and why did they linger? They irritated her, like something
stuck on her shoe. She still hadn’t found her mother’s embroidery, but an obsolete printer was here.
She was happy to find her university textbooks from Psychology 1, and an old DSM . Year after year, she had intended to go back and finish her degree, abandoned with her first pregnancy;
year after year she had been too tired and distracted.
The most unbelievable relic was probably the plaster cast from Leon’s broken leg, crumbling, grotesque, the yellow insides like an old man’s skin. She remembered Leon at fourteen,
limping down the path behind Ross, sports bag jerking, face wracked with pain. ‘Leon went down in the scrum,’ Ross announced, with an undertone of embarrassment.
Marie went out to the patio where Leon was slumped on the couch, leg trembling with Parkinsonian fury. She drove him to Dr Cayley’s and, while the leg was being set, rang home from the Red
Phone in the corridor. ‘It’s broken in three places. Why didn’t you take him to the doctor?’
‘He said he was alright.’
‘Of course he did. He’s a teenage boy.’
‘He won’t let me near him.’
‘You were watching him play, weren’t you?’
‘I’m trying to get dinner here for two children, Marie.’
‘I can’t imagine how hard that must be.’
Ross’s sigh billowed through the phone, making her hair stand on end. ‘O’Sullivan rang,’ he minced. ‘Tell Leon he wants to know how he is.’
‘Please, Ross.’
‘I don’t think blokes like that should be allowed to coach football,’ his voice rose. ‘I’m going to ring the school about this.’
Marie hung up and paced the corridor. She hated her husband for his hatred, and her son for his betrayal. She hated herself for having failed so spectacularly. She took Leon to Pizza Hut on the
way home, where he ordered a Supreme with the lot. ‘O’Sullivan rang,’ she said, watching his face. Leon ate his pizza without looking up. On arriving home, he disappeared into his
room for the next four years.
He covered the plaster cast with graffiti of his favourite bands. The names were still legible. Guns N’ Roses. Red Hot Chili Peppers. The Doors, The Cure. Marie put the cast back into the
carton containing Leon’s old magazines, the topmost one showing a Burt Reynolds lookalike with a thick moustache, a strappy leather thing on his bare torso.
‘Help me, Mopoke,’ she groaned to the cat. She carried the carton to the garage, the gay porn glowing like a fresh wound in her mind. Of course it was her who had saved these things,
including that copy of Colt . She remembered the hot shame when first coming across it secreted behind Leon’s desk after he moved out. It had altered her fantasy life forever, and these
shaggy-haired, smooth-skinned men of the 1980s rushed back now like old lovers. She took the Colt up to her room with the pile of National Geographic and the psychology books.
The flames took two four-hour sessions to complete: the first session the outline and darker reds; the second the oranges, yellows and touch-ups. Marie lay back watching Rhys
carve curves into her belly. On the wall was a sign saying DON’T MOVE KEEP STILL , next to it metal shelving crammed with books. Sometimes Marie shut her eyes against the pain. There
was the tattoo whirr, the tear of paper towels, occasional voices. Below the window a boom box transmitted community radio, crossing every two hours to another language or genre. Marie lay there
not wanting translation, letting the emotion of the music wash through her as the needles injected dye into her flesh. She came away from these sessions purged and exhilarated. By the second hour
the pain had alchemised and she reclined peacefully, eyes opening every now and then to see Rhys’s intense face below.
‘Fan tas tic skin. Soaking it up. You were born to be tattooed, Marie.’
Marie grimaced as Rhys wiped the seeping tattoo.
‘Breathe.’ Rhys switched
stuck on her shoe. She still hadn’t found her mother’s embroidery, but an obsolete printer was here.
She was happy to find her university textbooks from Psychology 1, and an old DSM . Year after year, she had intended to go back and finish her degree, abandoned with her first pregnancy;
year after year she had been too tired and distracted.
The most unbelievable relic was probably the plaster cast from Leon’s broken leg, crumbling, grotesque, the yellow insides like an old man’s skin. She remembered Leon at fourteen,
limping down the path behind Ross, sports bag jerking, face wracked with pain. ‘Leon went down in the scrum,’ Ross announced, with an undertone of embarrassment.
Marie went out to the patio where Leon was slumped on the couch, leg trembling with Parkinsonian fury. She drove him to Dr Cayley’s and, while the leg was being set, rang home from the Red
Phone in the corridor. ‘It’s broken in three places. Why didn’t you take him to the doctor?’
‘He said he was alright.’
‘Of course he did. He’s a teenage boy.’
‘He won’t let me near him.’
‘You were watching him play, weren’t you?’
‘I’m trying to get dinner here for two children, Marie.’
‘I can’t imagine how hard that must be.’
Ross’s sigh billowed through the phone, making her hair stand on end. ‘O’Sullivan rang,’ he minced. ‘Tell Leon he wants to know how he is.’
‘Please, Ross.’
‘I don’t think blokes like that should be allowed to coach football,’ his voice rose. ‘I’m going to ring the school about this.’
Marie hung up and paced the corridor. She hated her husband for his hatred, and her son for his betrayal. She hated herself for having failed so spectacularly. She took Leon to Pizza Hut on the
way home, where he ordered a Supreme with the lot. ‘O’Sullivan rang,’ she said, watching his face. Leon ate his pizza without looking up. On arriving home, he disappeared into his
room for the next four years.
He covered the plaster cast with graffiti of his favourite bands. The names were still legible. Guns N’ Roses. Red Hot Chili Peppers. The Doors, The Cure. Marie put the cast back into the
carton containing Leon’s old magazines, the topmost one showing a Burt Reynolds lookalike with a thick moustache, a strappy leather thing on his bare torso.
‘Help me, Mopoke,’ she groaned to the cat. She carried the carton to the garage, the gay porn glowing like a fresh wound in her mind. Of course it was her who had saved these things,
including that copy of Colt . She remembered the hot shame when first coming across it secreted behind Leon’s desk after he moved out. It had altered her fantasy life forever, and these
shaggy-haired, smooth-skinned men of the 1980s rushed back now like old lovers. She took the Colt up to her room with the pile of National Geographic and the psychology books.
The flames took two four-hour sessions to complete: the first session the outline and darker reds; the second the oranges, yellows and touch-ups. Marie lay back watching Rhys
carve curves into her belly. On the wall was a sign saying DON’T MOVE KEEP STILL , next to it metal shelving crammed with books. Sometimes Marie shut her eyes against the pain. There
was the tattoo whirr, the tear of paper towels, occasional voices. Below the window a boom box transmitted community radio, crossing every two hours to another language or genre. Marie lay there
not wanting translation, letting the emotion of the music wash through her as the needles injected dye into her flesh. She came away from these sessions purged and exhilarated. By the second hour
the pain had alchemised and she reclined peacefully, eyes opening every now and then to see Rhys’s intense face below.
‘Fan tas tic skin. Soaking it up. You were born to be tattooed, Marie.’
Marie grimaced as Rhys wiped the seeping tattoo.
‘Breathe.’ Rhys switched
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