wasnât counting on it. He liked his sleep, did Cray. Didnât appreciate late-night disturbances or early-morning phone calls, even from well-meaning relatives (especially from well-meaning relatives).
Hopefully heâll have left the light on for me
, she thought.
God, that sounded depressing, like a line out of some old song on the Ted Bull show.
Rosie stood in the garden overlooking the oceanâs midnight blue, its creamy hem reaching across the bay. She breathed in the moist, bush-seasoned air. It was so quiet after the radio. Thick quietness. No urban sounds in the distance, no traffic near or far. No voices, even. Just the ticking engine cooling.
Hearing the silence, listening to the lack of sound, almost made her panicky. Greys Bay was remote. No, she corrected: peaceful. Both, she compromised.
The kitchen light was on and Cray had left her a plate offood with foil tucked around it, and an âinstructionâ about going outside before she went to bed. I already have, she murmured, looking towards the blackness of their bedroom. Cray had this thing about outside: he went out and breathed deeply a few times every night before he went to bed, even when theyâd lived in Freo. In through the nose, out through the mouth. This place must be fresh air heaven to him, Rosie thought, imagining him out there on the balcony, breathing, listening to the surf, gauging the wind for tomorrowâs conditions.
She didnât really want to eat now, at
At the motel reception, which was not so much about being received as it was about being sussed out by the guy who ran the joint, Mike paid in full, as per The Policy. The guy took his cash and said quietly, âNeed anything else?â
Mike took a couple of moments to realise what he meant. The manager was smirking; he knew what Mike was. Sweat erupted at his hairline. It was so easy. Would be so easy.
The sudden cool air outside that reception building had the effect of an icebath on him, thank god. He shook his head like a dog shaking off water after a swim, shook the shitheadâs smirk out of him.
Tomorrow at the hospital in Margaret River, Mike had an appointment to meet his new nurse. Some specialist in relapse prevention, his GP reckoned.
Sheâd wanna be a specialist for this hard case
, Mike thought darkly. Would she be nice, he thought, would she be like Annemarie? He couldnât handle some tutting matronly woman frowning at him every time hehad to down his sickly dose. Wait and see, he said to himself. No point jumping to conclusions, just wait and see.
The bed sagged in the middle. Mike sat on the orange candlewick cover. Tiny TV, humming bar fridge. He pressed on the telly â Channel Two was showing one of the
Carry On
movies. Unbelievable that they continued to repeat them, unbelievable that he found himself laughing. No: chuckling â dirtily. Boobs and bums and scotch and nurses and stethoscopes. All very Benny Hill.
The bar fridge didnât have anything in it, but thatâs what you got for thirty-five bucks. He dug around in his bag and pulled out a bottle of vodka. Surprise, surprise. From one addiction to another. At least this one you could do with family and friends.
21
By the time Rosie was pelting along Calgan Road in the Woody it was nearly midnight. Apparently, staff drinks after the nightshift were a condition of employment, particularly when the boss had gone home early. It was a good twenty-five minute drive back to Greys Bay, and she pushed it up to 110. The black shapes of trees kept the curve of the road ahead. Moonlight eked through the break at the sky, where the canopy, separated by the snaking bitumen below, did not quite meet.
Rosie looked out for roos and other cars, pressed the radio button to the sound of Ted Bull â silly old coot, but she liked him â and tried to wind down from her evening. She hoped Cray would still be up, but she wasnât counting on it. He liked his sleep, did Cray. Didnât appreciate late-night disturbances or early-morning phone calls, even from well-meaning relatives (especially from well-meaning relatives).
Hopefully heâll have left the light on for me
, she thought.
God, that sounded depressing, like a line out of some old song on the Ted Bull show.
Rosie stood in the garden overlooking the oceanâs midnight blue, its creamy hem reaching across the bay. She breathed in the moist, bush-seasoned air. It was so quiet after the radio. Thick quietness. No urban sounds in the distance, no traffic near or far. No voices, even. Just the ticking engine cooling.
Hearing the silence, listening to the lack of sound, almost made her panicky. Greys Bay was remote. No, she corrected: peaceful. Both, she compromised.
The kitchen light was on and Cray had left her a plate offood with foil tucked around it, and an âinstructionâ about going outside before she went to bed. I already have, she murmured, looking towards the blackness of their bedroom. Cray had this thing about outside: he went out and breathed deeply a few times every night before he went to bed, even when theyâd lived in Freo. In through the nose, out through the mouth. This place must be fresh air heaven to him, Rosie thought, imagining him out there on the balcony, breathing, listening to the surf, gauging the wind for tomorrowâs conditions.
She didnât really want to eat now, at
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