Tom Houghton by Todd Alexander Page A

to even further dizziness. Petulant face-pulling. Rejection. Dry-humping the nineteen-year-old – some laughs, some horror. Crowd now dwindling.
    Third gear – flavoured-vodka shots and a line of someone’s cocaine. Scraping residue together from the cistern lid to form another crude line. More blurriness. Fourth gear. Rejection (again). Storming out. New bar, alone, make friends. Next bar. Refused entry, smart-arse abuse. Single direct punch to the nose. Blood, too much of it. Deep voices calling out, ‘Faggot.’ Another punch to the face. Crying, shouts of legal action. Sit with street people and drink from their beer bottle. Awake.
    I sent a text to Victor. Did I murder anyone?
    Three agonising minutes before he responded. Your own dignity.
    Oh dear god. Does everyone hate me?
    No sweetie, you were in fine form, we all love you, nice work on the 19YO, cradle-snatching bitch whore.
    And Damon?
    And his lack of response told me what I already knew.
    I could not contemplate going on stage for the matinee and thought of all possible ways I could get out of it. How hard was it to break a bone? Would the black eye be sufficient? It was likely Victor would not want it covered with make-up, so that was not going to work. Could I step in front of a slow-moving car? I could pretend Lana had had another of her turns, surely they’d excuse me then. No one would care about one matinee missed, give the understudies (Damon!) a chance. I was due at the theatre at eleven, my phone told me it was seven. Twice between the sheets, that’s what Lana always said. If I could just will myself to fall back asleep again I would feel better upon a second waking. But I was too alert for that to work. I pulled on my swimming trunks, grabbed a towel and went downstairs (wincing at every step) and hailed a taxi to take me to Redleaf. The water was cold and rejuvenating, the bevy of hot bodies surrounding me sent me to the toilets for relief. Head aching less, definitely so, I forced down a banana Paddle Pop and walked my way back to the bedsit. I stripped, climbed into bed and set my alarm for ten fifteen. I couldn’t let Victor down.
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    It was undoubtedly the worst performance of my career. The company treatment of its star was split fifty-fifty – half avoiding all but the most necessary contact, the others chuckling and nodding in that knowing little way. I kept missing my marks, forcing the lighting guy to work double time to anticipate where next I would be. At interval I made myself vomit, sent out for a sausage roll and by the second act was able to put in more than the barest effort. No sign of Damon or Victor, but by some dumb luck on this particular Sunday there was no evening performance due to a television event that had Australians locked inside safely by six. No one asked how I was feeling; there were no bravos at the end of the day.
    Turner said: ‘I lowered the wattage for you, but fuck you, I wanted to make you fry after last night. You owe me one.’ I had no idea what he was talking about but thought it highly likely that at some point I’d made a move on him, despite his straightness.
    On my walk home I pulled out my mobile phone like it was a hand grenade and dared hit Damon’s name. It went through to voicemail, one of those infuriating conversions to text that force you to speak like you’re teaching English to a fresh refugee.
    I am so sorry. I am a dickhead. I hope we are still friends. Call me.
    I was still seeing the world through someone else’s eyes. Hair of the dog, that’s what else Lana always says, so I grabbed a six-pack from the bottle shop and a burger from Hungry Jack’s.
    â€˜Are you feeling better?’ the girl behind the counter asked and I assumed she had me confused with someone else, or perhaps was referring to my black eye but it wasn’t until I got home and threw the burger packaging into my bin that I