The Damaged: A Sydney Story

© Copyright 2012 Rob Kennedy.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction, all names and characters are products of the author’s imagination.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-2696-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-2697-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-2698-1 (e)

Trafford rev. 07/18/2012

TFSG-logo_BWFC.psd www.traffordpublishing.com.sg

Singapore

toll-free: 800 101 2656 (Singapore)

Fax: 800 101 2656 (Singapore)

This book is dedicated to the homeless people of Sydney

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

CHAPTER ONE

Her world was raw and fast. She was more alive than anyone could ever imagine. She filled my life with the wildest days and conversations. She was a host of people who’d lived a vast and exciting existence and a blend of poetically charged images. A life of the most heartfelt and subtle music, but always, a life on a knife—edge—I helped destroy her.

Her father named her Gale. The first time I asked why the odd spelling, she said she was like a windstorm, a cyclone that could be violent and destructive. I later found out the real reason. Gale’s father was an artist, a self-taught man. His education constricted by his love of the arts, he never learned to spell correctly. But he knew how to spell her name, like a strong wind, like a gale.

She was born on a tempestuous day that mirrored her existence. On the day of her birth, her father rushed off to the registry to place her name among the living. The clerk smiled as he wrote it out, but said nothing about the spelling—she loved it too, she understood.

The first time I saw Gale, she was rushing across Park Street, in the centre of Sydney. Screaming out the most passionate and moving words. I, like most, watched from my detached view, too scared to get within her reach. I stood and watched her, fascinated. Her words were not like the ones coming from other homeless people. Gale never begged for money; she never accosted anyone; she never swore at you. She yelled out her words as she marched past you. But she looked at you; she looked through you, with her eyes and with her words.

I lived in the centre of Sydney for fifteen years. Only in my last two months there, did I get to know Gale.

Her favourite spot was outside Woolworths in Park Street. It was a part-time home to many homeless people. The shop barely closed. Thousands of customers rushing in and out every hour; passing her, looking down at her. Gale never begged for money, and she never spoke when she sat there. It was all in her rhythm: when the movement of her body got to a certain speed, then, she started to blast out her words. You could hear her coming from across the street. It wasn’t the volume of her words, but what she said. It was mesmerising to hear such passionate words yelled out so loud. Most times, there seemed to be little rhyme and reason to her verbal onslaught. But on the odd occasion a single poignant word or two, she yelled out, those cut you in half. Where, hate this, love what? These were the things she was thinking. Gale’s words—they came at you and pushed you out of your unconscious existence.

It took me months to rake up the courage and approach her. That first time, it was like standing in the path of a speeding train, getting in its way and not moving. Her eyes looked directly into mine. There was no use trying to approach her while she was sitting down; you could tell she wasn’t interested in anything or anyone. She was just resting her body, and most likely her voice too.

It was when she was taking those long steps, and when she was madly telling the world of her strange and beautiful place; it was only then that I had agreed with myself to approach her.

That day, we headed towards each other. I wasn’t getting out of her way, not this time. I don’t think she saw me until I was right in her face. Alarmed at what I was doing, she changed direction. So did I, until we ran into each other, she was never going to stop. We hit, she curled around me and just kept screaming at me, looking at me, directing her flowing words at me, into me.

‘‘What’s it for? Where’s my life?’

I was speechless, confused, I thought maybe she’d attack me. We stood two meters apart and her volley of words almost filled my eyes with tears. But I resisted.

‘Sorry—hello.’ She went on raving, regardless. ‘I’m sorry I hit you. My name’s Daniel. I’ve seen you around.’ She stopped. ‘Are you a poet?’ I asked. She seemed confused, like she had never heard that word before. ‘Do you live around here?’ I just kept asking things, anything I could think of so she wouldn’t walk away.

‘I like what you say, is it your poetry?’

‘It’s not poetry,’ she snapped back.

‘It sounds like poetry.’

‘It’s me,’ she said, in a much quieter voice. ‘I can’t stop it. No one hears me anyway.’

‘I’ve heard you many times. I’ve been listening to you for a while. I’ve seen you before, sitting outside Woollies. You don’t say a word there.’

‘I’m resting; I don’t want to be disturbed.’

‘Sorry, I’ll leave you alone.’ I started to walk off.

‘Not now,’ she implored. ‘When I’m sitting down, I don’t want to talk to anyone or say anything; I can’t think of anything to say there.’

I wanted to keep her talking. ‘I’m just off to get some lunch, do you want to come with me?’

‘I ate.’ She looked away for a moment. ‘I had dinner and it was good.’

‘How about a coffee?’

‘I don’t drink coffee, I only drink water, and I don’t drink booze. Only water!’ She was starting to start again.

‘Can we talk?’

‘Why?’ She looked at me with one eye.

‘What’s your name?’

‘My name is Gale. Like a storm, like a strong wind. That’s what I am. I’m strong. My father gave me that name.’

‘That’s fantastic. I love your name.’ I wanted to say something, anything. ‘Have you got any brothers or sisters?’

‘Two sisters. Two lovely, lovely sisters,’ she replied, as she spun round on the spot. I felt lost.

‘Where’s your sisters Gale?’ She stopped.

‘In Queensland. They’re married. My oldest sister has two children. I met them once, when I was in Queensland.’ She started spinning again.

‘How about we go sit down, over there on that seat,’ I said.

‘I don’t like sitting on seats. I only like the ground and I don’t want to sit now. I have to go somewhere.’ She started to walk away.

‘Can I come with you?’

‘Why?’ There was that eye again.

‘I like you; I like your words,’ I didn’t know what else to say.

‘What words? Which ones?’

‘All of them, they’re so strong. They’re full of life and passion. Why do you say them?’

‘It’s just what I say, it’s only meant for me. It’s not for you or anyone else.’

‘You should write them down,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘They’re beautiful. I think other people would like to hear them. Other people might pay to read them.’ Her eyes widened.

‘For what, to hear me talk? That’s stupid—they’re just words. Why would anyone pay to hear my words?’ She seemed genuinely perplexed.

‘They pay people to write in newspapers and books,’ I said.

‘Newspapers, they’re only good for keeping me warm. I don’t want to read them. I can read, but I don’t read them. It’s all the same, talk and ads. I don’t want to read that.’

‘But your words are different,’ I persisted, ‘they’re like poetry and songs, the words fit together so well. You say them with such passion, they all make sense. Have you ever written anything down?’

‘Course I have, what do you think I am?’ She looked offended.

‘I mean anything that I have heard you say out here, while you’re walking around.’

‘Nope, don’t write that down. What’s the point? Just words.’

‘Gale, they’re so much more than words. I know. I study words.’

‘You study words?’

‘Well I write things, stories and articles. You have to study words to write properly.’

‘Where’s your words come from?’ Her interest grew.

‘Well I make them up, I research them. I’ve written books and magazines. I can show you some if you like. I can read them to you.’

‘What are they about?’

‘Well, they’re about like what you talk about—life and love. I also write about art and just normal life. Sometimes day-to-day things, sometimes about things I make up.’ I was surprised how coy I felt, blurting it out like that. I looked at my feet and kicked at a stone.

‘I make up things too!’ She smiled a wide smile.

‘I know, I’ve heard you.’

‘Where are your books?’

‘They’re in my place, in that building just over there.’ I was feeling braver now. ‘If you want to come up, I can show you my book. I could read you a story that I won a prize for. I got two thousand dollars for writing it.’

‘Two thousand dollars!’ She seemed amazed at the amount. ‘What did you do with the money?’

‘I bought a new computer.’

‘Ha, I would have bought something else,’ she laughed.

‘But I use the computer to write stories on.’

‘I use my head.’ I felt like a fraud. She seemed to sense that.

‘OK, let’s go and see your books.’

‘All right. Do you want a cup of tea when we get there?’

‘I only drink water.’ I looked at her curiously. Then she asked. ‘What sort of tea?’

‘I’ve got plain black tea, Chinese tea, herbal tea and tea with flowers in it.’ She smiled at that.

We walked down the street towards my building. ‘My mother drinks tea, before, when I was home.’

‘Was that in Queensland?’ I felt she was starting to open up and I wanted to know more.

‘Yes, in Queensland.’

‘With your sisters?’

‘No, our home. Not with my sisters.’

We crossed the road to my building. ‘OK, here’s my place,’ I said. ‘I live on the twenty-sixth floor.’

‘Let’s go up,’ she said flatly.

Gale didn’t say a thing when we got inside. I grabbed my book from the shelf, gave it to her, then went into the kitchen and made two cups of green tea. We sat on the floor. She handed me my book and I started to read. She interrupted almost immediately.

‘This tea’s good. It’s not like Mum’s, but it’s good.’ I read for 20 minutes. She didn’t say another word. When I’d finished I asked if she wanted more tea. She did. I went to the kitchen. As the kettle began to steam, I called out: ‘What do you think of my writing?’

‘It’s good. I liked the bit about that painting they set on fire. Why did they do that?’

‘It’s about a sacrifice,’ I said.

‘What for?’

‘They burnt the artwork because it represented the death of beauty.’

‘Beauty doesn’t die!’ Her words stopped me. ‘See Gale?’ I smiled.

‘What?’

‘That’s what you should write down, things like that. That’s a poem. A very short one, but it’s a poem. I love hearing you say things like that. Tell me more.’

‘I don’t make them up like you; it just comes to me sometimes. Like when I’m walking around.’

‘Why do you walk around everywhere?’

‘I’m just walking; I’ve got things to do.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘I have to go.’ I’d hit a nerve.

‘OK. Where are you going?’

‘I have to go down and have my dinner soon.’

‘You can have dinner here with me if you like,’ I called from the kitchen as I placed the cups in the sink. ‘I can cook. I can do roast chicken with potatoes and pumpkin.’ I heard the door open. ‘Gale?’ I rushed out into the corridor. She was heading for the elevator. I grabbed her arm; she quickly pulled away. ‘I have to go and have my dinner.’

‘My cooking’s not that bad,’ I said. ‘I can read to you again. Not my stuff, other stuff.’

‘I like your stuff.’

‘I like you Gale. I want you to have dinner with me.’

She looked me clearly in the eye. ‘OK. But I have to help.’

‘Good. I’ll need your help. Come back inside and let’s get started. You peel the potatoes, and I’ll fix the chicken.’

In the kitchen, Gale opened up to me. We were becoming friends. Bumping into one another laughing, spilling things. It felt wonderful. The time passed quickly. Soon it was past eight. We had such a great time. Everything felt fresh and new. And I couldn’t remember what dinner tasted like. I was sure she was going to leave. I was wrong.

‘Can I stay here tonight? I’ve got a place with some girls near Central, but it’s not…’

‘Yes. Of course you can stay here Gale. I wanted to ask you that earlier, but I wasn’t sure. I should have asked you before, I’m sorry I didn’t.’

She looked at me coyly. ‘Can I sleep in your bed?’

‘You have to, it’s the only one. It’s a queen, so it’s big enough for both of us.’ A half-worried-smile played across her lips. Then she looked at me. Her head rose boldly. ‘Let’s shower together Daniel.’

Up until then, I thought I knew what to expect from Gale, but I didn’t expect this. I hadn’t realised that Gale needed a shower, although I sort of knew she was dirty and she’d probably not washed for days. We walked into the bathroom together. I couldn’t get over the change in her: from this strange woman yelling in the street, to someone calmly undressing in front of me. She didn’t have that much on underneath her jumper. I picked up her clothes and put them in the basket. I took mine off and placed them on hers. I warmed up the shower, and we got in.

I washed her naked skin. The soap and water revealed marks, spots, and scratches, the signs of many hard days—but there were no needle marks in her arms. Her eyes were closed as we pressed together. I washed her back, her bottom. Bending and running my hands down to her feet. I turned her around gently and washed her breasts with my bare hands. She never moved a muscle. I ran my hand down between her legs. I kissed her neck. She didn’t draw back. She made no sound. I kissed her on the lips; she kissed back and wrapped her arms