The Fall Ch. 01

Dylan whistled at the dog and gestured for him to move over. The dog reluctantly moved to the middle of the bench seat.

Lydia took the newly vacated spot and shut the door. She was wearing khaki shorts, her work boots, and a blue singlet. She could feel damp patches of sweat under her arms and down her back. Her bra was rubbing, too, but there was no way she was taking it off. God knows what sort of messages that would have sent.

'So how long are you staying with Cyril for?' Dylan asked as they drove off down a dirt track.

'Until he falls off the perch. He seems to think this is going to happen pretty quickly. I'm hoping it won't.' She patted the dog's chest and it licked her arm in gratitude. 'How long have you been helping him out?'

'Six, nine, months? He loans me his bull each year, so I've known him for a few years. He just rang me one day, out of the blue, and said he was feeling a bit under the weather and did I want a few hours work? I'm in the midst of a divorce so any extra cash comes in handy. It kinda just went from there.'

'Have to pay the lawyers,' she commiserated.

'You divorced?'

'Yep. It was all finalised six months ago. No kids, thank God. You?'

'No kids. I was trying, she was on the pill.' He pulled up at a gate. 'You want to go out and open that and let me through? Just close it after us.'

She slid out. The backs of her legs were wet with sweat and she tried to discreetly remove a wedgie and straighten her shorts.

Dylan looked unbothered by the heat. She supposed he was used to it. She wasn't. Her days at home were spent indoors, in the air conditioning, in her small flat. She thought longingly about her flat. The privacy. The coolness. The isolation. When she was inside her tiny study, tapping away at her laptop, there was no one to interrupt her and when she was sick of her own company, she could walk down the road to a cafe and pick up a coffee. Or, more realistically, she could walk to the bottleshop and buy booze.

There was no air conditioner in Cyril's house, and at night she'd lie on top of damp sheets in her underwear, watching the ancient fan blades spin around. Between the heat and her average blood alcohol content, it was a surprise she didn't spontaneously combust.

The ute passed through the gates. She shut them and returned to the passenger seat. The dog was as unperturbed by the heat as his owner, and he rested his hot, sweaty body against hers. Her skin prickled.

'What happened with the old bird that was looking after your uncle?' Dylan asked.

'My Aunt? She got the shits and left. Said something about Cyril wanting to leave his money to charity.'

'She used to bail me up about Reggie. That's the bull, Reggie. She thinks I'm going to pinch him.'

Lydia grinned. 'Are you?'

'No, but I've made the offer to buy him. Cyril said he'll think about it.'

They drove to the paddock where the cattle were currently residing. They stared at the ute, before returning to chewing their grass. Dylan jumped up on to the back of the ute and emptied pellet feed into two buckets. He took the feed and his dog into the paddock, gesturing for Lydia to follow. She hurried after him.

'We're going to open that gate there,' he gestured. 'We'll try and bribe them with food, and Ben will give them a bit of a nudge from behind. With any luck, they'll just amble on through.'

'And in a worst case scenario?'

'Keep away from them, particularly if they start running.'

'Jesus.' She could feel the blood draining from her face. 'How likely is that to happen?'

'Not very. As I said, they're placid. They're used to humans.'

The cattle did as Dylan had suggested they would. A few steers realised a better sort of food was on offer and happily followed him through the gate. The dog got the remainder moving in the right direction, and within twenty minutes, the job was done.

Lydia leaned on the fence and smoked a cigarette while Dylan moved his ute over and emptied the remainder of the bag of feed into a trough.

'So why did this need to be a two person job?' she asked.

Dylan leaned against the fence next to her. 'It was never a two person job, but if your Uncle tells himself it is, it means that he's got a reason for calling me in, and a reason to be out here helping me.'

They watched the cattle eat.

'So, what else are you doing while you're here?' Lydia asked.

'I'm going to cut some hay.'

Lydia dropped her cigarette butt and crushed it. 'You better take me back. I have some editing I need to do.'

He nodded. 'Okay. You want a drink first? I've got an esky in the tray of the ute.'

'I'd love one.'

She'd have loved a gin and tonic more, but the water he offered her was cold and clear. Wherever it was he lived, she knew he must be on tank water. She wondered about the ex-wife. I was trying, she was on the pill. That would have sucked. Almost as much as it sucked to find out your husband was cheating on you with a thirty-two year old waitress who was married with two kids. They were a couple now, her ex and the waitress. From what she heard, the waitress was pregnant.

As they drove back, she looked around his ute. It was filthy, and the passenger floor was littered with Coke cans. A packet of cigarette papers was lying, opened, on the dash. They didn't look old, and he didn't seem to be a cigarette smoker, so she wondered who was supplying him. Maybe he grew it himself.

When they arrived back at the house, he asked if she was seeing anyone.

'No,' she replied, hopping out. 'I'm not really in the mood for relationships, you know?'

He nodded.

She turned around and tried to discreetly pick out another bloody wedgie as she walked away. He wasn't her type, but at least he'd been good enough to ask politely.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The divorce was messing with him, but not as bad as the marriage had.

Dylan had met Michelle shortly after his twenty-third birthday and married her shortly before his twenty-fifth. She'd told him she was waiting until marriage before giving up her virginity and he was, if not thrilled with the idea, accepting of it. He was only barely not a virgin himself. There's been a brief, drunken coupling with an unknown lady when he was twenty-two, and other than that, his only sexual experiences had been with his hand.

In a world filled with sex, and the suggestion that everyone else was madly fucking like bunnies, being a virgin into his twenties had been an embarrassment. The fact that his wife, when they were legally married, didn't want to have sex with him, either, depressed him.

He'd soldiered on with the union, thinking that love conquered all, and everybody else was probably experiencing the same thing, anyway. Everyone had secrets. At least he and Chelle could live together harmoniously. And they both wanted children, or so he thought.

They spent over a year trying to conceive. He spent an inordinate amount of time persuading her to have sex with him. The rate of copulation increased from six times a year to eleven. He knew the exact figure because he counted.

After thirteen months, he went to their GP and asked what was going wrong. After being quizzed on the details of his sex life, and told they might want to increase the rate of sexual activity, he was sent for a semen analysis. It was perfect. He was a hundred percent fertile. The GP suggested he speak to his wife.

Michelle refused to see a doctor.

In a rare moment of openness - probably forced by desperation - he asked his sister, who worked at the local pharmacy, if she had any advice.

'Make sure she's not on birth control,' his sister had replied drily.

It took him a week to figure out Gabby had been giving him a hint. He called in sick to work the next day, and when his wife left for work, he went rummaging around her drawers. It took him less than ten minutes to find the little blister pack of pills. He looked over the pack carefully. The prescribing physician had been the same doctor that had sent him for a semen analysis. That was a double blow. Betrayal by his wife, and again, by the physician, whose records surely showed who Dylan's wife was? Why quiz him about his sex life, and send him for a semen analysis, if she knew his wife was on the pill?

The marriage last another six months. He stopped asking for sex, and she'd never offered it, so it was a long, sexually frustrating, period. It was an argument over masturbation that ended things. She hated him doing it, and this, coupled with an uncanny way of knowing precisely when he was jerking off, led to fights.

He could live with the lack of sex, and the loss of the dream of having a child, but being made to feel embarrassed over wanking pissed him off. He was one of seven kids, five of them boys. He was child number four, the third boy, and had shared a room his two older brothers. He may not have had any accurate idea of how often other couples had sex, but he knew having a pull was pretty fucking normal.

'Why are you so gross about it?' she'd demanded. 'I can hear you, and I can hear the porn. It's so disrespectful.'

He'd moved himself, his bed - they'd never shared a bed - and his laptop into the shed the following morning. Here, he figured, he was free to watch porn and masturbate as much as he liked. And, quite frankly, given he was now thirty years old and had never had a decent root in his life, as much as he liked was 'a hell of a lot'.

The separation shocked everyone, including Michelle.

She spent six months crying and whining to everyone who would listen, before deciding that, after all these years, she was a lesbian. She now had a girlfriend who was more manly than Dylan, and spent her days posting on internet about how many years she'd spent trapped in a loveless marriage.

They now both agreed that a divorce was best, but the financial settlement was proving contentious. He'd started an apprenticeship while still in high school, and by twenty was a qualified mechanic. At twenty-one he bought a few acres and couple of cattle. Two years later, he bought a neighbouring piece of land and expanded the herd.

For years he'd woken early in the morning to look after the cattle, worked a full day in town, and then headed home to do the rest of the farm work. Michelle had worked her day job and looked after the house. She claimed the housework was equal to the work he did outside, and he'd believed her, up until they separated. It was only then that it became apparent that keeping house for two adults who were gone nine hours a day wasn't particularly difficult, and she'd been taking the piss. It took him, at most, two hours a week to keep the shed clean, and another two or three hours to cover washing and cooking.

She now wanted a sixty-forty property split in her favour. He wanted the same split, but in his favour. He didn't give a shit about the original property, the one with the house on it. She could have that, but he wanted the second property, with the shed, and the cattle and the crops and the farming equipment. Michelle, unfortunately, wanted the same deal.

It struck him as petty. She was being a bitch, no questions asked. She'd never been interested in farming. She still didn't look after the cattle, or the fields, or, God forbid, the never-ending fencing repairs. And it wasn't as if the properties were owned outright. Both were still mortgaged, and whoever ended up with them would need to take over the payments. Michelle and her new girlfriend didn't want to be farmers. They wanted it simply because it meant something to him. It was a 'fuck you' issue.

Trying to stop himself from being bitter was hard work, but he was happier now than he had been in years, so he stuck with counting his blessings when things got tough. He was single. He had a loyal dog. He had a ute for the farm and an old Valiant Charger he was slowly fixing up. He could, if he wanted, go to the strip club in Toowoomba and admire a nice rack. Well, he could do that, if he had the time and inclination. Somehow going to watch a stripper seemed as depressing as trying to extract sex from Chelle had been and, of course, there was the growing amount of work he was doing for Cyril.

What had started off as a few hours work had quickly become a ten to fifteen hour a week obligation. Dylan was tired. Cyril had suggested he agist his cattle at Dylan's property, but Dylan had shut that idea down as quickly as it was suggested. The last thing he needed was Michelle getting her eye on someone else's property. She already had Dylan by the balls, she didn't need to latch on to Cyril's.

He needed to train Lydia to fully take over. She didn't strike him as lazy, but on the other hand, she was scared of the cattle and from all reports, a bit of a lush. Rumours spread quickly in small towns. He'd heard she could drink grown men under the table, and afterwards, would drive home from the pub in her beaten-up old hatchback.

In the mornings, when the sun was only starting to rise and farmers were starting work for the day, she'd pull on running shoes and go jogging along the road. She didn't run far or fast, but she was consistent. Her sanity was questioned. Her ability to drink eleven standard drinks in four hours and go running the next day was already legendary, and she'd only been in town ten days.

He went to Cyril's house on the Monday after the hay cutting to turn the grass over. He'd had a long, busy day, and he had to hurry to get it done before the sun set.

Afterwards, he dropped by Cyril's house to let him know the job was done. Night had only just fallen. Cyril wasn't around, but Lydia was at the kitchen table, tapping away at her laptop. She had music playing and didn't realise he was at the door.

He recalled Cyril encouraging them to go out for dinner together, and the way Lydia had looked him over and visibly dismissed the idea within seconds of being floated. Dylan considered coming back another day.

One of Cyril's dogs, which was lying at Lydia's feet, noticed Dylan and his dog and ran to the door. The movement caught Lydia's attention and she looked up.

'Sorry to interrupt. I was just dropping by to let you know I've turned the hay over,' he said.

She looked up and smiled. 'Oh, okay, thank-you. What do we owe you?'

'Don't worry about it, Cyril normally fixes me up on a Friday.'

'Do you want a drink before you go?'

'I've got water, thanks.'

She pushed her laptop away. 'No, a proper drink.'

'I probably don't smell too good.'

'I'm living with a man who doesn't understand the concept of deodorant. You're fine.'

She gestured for him to come in and sit at the table. Ben sat at his feet. He watched her retrieve a bottle of Bombay Sapphire from the cupboard, tonic and a lime from the fridge, and ice from the freezer.

He couldn't think of a single woman her age who he'd seen drink gin. Then again, he hadn't actually seen too many women who looked like Lydia. Alan's description of her had been accurate, yet it had not gone anywhere near doing her justice.

Her hair was a bright, artificial red and she was heavily tattooed. She was neither fat nor skinny, tall nor short, and she probably would have been pear shaped had it not been for an incredible set of fake tits. Her bra, which she must have removed after Cyril went to bed, was lying in the middle of the kitchen table, and he'd seen enough porn to realise the way her boobs sat wasn't natural. They were too high and too rounded.

'Your drink,' she said, placing a cut glass tumbler in front of him.

As she leaned forward, her breasts pressed against her blue batman tee. Her nipples were pierced. He took a large swallow of gin and tried to think about anything but Lydia.

She noticed his reaction and reached for her bra. 'Sorry. I'm guessing you don't need a set of tits in your face.'

Actually, that was pretty much exactly what he wanted, but it seemed impolite to point this out, particularly as she was trying to discreetly wriggle back into her bra. He got a glimpse of her soft, white stomach when she half-lifted her shirt, and he looked away when she put her hand down the front of her shirt to adjust her breasts. Dylan prayed she wouldn't ask him to stand up anytime soon.

Lydia lit a cigarette and took a sip of her drink. 'So, where are we up to with the hay?'

'It's almost dry. I'll give it one more turn tomorrow. You'll need to try and get someone in on Wednesday to bale it up. I don't really have the time...' he trailed off apologetically.

She nodded. 'I understand. There's a lot of work to be done, and you have your own job, and your own cattle. I'll speak to Cyril, see if he can find someone else to help him out, or maybe just sell the herd. They can be sold as they are, right?'

'Sure, but if you sell them as a herd you won't get a great price.'

'But if he's paying you - or paying someone else - to look after them, he'll probably lose more money in the long run, right?'

'Probably,' Dylan conceded. 'But I don't think it's about money. It's about having a purpose.'

Lydia took another sip of gin. 'Fair enough.'

She finished her drink before he was halfway through his, and made herself another. There wasn't a hint of self consciousness as she poured another slug into her glass. The drinks obviously got stronger as the night went on.

'Do you drink a lot?' he asked.

'Generally, yes. I also like to smoke, but you're not exactly offering, are you?' she replied, raising her eyebrows.

He stared at her mouth as she spoke. She wore a lot of make-up for this time of day and her teeth were probably a bit too crooked. She should have had dental work done, back in her early teens, when everyone was pimply and ugly and going through the awkward growing stages. Mind you, Dylan was pretty sure there wasn't a man in the world that would have been bothered by her snaggle teeth.

'Well?' she asked expectantly.

'How did you know?' he asked curiously.

'You don't smoke cigarettes, but you have papers in your car.'

'Huh. You're observant, aren't you?'

'Only when it comes to grammatical errors and random stupid shit. Never when it's important.'

They went out to his ute. Ben followed them, and hoped in the second the door was opened. He sat in the middle, on the section of the bench seat between the driver and the left-hand passenger. Lydia slid in next to him and closed the door.

'Open the glovebox, would you?' he asked.

She dug around and retrieved half a bag of weed. He'd bought it three weeks ago. He had a good feeling she was going to finish it off. He rolled her a joint, then one for himself, and searched around for a lighter.

'Here,' she said, pulling one from her pocket. She leaned over and spun the flint. A flame flickered. 'Is it any good?'

He gestured to indicate it was so-so. It was the country. There were only two drugs readily available here; meth and weed. He stuck to weed. Michelle had hated it, but frankly, Michelle had hated pretty much everything he did, said or wanted.

'So, what's your story?' he asked. 'Why did you come out here?'

'Cyril needs someone to help him out, and I'm the only one available. No kids, no partner. I work from home, anyway, so as long as there's internet connection, I can work wherever I want. Plus, I like Cyril. He was the best uncle, ever. And he doesn't ask much of me, you know?'

'How sick is he?'

'Five months ago he was given six to twelve months. He thinks he's ready to go any day. The doctors are more confident. He's refusing any more chemo, but his body is holding on pretty well. They give him morphine. When you're terminal, they load you up. He has far more than he needs. If I was into opiates, I'd be in heaven.'