Damien Broderick - Strange Attractors

wine. I
guzzled the lot, then lay down on my bed to await the coloured lights
and music.
And that was all I could recollect when I awoke in discomfort, to
find myself lying on wooden floorboards. M y head was against a
carved lump of wood; I recognised the cedar chest. My sensory input
was disorganised and it was several moments before I became aware
of three factors: it was early morning, there was a smell of vomit and
a pair of heavy boots loomed large in my vision.
‘Vini?’
‘No,’ said a male voice. I rolled over, clutching my head, to see better
the wearer of the boots. He was something of a surprise, for he wore
jeans, a rusty black frock over the jeans, and a mackintosh over the
dress. Was he queer? Although I could not be sure, I reacted instinctively to the presence of a strange man, and glanced down to check that my neat office skirt decently covered my legs. It was then I discovered that sometime in the night I had been sick down my blouse.
‘D’you want a hand up?’ he asked in a broad accent, northern
suburbs I guessed.
I fingered the sticky frill on my collar, but let him take my free hand
and pull me to my feet. My head whirled, and I closed my eyes. He
walked me blind across the room, to the flat. In my hallucinogenic
stupor I had fortunately left the door open.
‘Thank you. Let me go now.’
I shut out the stranger and stripped, throwing my clothes into the
washbasket. I noticed that my hands were smeared with paint — how
very odd.
Mister Mysterioso (could it be that he had attended a fancy dress
ball?) called through the door.
‘It’s pretty messy out here. You got clean-up things?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and got dressed in an old sweater and pants I normally
used for dirty housework. The floorboards creaked; he appeared to be
pacing up and down outside. I opened the door and handed him a
bucket of hot water. He looked at me.
‘You all right?’
18
Lucy Sussex
‘It’s no worse than a hangover,’ I said, turning to pick up the rest of
the cleaning agents. ‘Ohmygod.’
W ith my eyes closed, I had not seen that the great room had what
used to be called a psychedelic decor. There were rivulets of garish pigment on the floor, spreading outwards from the map, which had a m ountain of emptied paint-tins dead centre. Streaks of colour leapt
up the walls, apparently applied with the fingers, for there was a bright
green palm print on one window. It looked like a kindergarten suddenly exposed to Jackson Pollock. I glanced at my fingers and was caught red (plus green and blue and yellow) handed.
‘I did that?’
‘You did.’
The map was obliterated now, the soggy paper even torn in places.
For the first time, I looked properly at my companion and saw that he
was very young, poverty-thin. Unemployed youth, Vini had said.
‘Was this your painting? I’m so sorry.’
The apology sounded banal, and he grimaced.
‘No use crying over spilt paint. Let’s clean this place up before Vini
sees it and has a heart attack.’
It took us an hour. At the end I made breakfast in my flat: coffee,
cornflakes, toast and eggs. It was the sort of meal I might have served
to an exceptionally good one-night stand. I was too queasy myself to
eat more than cornflakes with skim milk.
Just what I needed,’ said the visitor. ‘I got a job interview in half an
hour.’
‘Dressed like that?’
‘I don’t want it.’
He was obviously enjoying the breakfast, and 1 felt a little of my
guilt subside.
‘W hat’s your name?’
‘Thursday October.’
I was nonplussed but tried not to show it.
‘I’m Susan Gifford.’
‘Yeah, Vini said he had a new tenant.’
‘You’re a member of the Lipton Village Society.’
He nodded, mouth crammed.
‘I’m sorry I defaced the map.’
He swallowed. ‘You said that before. What were you on?’
‘Mushies.’
‘Drugs ain’t good for people. Are there any left?’
I nodded, puzzled, and led him out of the flat, down the stairs and
The L ipton Village Society
19
into the bathroom. Altered States, Incorporated, certainly gave value
for money — there was a fresh crop of baby hallucinogens. He tram pled them under his big boots. Then he picked up the box and went upstairs again, this time trailing me like a string-pulled toy. However,
he didn’t stop at the empty room, with its damp floorboards, but continued ascending, to the second floor where Vini lived. I was still a little uncertain of my surroundings and lagged behind him, reaching
the landing just as he knocked at the bookseller’s door. It opened
grudgingly, after a moment, to reveal V. Hirst unshaven, in deckchair
pyjamas.
‘Hi Thurs,’ Vini said weakly, and the Lipton Villager stepped
inside, closing the door behind them. I sat on the top step and waited.
A few minutes later Thursday October emerged, empty-handed.
‘W hat did you do with it?’ I asked, as we clattered down the stairs.
‘Told Vini it was a cat-dunny for Rover. She’s getting too old to
climb out the window every time she wants a piss.’
‘Oh. There might still be germinating spores in that mulch.’
‘T h at’s Rover’s lookout.’
We returned to the flat, where I made two more cups of coffee in a
stunned fashion. He drank his down quickly and stood up.
‘Well, I’ll be off now. T hat was grouse.’
I suddenly remembered 1 had to face work that morning and felt
bitter.
‘You getting rid of my mushrooms wasn’t. What are you — some
sort of baby Don Mackay?’
‘I just think there’s better things than drugs.’
‘Like