Monkey Business (8 page)

I lay in bed at one a.m. staring at the ceiling. When my alarm went off at seven, I was still staring at the ceiling. I got up and left a message on Rosalind's office phone saying that I was sick and wouldn't be coming to work. I sat at my dining table with my laptop and looked up travel agents, scanning the options. I was really just sussing it out. I didn't actually intend to go there. Not really. Not consciously. But when I called the travel agent who ‘specialises in unusual travel', he didn't think going to Saint Sebastian sounded so strange. ‘Adventurous backpackers go there all the time,' he said. He gave me the prices and times, leaving the very next day, and there was something about the way he said, ‘Shall I go ahead and book?' that made me say yes.

I sat in shock while the travel guy ran through the details and I gave him my credit card info, sounding like a robot. He said, ‘You should take malaria tablets.'

After the call, I sat staring out the window, thinking about deadly mosquitoes. I did that for about an hour, and decided to call Lucy. It wouldn't be a pleasant conversation, I knew that, but someone needed to know where I was going. Just in case. Lucy had threatened to tie me up and lock me in her bedroom when I'd suggested I might actually go to Saint Sebastian.

‘It's not that bad, really,' I'd said when I called her the day before to tell her about my meeting with JD. ‘It's got nice beaches.'

‘It's an urban war zone, Erica. The place is run by gangs and corrupt politicians who'd love to sell you to a brothel. That's if you don't get taken by a crocodile or die from malaria first.'

‘People go there for work. Australians live there! And I can take malaria tablets.' I wasn't sure what I could do about the crocs, but I'd worry about that when the time came.

In the end I'd promised to call the Australian government or military office or something instead. But this was a top-secret mission. What the hell was I going to say to some government department? And if it
was
something to do with the government and they happened to know what I was talking about, how would they react? Send some ASIO agent to shut me up?

I dialled Lucy's number. ‘I've done it,' I said, when she answered. ‘I've booked a flight to Saint Sebastian.'

‘You are fucking joking.'

‘I'm just going to suss it out. See if I can find out anything.'

‘Erica —'

‘I'm going, Luce, and the only reason I'm telling you is so someone else knows where I am. Just in case.'

There was a long silence. Then Lucy was crying. ‘You . . . you might get killed.'

‘I won't get killed,' I said, gently. ‘And if I do, you have permission to kill me.'

She gave a brief laugh through her tears. ‘I should come with you,' she said.

‘Ha! You and me together; we'd find him in a flash.' In fact, I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather go to some scary place with, apart from Jack.

Next I called Rosalind again and told her I was having emotional issues and needed a few days off. I said John Degraves had authorised it. Which was a lie, of course, but I knew she wouldn't call Degraves about it in case it was something to do with her. She wanted to know why I was speaking directly to JD about anything and I said it was extremely personal. I knew how much she'd hate that, and that made me feel slightly better about everything else.So now I had less than twenty-four hours to pack a bag, organise a babysitter for Axle, and get myself to the airport. I called my mother. I really would have liked to take a Valium before doing that, but I didn't have time.

‘Hello, dear,' she said. ‘Did you go to confession? I can make arrangements with Father.'

‘Actually, Mum, I was hoping you could look after Axle for me.' I realised then that I needed to brighten my tone. ‘I'm going on a holiday!'

‘Where are you going?'

‘Bali. I'm meeting Jack there.'

I cringed. In my worry about Jack and having to lie to my mother again – actually, that didn't bother me so much – I forgot how Mum was likely to react to my having an unchaperoned holiday with my supposed boyfriend.

There was the expected silence, and after a few moments, she said, ‘Only hussies go on holiday with men who aren't their husbands.'

‘Maybe in the fifties, Mum. Not these days.'

More silence.

I said, by way of distraction, ‘I was thinking I could get you a nice present for Mother's Day while I'm there.'

‘What did you have in mind?' She sounded mildly friendlier.

‘Oh, I thought something locally made. Something special that Mary or Janice wouldn't have.'

Bingo.

‘Really? Now that would be nice. Something special from Bali,' she mused, and added briskly, ‘Well, I suppose you'll have separate rooms.'

‘Of course, Mum.' Oh my God. If I were really meeting Jack in Bali, he'd be lucky to get to a room before I tore his clothes off.

‘And you can go to confession when you come back.'

‘When I come back.' When hell freezes over.

‘And, Erica, it might be wise to get some kind of commitment from Jack while you're there.'

‘Good idea.'

‘He'll be more likely to propose in a romantic environment like Bali.'

‘Without a doubt.'

We hung up, still friends, and I stuffed my backpack with walking shoes and hiking clothes. I didn't want to end up like Kathleen Turner, trudging through a jungle with nothing but high heels and a wheelie suitcase. From my minimal research I knew there was civilisation in Saint Sebastian. Shops even. But there was jungle too – lots of it. And I couldn't help but imagine Jack in camouflage, peering through giant palms fronds with black paint on his face.

I tipped my dirty-clothes basket upside-down on my bed in case there was something I needed to wash and pack. But something else fell out that I'd forgotten about. My gun. The gun Jack had given me in case I needed to protect myself from knife-wielding bandits in my bedroom. I'd never used it except once at the shooting range, where Jack had told me I was a natural. Should I pack my illegal handgun and hope no one noticed? I was on a roll, after all. Taking unlimited, unauthorised leave from work, heading for a dangerous country, lying to everyone – why not add another award-winning stupid decision to the list?

‘Idiot,' I muttered and threw it back in the basket.

I packed my toiletries, sunscreen, some basic first-aid stuff and a compass that came for free with a pair of hiking pants. I picked up the framed photo of Jack and me. It was taken at a dinner party I hosted last year to introduce my so-called new boyfriend to my mates. For the photo we'd leaned towards each other until we were cheek to cheek. Jack was so relaxed, so comfortable that evening. It was the first time he kissed me – but only because I made him do it. He's a good actor. Looking at that photo, anyone would think we were a regular couple. I chucked the pic in my bag. Thought about what else I could possibly need. Knives? Hand grenades? Nail scissors and an emery board, definitely. I made a mental note to buy mozzie repellent at the airport – tropical strength. Then I emptied everything from my regular handbag into a black leather one that doubled as a small backpack. And the whole time I was packing, I felt like throwing up.

First thing on Wednesday I called Kate and asked if I could pop by to see her. It was a tough decision because Kate is Joe's girlfriend – well, Jack and I reckon she is but they don't say and Jack seems to think it's none of my business, so I have to figure out what they're up to by being a stickybeak. Anyway, I didn't know what she knew about the boys' mission, but Kate is also the Team's doctor, and now my doctor, and it made sense that I got my malaria tablets from her. When I told her I was going to meet up with Jack she'd asked quietly, ‘Do you know where they are?' I'd hesitated before saying I did and she said yes, she did too, that she'd had a call from Joe but hadn't been able to reach him since. Then she'd started crying. I told her I was going to try to help Joe find Jack and she said she was terrified for them both. And now me. She could understand why I wanted to go (because Jack is my boyfriend even though Jack doesn't seem to be aware of that fact), but she didn't want me to because Saint Sebastian was such a dangerous place, she said.

After I left Kate's, I sent Jack and Joe a text saying that I was coming, and what time I arrived, but in my heart I knew they wouldn't see those messages.

After three hours sweating my face off at Darwin airport, my hair was as frizzed out as it could possibly be. Except for the parts that were glued to my face and neck. Every time I unstuck my thighs from the hard plastic seat they made a loud sucking noise.

Finally there was an announcement that all flights were cancelled until tomorrow due to the baggage-handlers' strike. The crowd made a collective groan. I took my place in line to find out what I needed to do, and after another hour I was told that I'd been lucky to get out of Melbourne. I didn't know if ‘luck' was the right word when I could have been sitting in a pleasant eighteen degrees with zero humidity. At home. In front of the telly.

I took my $12.50 accommodation voucher and caught a bus to the city. I'd checked accommodation options on my phone. Hotels in Darwin were really expensive. I sat behind the bus driver and asked him about a cheap place to stay. El Cheapo Backpackers in the centre of town, he told me. I thought of the five-star hotel I'd stayed at in Sydney with Jack, the first time we'd made love. And I thought of Jack in bed. In the shower. Naked. Kissing my neck. Moaning softly as he pulled me closer. Running his hands over my wet back and down, down, down . . . I sighed, really loudly, and the driver looked at me in the mirror. I know the Sydney trip had mostly been about attempted bombings, murder, kidnapping, etc., but it had been so romantic and lovely in that big suite.

The bus drove along a road that was lined on one side with nice hotels and on the other with a long, green park that overlooked the ocean. I wondered if there were any crocodiles down there, in the sea, and if they ever ventured up from the water and across the park and into the hotel swimming pools.

We kept stopping at those nice hotels where porters rushed to help with luggage and the driver smiled and waved. Then everyone was off the bus except me. Eventually we came to the bus terminal in the middle of town and the driver pointed towards a bunch of buildings.

‘Go through there. The hostel is on the right,' he said. No helping with luggage. And no smiling and waving.

I dumped my stuff in the dorm room. I had no intention of hanging around the backpackers, but what to do? If Joe had gotten my text he might have gone to Seni airport to meet me. And if so, he would have discovered I wasn't coming until tomorrow. I had no idea how to contact him. He'd be there to meet me tomorrow, for sure. The fact that he hadn't returned my text was something I relegated to the denial department. I sent another text, just in case.

I showered, changed and headed out in search of a bar or pub that might give me icy cold beer. The mirror in my room confirmed my suspicions about my hair. The parts that weren't stuck to my face or frizzing out lay heavily against my back, causing a patch of sweat there.

The hostel was in the main street, where all the action was. Noisy bars, and tanned people wearing bright colours and thongs spilled out of those bars. But I didn't feel like action, of course not. So I walked away, down side streets and between buildings, and found I was on the Esplanade, which I discovered was the name of the road with the nice hotels and park. I walked across the park, drawn to the sea, glancing around for crocodiles. There was a footpath that skirted the park, following the coastline, and a steep slope of treed terrain that ran down from the path to the water's edge. As I walked, I could see through the trees and across the ocean, catching glimpses of distant land. Maybe it was East Timor or even Saint Sebastian? I felt so close to danger, here in Darwin – and I didn't mean the crocodiles. Just there across the water were countries with fighting and places that people wanted to risk their lives to escape from. Coming on rickety old boats, packed in like sardines. Was Jack just there? Across that sea?

I walked a bit further to a lookout point – a high one with a better view – where a circle of Aboriginal people sat. I climbed the steps warily, wondering if I was intruding, and nodded hello. One guy acknowledged me with a tilt of his beer can. The other three ignored me, their heads turned away, and I couldn't really blame them. If anyone had a right to have an issue with boat people, it was them.

I said to the man with the beer, ‘Do you know what land that is?' I pointed.

He glanced at the others. One looked at me and rolled her eyes. ‘That's Australia,' he said.

‘Oh, I thought it was another country.'

They all laughed. ‘Nah, that's Port Darwin, that sea.' He pointed to the right. ‘Saint Sebastian's that way.'

‘Okay, thank you.' I left them, wondering how the hell he knew I was looking for Saint Sebastian.

I headed back to town, thinking about that can of beer and how nice it'd be to have one. As I walked I pulled my hair up, twirled it into a bun and held it on top of my head. I fanned my neck. Walking down the street, I peered in shop windows, thinking about a gift for Mum. It would have to be something tropical. Something that looked like it came from Bali. Something that Mary or Janice wouldn't have. I continued down an arcade and stopped in front of a hairdressing salon.

‘That's it,' I said to my reflection. ‘I can't stand it.' I peered at the price list stuck to the door. I could get a cut – maybe even two or three inches off – for just thirty-five dollars. If Darwin was this humid, Saint Sebastian would be worse, for sure.

A face appeared in front of me on the other side of the glass door.
Erica Jewell?
it mouthed. I stared at the woman. Did I know her? She was holding a pair of scissors, snipping them in the air, a questioning look on her face. The door opened.

‘Erica Jewell! Are you coming in or not?'

‘Yvonne? Oh my God!' I would never have recognised her, but I knew that distinctive, husky voice instantly. My old university friend's hair used to be identical to mine and people thought we were related. But now hers was short and choppy, and pretty sexy actually. She looked sensational in fact, dressed in expensive-looking jeans and a singlet top, and strappy gold sandals. At uni she'd never worn make-up or waxed, but now she was fully made up and her armpits appeared to be hair-free. I couldn't stop looking at her, my mouth hanging open.

She laughed. ‘I'm surprised you recognised me.'

‘I didn't! Well, your voice . . . Do you work here?' I glanced past her into the salon.

‘This is my business. Do you want to come in? I'm nearly finished here.'

‘Oh, well, I was just going to find a pub or something.'

‘Hey, how about I meet you for a drink?' She pointed towards the main street. ‘There's a place just a few doors down. I'll only be twenty minutes or so.'

‘Okay. Well, I'll see you then.'

I walked away, thinking how weird it was, Yvonne being a hairdresser, owning her own salon. I most definitely did not want Yvonne cutting my hair. Back at university I was always a bit scared of her and the things she did. Which was a lot of drugs, lots of activist-type stuff, sex with lots of people (gender not an issue) and some jail time for accidentally nearly killing a girl in a bar fight. She'd fancied me at one stage and told me so. I'd giggled and said something ridiculous because I was embarrassed and terrified. She didn't try again. And now she looked like Halle Berry.

I found the place Yvonne had mentioned, sat inside at the bar away from everyone else, and ordered a pint of beer. By the time Yvonne walked in, I'd finished that beer and she wanted to buy me another.

‘Let's have champagne,' she said. ‘Celebrate!' Yvonne and champagne seemed so wrong.

‘Actually, I'm not good with champagne . . . maybe just one.'

Yvonne ordered. ‘It's good to see you, Ruby,' she said. ‘Remember we used to call you that?'

Vaguely. Something to do with my surname. ‘Some people still do,' I lied.

She sat on the stool next to me. ‘So, Ruby, what are you doing in Darwin?'

Three hours later, I was still sitting on that stool, but now my head was resting on the bar next to several empty shot glasses. I would have been able to see all the way to the end of the bar if Yvonne's head wasn't in the way. She was resting her chin on her crossed arms. She was a good listener.

‘And,' I said, ‘I think he really luffs me.'

‘He's an idiot if he doesn't,' said Yvonne.

I reached out and stroked her hair. ‘I luff your hair. I want your hair.' I sighed. ‘You used to luff me, Vonny.'

‘I did indeed. Come on, Ruby, I can't leave you here with this lot.'

I peered through blurred vision at all the backpackers; they were making a lot of noise. There was one who was pretty cute.

‘Let's get you home,' said Yvonne.

I thought she sounded a bit drunk. I hoped she'd be all right.