The Fall Ch. 04

Friday lunchtime Lydia rang Dylan to let him know she was going to Brisbane for the night. Did Dylan mind if Cyril contacted him if he got into any trouble?

'Why don't Cyril and I come with you?' Dylan asked. 'We can stay at your flat. I wouldn't mind going and seeing the cars at Elizabeth Street.'

'Uh, can you not?' she asked.

'Is there a problem?'

'My flat's kind of small. Cyril would have to sleep on the sofa bed.'

'I don't mind,' he assured her. 'I can't imagine Cyril will, either. Have you asked him?'

There was a long pause. He got the distinct impression he didn't want him to come, which was silly. She'd been to his place. His shed. He didn't even live in a proper house. And as for Cyril, he was accustomed to sleeping in a truck, so a sofa bed would be a cinch. What did it matter if her flat was small?

'It'll be fun,' he encouraged her. 'I know you don't like driving long distances, too, so if I go with you, I can do the driving.'

She forced a laugh. She was a lousy driver. 'As if you'd let me drive.'

'So is it a 'yes'?' he asked.

She relented. 'Okay. If Cyril wants to come, you can come with me.'

Cyril wanted to come. He'd spent two nights in hospital that week, fighting off what should have been a minor infection, and he was bored and restless. It had been a whole week since the buck's nights. He was ready to get out and see the world.

Lydia was very quiet during the drive to Brisbane. They left just after four, and reached her flat just before six. Dylan looked around curiously. It was a small block, only four units in total, and they must have been built in the seventies. One of her neighbours had the English flag pinned to their window. Another was cooking curry. His stomach grumbled. He was hungry.

The ground floor comprised of garages and one flat. Lydia's flat was on the top right. There was a balcony out the front, with old green patterned tiles and a thick wooden railing. A tree cast shade over them, and he could hear the last remains of peak hour traffic in the distance.

The air in the flat was stale and warm. She flicked on the air conditioner and it roared to life, forcing a freezing cold breeze into the room. There was a huge sofa in the lounge and dining area, but no dining table. There probably wouldn't have been space for one. It was a small flat. Half of the walls were brick, the other white plaster, and the kitchen must have been the original one. It was a pine and lime green laminate affair with an ancient white Chef oven.

'I need to go to the bathroom,' Lydia said. 'There's water in the fridge and long life milk in the cupboard. You can make yourselves coffees.'

Cyril grumbled about having carried his overnight bag upstairs and the fact that he had nowhere to put it. As she made her way to the bathroom, Lydia told him to leave it in the lounge room.

'Bullshit,' Cyril muttered as she closed the door behind her. 'There's got to be two bedrooms in this flat. I'll put it in one of those so we don't keep tripping over it.'

Dylan figured he'd make coffees. He was assembling everything that was required when Cyril marched into the kitchen and grabbed his arm.

'You didn't tell me she was pregnant!' he hissed.

Dylan blinked. 'She's not.'

Cyril sniffed. 'You sure about that?'

Dylan thought back to the night where he took her out to dinner and she got drunk. He'd seen her remove a tampon. If that wasn't proof she wasn't pregnant, he didn't know what was. 'Definitely.'

'Then why does she have a cot in her spare room?' Cyril demanded.

Dylan didn't believe it. Cyril cocked his head in the direction of the room and Dylan walked over and peered in. Holy shit. There was a cot. And a pram. And a child's chest of drawers which Dylan had the sinking feeling probably contained baby clothes.

As the two men stared into the room, Lydia exited the bathroom. They both turned around guiltily. Her face was dark and her gaze resentful. She hadn't wanted them to come here, and now Dylan knew why. He felt guilty. Guilty and confused and worried.

'Lydia,' he said, touching her arm.

'Oh fuck you, you piece of shit,' she spat. 'Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted?'

'No, but...'

'...but what? But, but, but what? You don't understand a thing. Not a single, fucking thing.' She picked up her handbag. 'Enjoy your cars. You can take Cyril back home tomorrow. I give up.'

She ran out of the flat. He ran after her. He couldn't let her leave. He couldn't have them force her out of her own home.

'Lydia, stop,' he yelled.

She threw him the bird as she stalked angrily down the street.

'STOP.'

She spun around. 'You,' she snapped, pointing her finger at him. 'Just don't know when to stop, do you?'

'Lydia, I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry.'

'Shove it up your fucking arse.'

'Lydia, don't. Please. Come back inside. We'll have a cup of coffee and talk.'

'Talk?' she spat. 'Talk? I don't owe you a fucking explanation, Dylan. I already told you Mark and I had been trying to have a baby when he cheated on me. I told you I found I was pregnant. I told you I had an abortion. What more do you want?' Without any sense of warning, her eyes filled with tears. 'Please, leave me alone. Leave me. Go back home. Take Cyril with you.'

'Lyds...'

She shook her head. 'No. Go away. If you try and follow me, I'll call the police and tell them you're harassing me.'

He tried to weigh up how serious she might be. She wouldn't really call the cops and lie to them, would she? He took a step forward.

'I wouldn't,' she warned him.

Dylan hesitated. 'Please come back. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel awkward.'

She walked away. He stood there, on the street, watching her go. Her brilliant hair glinted in the afternoon sun and her purse clanked against her body. Maybe she just needed to step away for a bit. He'd go back to the flat and talk to Cyril. He'd have to tell him about the abortion.

When he returned to the flat he saw Cyril leaning over the balcony, smoking a cigarette and staring keenly at his niece's departing figure.

'So what's the deal?' Cyril asked.

'She and her husband were trying to have a baby when he cheated on her. She was pregnant when he left. She had an abortion.'

Cyril took a thoughtful pull. 'Why'd she do that?'

'She said he pressured her into it.'

'She should've told him to jump in a fucking lake.'

Dylan silently agreed. Except, if she'd kept the baby, she probably wouldn't have gone to live out with Cyril, and she therefore wouldn't have met him. What if circumstances had been different? What if she'd stayed with her husband? What if Cyril hadn't been terminally ill?

He walked upstairs and went to finish making the coffees. He needed something to do. When the coffees were made, he texted Lydia. He told her he was sorry, and that he loved her. If she wanted to talk, he'd listen, and if she didn't want to talk, he would. Or he'd buy her alcohol. Whatever she wanted. He just wanted to know she was okay.

A whole twenty minutes passed. Cyril went out to have another cigarette. Dylan went into the spare room. There was a desk and chair in one corner. This must be where she worked. He sat on the chair and surveyed the baby goods. There was a metal box on the table and he picked it up. It wasn't just a cube, it was an urn. It said 'In loving memory of Walter Douglas Atkinson' and had a single date underneath. Seventeen months ago. So the 'baby', had she given birth to it, would probably be a toddler now, not a baby.

There was a drawing above the desk of a red-haired woman holding a baby with wings. There were hibiscus tattoos all over the woman's arms. Oh Lydia, he thought. Why did you do it? Why did you pretend to me that it was okay, that you didn't want the baby? He didn't understand. She was such a weird, weird woman. She'd told him once that she didn't have friends. He hadn't understood that, either. He thought about her sitting in the flat all day, every day, surrounded by the shrine of sorts she'd built for her baby. Drinking and smoking away her nights, all by herself.

The more he looked, the more evidence there was of the child. Ultrasound photos framed and hung on the back of the door. Little piles of impossibly tiny baby clothes neatly folded and placed in the drawers. Baby toiletries; soap and baby oil and shampoo all in a beautiful wooden box.

He'd always assumed that she'd had the abortion shortly after she found out she was pregnant. Judging by the presence of the cot and the ultrasound photos, she must have been intending on continuing the pregnancy at one stage. She'd prepared for the baby. What had her ex-husband done to convince her to have an abortion?

He found the answer in the bottom drawer of her desk. There was a laminated and bound book of emails. She must have printed them off and preserved them so there was no chance of her forgetting. He read through the email and text exchanges between her and Mark. His stomach clenched as he read her ex-husband's demands and insults. Even at his angriest he never would have spoken to Michelle the way Mark spoke to Lydia.

'What are you doing?' Cyril asked. There was a cigarette in one of his hands.

'Take that outside,' Dylan ordered, gesturing to the cigarette. 'She might want to use this stuff again one day. She doesn't need it smelling like smoke.'

Cyril rolled his eyes, but he went outside anyway.

Dylan followed him. He handed Cyril the book.

'Here,' Dylan said. 'It's all in here. The receipts are in the back. It cost her thirty-two hundred to have the abortion by the time she finally caved in. She was eighteen weeks gone.'

'Oh Jesus,' Cyril swore. He stubbed out his cigarette and took the book. 'Please tell me you know how to find this cunt.'

'He gave her his new address in one of the emails.'

'Good. We should pay him a visit.'

They made their way to Lydia's ex-husbands house. Dylan drove, while Cyril flicked through the folder. The older man soon stopped reading. He'd seen enough. There was a lot of personal information, not relevant to the situation, that had been included. It was the kind of stuff that no man wanted to know about his niece.

Dylan didn't know quite what they were doing. He actually doubted that Mark would even be at home. They pulled up at the Jindalee address and got out. No sooner had they stepped out of the car than another car pulled up beside them. The resident of the house.

'What do you two want?' the newcomer asked.

Dylan stared at him. He was tall and thin and his hair was receding. He had one of those stupid Ned Kelly beards that were all the rage and wore tight jeans and a tight shirt. This was what Lydia had married?

'You Mark Pittsworth?' Cyril asked.

'I am. Who are you?'

'We're here to talk about Lydia,' Cyril said, ignoring the question. 'Your ex-wife.'

'What about her?'

Cyril walked up to the man as though he were about to keep talking, but instead connected his fist with Mark's nose, sending him staggering against his car.

'What the fuck?' Mark demanded.

'Cyril,' Dylan hissed. 'Shouldn't I be the one doing this?'

'Don't be stupid,' Cyril barked, landing another blow on his niece's former partner. 'I don't trust him to take this like a man. He might call the police, and you don't need that kind of trouble. At least I'll be dead by the time it goes to Court.'

The explanation was reasonable. Dylan stood back and watched while Cyril kicked the piss out of the man. He thought he might be called in to help, but Cyril had it covered. It took him no time at all to reduce Lydia's ex-husband into a bloodied mess.

'There,' Cyril said. 'Time to go. Reckon we should tell Lydia about this?'

Dylan stared at him incredulously. 'No,' he said firmly.

Cyril accepted the answer. 'Fair enough. Speak of the devil, might be time to try and find Lydia, huh?'

Tracking down Lydia was more difficult. She wasn't at the flat, and nor was she at the local pub.

In the end, she contacted them. As they were ambling around the local streets futilely, she texted Dylan with her location and asked if he could come and pick her up. She'd been drinking and some men were bothering her. She was scared. She'd become accustomed to drinking at a little country pub where nobody would dare step out of line. In the city, people were more anonymous and that made them more forward.

He was terrified for her. She was so frail and fragile when she'd been drinking. Alcohol stripped away her façade of strength and showed her vulnerabilities to the world. It was a state that would make her appeal to a predator.

He and Cyril walked into the bar in question to see her surrounded by three men. They were wearing work clothes and steel capped boots and even from a distance he could see her shrinking away from them, trying to figure out how to escape. She had three drinks lined up in front of her. That was a bad sign. She never bought more than one drink at a time.

Oh shit, he thought, oh shit. Lydia, Lydia, Lydia. Where was the bouncer? Dylan looked around but couldn't see one.

'You reckon you can take them on?' Cyril asked, eyeing up the men.

Dylan chewed his lower lip. 'I hope so.'

'I'll have your back,' Cyril assured him.

Dylan didn't doubt it. He made his way over, and called out 'Lydia', so the men would turn around. He'd never hit anyone from behind, and he wasn't about to start now.

One man was never an issue. Two generally wasn't, either. Three could be a problem, but tonight, they weren't. One, two, three, he got them down, his fists meeting flesh and cracking bones. Teeth were lost, but they weren't his, so he didn't care. What the fuck was wrong with them, ganging up on a woman like that? He spat on the last one in disgust.

'Bouncer,' Cyril said.

'What?' he said.

Too late. The bouncer grabbed him. Dylan realised that the reason the bouncer hadn't been in sight was because he was giving the three men the opportunity they needed to corner Lydia. Dylan didn't need to be told what would have been in it for the bouncer.

The bouncer was a big boy, and he was on something, but Dylan was warmed up. The bouncer was soon getting his head bashed against the bar. He could hear Lydia screaming to stop, so he figured he'd gone far enough, and stopped what he was doing.

'Sorry,' he apologised, in a tone he might use if he was being reprimanded for wearing dirty work boots inside.

She pointed behind him. Cyril was wrestling with the bartender. The fight was pretty evenly matched, which in Dylan's books wasn't a good thing. What sort of fucking place existed where the bouncer, barman and three patrons would together work to take advantage of a drunk woman? He didn't want to think about it. He leant over the bar, grabbed a silver jug and bashed it against the bartender's head. That gave Cyril all the assistance he needed.

There were a handful of bar patrons remaining, sitting on stools, silently observing proceedings. They stared at Cyril, Dylan and Lydia as they made their way out but not one of them said a word. They were playing it smart. If they'd made any sort of comment, Dylan would have taken them to task about not doing anything to help Lyddy.

'Well,' Cyril remarked as they stepped into the evening sunshine. 'You think we could go past a supermarket? I'm almost out of smokes.'

~~~~~~~~~~

They didn't end up going to see the cars. Instead, they bought a barbecue chicken, coleslaw and bread rolls from the supermarket and ate at Lydia's flat.

Dylan watched Lydia carefully as she nibbled on a chicken wing and sipped a glass of wine. He was gobsmacked by the amount of alcohol she had in the house. She had enough to host his family Christmas, and given that his folks bred like rabbits, that was no mean feat.

They watched some television, made up the sofa bed for Cyril, and then he took Lydia to bed. It was strange sleeping in her home. It wasn't at all what he'd expected. Even her bedspread, which was patterned with dark blue flowers, seemed peculiar. He lay on his back, her head on his chest, and stroked her hair.

She started to cry. He could hear her sniffling, and she was rubbing at her eyes. He tightened his grip on her and wished he knew what to say.

'Do you hate me?' she asked.

'No. No, I don't hate you.' He kissed her head. 'I love you, Lydia. I'm sorry you went through that.'

She nuzzled into his chest. 'I miss him. My baby. I wanted him so badly.'

Her tears dripped from her face onto his nipple, making it itch unbearably. He tried to ignore it. He patted her and kissed her again.

'I feel like such a traitor,' she said. 'I've had two abortions, do you know that? I had the first when I was seventeen. I wanted that one. I'd been lazy with contraception. I didn't really believe anything would happen. I never regretted it. Ever. Now I feel like I can't say I regret the second one, because it would be... wrong.'

'But you chose the first one,' he countered. 'That's what makes it different.'

'I chose the second one. I let Mark get to me.' Her voice dropped to a whisper. 'He said I'd be a bad mother, and he was right. I killed my baby. On the morning of the abortion I could feel something moving in my stomach. I realised it was my baby. I think that when his soul left his body, mine did, too. What point is there to any of this?'

He stared at the ceiling. It had the popcorn effect, and from it hung an old brass ceiling fan that needed cleaning. He didn't think he was the right person for Lydia to talk to. He felt disgusted, in a way. Eighteen weeks. That was a long time to wait.

He still didn't exactly understand why she'd given in to Mark's demands. She'd been married to him when the baby was conceived. Surely she'd known that no one would judge her for continuing the pregnancy? She should have deleted his emails and refused to communicate with him.

She broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. His heart broke for her. His strange, crazy girlfriend. So brash and strong when you first met her, but so fragile and damaged underneath. He wished he could make things better.

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

Lydia woke the next morning with swollen eyes and a blinding headache. She laid on her back, wishing that both Dylan and Cyril weren't here. She wanted to be alone.

'You're awake.'

She turned to her lover. He was cautious, worried. She wondered what he thought about Walter. Her baby. Her poor, poor baby.

He leant over and kissed her. She shut her eyes and tried not to retch. She wanted to pee, drink some water, and find some paracetamol. She wanted to go back to bed and never wake up. She wanted to never face the world again.

'I'll get you some Panadol,' he whispered. 'Where do you keep it?'

'In the bathroom. Don't worry, I'll get it. I need to pee.'

Lydia sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She buried her head in her hands. Ouch. She needed to steady herself and get up.

Slowly, she made her way to the bathroom. Cyril was on her balcony smoking and talking on the phone to a mate of his when she went into the bathroom, and he was doing the same when she came out. She limped back to bed and crawled in. There were cigarettes and an ashtray on the bedside table, and she lit a cigarette. Dylan opened the window in response.

'Sorry,' she apologised.

'It's okay. I love you.'

'Still?'

He nodded. 'Still.'

When she stubbed out her cigarette, he immediately made a move on her. That was such a male thing; following any sort of conflict or sorrow with sex, as though making love made everything better. Every man she'd been with had wanted to fuck after fighting.

He pulled down her panties and spread her labia. His thick, rough fingers found her clit and she winced. She wasn't horny, and it felt like an intrusion. She grabbed his hand and pulled it away.