Commended: Fiction, Carla Fitzgerald
Carla Fitzgerald is a writer and former lawyer, whose short fiction has won prizes in local competitions. She currently spends most of her time serving three tiny dictators and trying to write her novel.
The Walk
500 metres
Short enough to walk. Long enough to scare the shit out of you. Every Thursday, Friday, Saturday night.
You watch three others get off the same train as you. Their carriage lines up near the exit with the lighting. How do they do that? You flip your hood up, re-position your backpack and walk with purpose up the platform. Now you’re 200 metres behind any other person. Might have something to do with the fact that you jump on any carriage at Town Hall just to make the train. So happy to flee George Street and everything it brings at 2am.
Is that Justin from school ahead of you? Could be. His twenty-something body is spreading and looking more middle-age each week. Must be spending too many hours strapped to the desk at his Dad’s firm. And you think about calling out to him. About making your 500 metres slightly less daunting. But you know that you smell like chicken and you think about how many boring conversations you’ve had over the last three years that go like,
‘So… do you still see So and So…’
‘So and So Ryan?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nah, haven’t seen her for a while.’
It wouldn’t be 500 metres of safety anyway. It would be 400 metres until he turns down Northcote Road and then you still face the park on your own. Unless he offers to walk you home and then you have an awkward goodbye at the doorstep of your flat. Cringe.
So no, you don’t call out to Maybe Justin and now you have 400 metres to go.
400 metres
Most women are killed by people they know, usually in their own home. You remind yourself of this as you check over your shoulder and pick up the pace. Statistics are comforting, you’ve always found. Real life is not a Netflix series. But there is always one. Or more than one. What did they think about on their walk?
Your stomach rumbles. You think about what you will eat when you get home. Nothing poultry related. Mum will still be at work so there won’t be much hanging around. And you ate a lot of shit today. You could make yourself a salad? The backs of your legs ache from standing for hours. You probably won’t make a salad.
You check over your shoulder again as you leave the station. There’s no-one there.
Mum will have given Dad his medication at 5pm. You do the sums in your head. So he won’t be due again until the morning. You’ll probably just need to adjust him and make him something to eat.
The only sounds along Railway street now are your steps and your breath. Those smartarses who planned their train carriage are safely in their cars or even home by now. A dog barks in the distance.
You think about Luke’s face smiling back at you on your phone. Isn’t Facebook supposed to know everything? We’re not even friends anymore, why did it show you that? And you know he wasn’t tagged in the photo and you know you scrolled in and you know you should be happy. You did this to him. You want him to be happy.
But couldn’t he be happy with someone slightly less attractive? And she looked funky in that effortless way you can never pull off. You will look at the photo again when you get home and torture yourself a little more.
Something is sticking into your foot. A pebble or stone or something. You think about stopping to get rid of it but not here, not here, definitely not here. It is lighter further up. So you walk with an odd limp for now.
They could have been mates. He was always putting his arm round people but not in a weird way. If you’d done it to others it would have been weird. But Luke was just like that and everyone knew it. You miss that. You are alone. So alone.
300 metres.
Are you alone? You check over your shoulder again because it feels like someone in watching you. Chill out, you say to yourself. You’re scaring yourself. There is no-one there. You fumble in your backpack for your keys and find a Mentos but no keys. You unwrap the Mentos and pop it into your mouth even though you’re aware of the increased chance of choking while walking.
You calculate which house you would run to for help. Who would answer quickly? Who would let a panicked woman in? Maybe the one with the scooters out the front. Or the one with the doormat that says, ‘Home is where the pizza is’. You look back over your shoulder but see no-one.
You think about that drunk guy just before close who asked you for two breasts. You think about all the witty comebacks you could have made. You replay your explanation of the policy that a 2 Piece Combo contains 1 breast and 1 wing or drumstick. Cringe. How they’d hooted and fell about like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Luke was always different round his mates too. You don’t miss that.
‘The likelihood of you having access to two breasts here or anywhere else is slim to none’ is what you should have said. What would they have said then? Probably not much but you would feel better than you do right now.
Your cough echoes in the empty street. The fog from your breath appears then vanishes. If you called out now, would anyone hear you?
Maybe a sandwich then. A toasted sandwich if the ham is still ok. You decide to text your Mum when you get home and ask if the ham is ok.
200 m
Dad will be watching the English football about now, you think. You’ll kiss him on the cheek and he’ll wheel straight over to load the Seinfeld episodes. You’ll say, ‘just one’ and he’ll laugh. You’ll make the toasted sandwiches and Dad will do that snort laugh thing at Kramer and you’ll just smile and say ‘after the next one I’m definitely going to bed’. Your morning self will be tired and mildly annoyed with you.
A blast of cold wind hits your face. You pull the strings from your hoodie tight and now you’re just a nose and a pair of eyes. You remember when you went to Canberra for the school trip and how Olivia told everyone how her sister’s ponytail had snapped off when they went to Perisher the year before. Was she full of shit you wonder? You run your hand over your hoodie where your ponytail is (blessedly still attached). You have your keys now and you hold them close to your body like a gun.
Now that definitely sounded like someone, you think. You stop. You look behind you. A cat is sniffing around a garbage bin. Just a cat. Just a cat.
You look at your phone. Thirty degrees in Phuket today. Is it a crazy idea? You can’t even walk 500 metres without crapping yourself, how can you backpack round Thailand? There will be other travellers you’ll meet on your way, you tell yourself. Will Luke see your photos on Facebook? Would he care?
You think of your Mum’s face when you told her. ‘6 weeks’ she repeated and turned back to the sink.
‘We can ask Lauren to help out more with Dad?’, you’d suggested.
The silence had been excruciating.
‘No motorbikes’ she’d said, finally.
And of course, you wouldn’t get on a motorbike because you know that motorbike rider deaths are nearly 30 times more than drivers of other vehicles.
100 metres
You walk past the construction site which promises to be ‘Deluxe Apartments’ but which is currently just a big gaping hole. You know your feet are walking but you can’t see them anymore. You get out your phone for light but put it back in your pocket because it lights you up like a Christmas tree. Come get me lunatic, right here!
You hear a car’s engine coming up behind you. Keep going. Keep going, you beg. You keep your head down as your heart starts racing. Maybe its Dad, you think, for a stupid second. Of course it’s not bloody Dad. He hasn’t driven a car for ten years. The car slows, then keeps going.
If you cross the park you only have 50 metres to go. If you go around, much more. It is bloody freezing now and the rock in your shoe feels like glass.
You cross the park.
50 metres
Your feet squelch in the damp grass. You can just see signs of life littering the ground.
Empty water bottles. Old tape from footy boots. A hair clip.
You keep your head down, your shoulders closed in and your keys ready. If you feel invisible maybe it will be true.
You’re so close now.
‘Hey!’ A male voice calls out in the distance.
You don’t turn around. Of course, you don’t. The voice is not close. It’s probably coming from one of the houses from Northcote street. They’re probably not even talking to you, idiot. You are nearly home.
You walk as fast as you possibly can without running. Why don’t you run? You don’t want to look stupid. Even to your would-be attacker. It’s probably nothing, no-one.
‘Hey!’
‘Hey!’
Oh fuck, you realise. They are talking to you.
You are a child again. Your voice is a whisper,
‘Dad’, you start saying, ‘Dad.'
Whoever it is, is getting closer.
You can hear footsteps now, running. The squelch of the grass again, but not from your feet.
‘Hey!'
You start sprinting now. Your backpack jumps around excitedly. Your breathe the only thing you hear. Your house the only thing that matters. Your Dad. Just get home. Home home home.
You think about how when you were little, your Dad would carry you in from the car after a long journey. The comfort of your head on his chest and the warmth of his distinctly Dad smell. You’d always pretend to still be asleep so that he wouldn’t make you walk.
Is this how you die? You chance a look over your shoulder.
It’s a middle age man running towards you.
No. It’s not.
‘Shit’. You stop running and briefly close your eyes in relief. The rest of your body takes longer to register the relief. ‘Justin.’
‘Hey’ Justin stops running just before he reaches you and drops his suitcase. He bends over and puts his hands on his knees like an Olympic runner. ‘Did you hear me, I was calling out to you?’
‘Um…yeah…I didn’t know it was you, sorry.’
Did you just apologise to him? You turn back to the direction of your house. ‘I was just trying to get home, Justin.’
‘Cool, me too’ He coughs, loudly bringing up the phlegm in his throat, then swallowing again.
Is it you or does he seem different tonight?
‘I’ll walk you home’, he says picking up the suitcase now sprinkled like a lamington with the damp grass.
‘Okay.’
You walk towards your house. He’s walking too close and you can smell alcohol on his breath.
He looks at you in a strange way.
You look away.
‘So how’s things? he says, finally.
‘Yeah same old’, you reply.
‘Do you still see Sarah?’
Short enough to walk. Long enough to scare the shit out of you. Every Thursday, Friday, Saturday night.
You watch three others get off the same train as you. Their carriage lines up near the exit with the lighting. How do they do that? You flip your hood up, re-position your backpack and walk with purpose up the platform. Now you’re 200 metres behind any other person. Might have something to do with the fact that you jump on any carriage at Town Hall just to make the train. So happy to flee George Street and everything it brings at 2am.
Is that Justin from school ahead of you? Could be. His twenty-something body is spreading and looking more middle-age each week. Must be spending too many hours strapped to the desk at his Dad’s firm. And you think about calling out to him. About making your 500 metres slightly less daunting. But you know that you smell like chicken and you think about how many boring conversations you’ve had over the last three years that go like,
‘So… do you still see So and So…’
‘So and So Ryan?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nah, haven’t seen her for a while.’
It wouldn’t be 500 metres of safety anyway. It would be 400 metres until he turns down Northcote Road and then you still face the park on your own. Unless he offers to walk you home and then you have an awkward goodbye at the doorstep of your flat. Cringe.
So no, you don’t call out to Maybe Justin and now you have 400 metres to go.
400 metres
Most women are killed by people they know, usually in their own home. You remind yourself of this as you check over your shoulder and pick up the pace. Statistics are comforting, you’ve always found. Real life is not a Netflix series. But there is always one. Or more than one. What did they think about on their walk?
Your stomach rumbles. You think about what you will eat when you get home. Nothing poultry related. Mum will still be at work so there won’t be much hanging around. And you ate a lot of shit today. You could make yourself a salad? The backs of your legs ache from standing for hours. You probably won’t make a salad.
You check over your shoulder again as you leave the station. There’s no-one there.
Mum will have given Dad his medication at 5pm. You do the sums in your head. So he won’t be due again until the morning. You’ll probably just need to adjust him and make him something to eat.
The only sounds along Railway street now are your steps and your breath. Those smartarses who planned their train carriage are safely in their cars or even home by now. A dog barks in the distance.
You think about Luke’s face smiling back at you on your phone. Isn’t Facebook supposed to know everything? We’re not even friends anymore, why did it show you that? And you know he wasn’t tagged in the photo and you know you scrolled in and you know you should be happy. You did this to him. You want him to be happy.
But couldn’t he be happy with someone slightly less attractive? And she looked funky in that effortless way you can never pull off. You will look at the photo again when you get home and torture yourself a little more.
Something is sticking into your foot. A pebble or stone or something. You think about stopping to get rid of it but not here, not here, definitely not here. It is lighter further up. So you walk with an odd limp for now.
They could have been mates. He was always putting his arm round people but not in a weird way. If you’d done it to others it would have been weird. But Luke was just like that and everyone knew it. You miss that. You are alone. So alone.
300 metres.
Are you alone? You check over your shoulder again because it feels like someone in watching you. Chill out, you say to yourself. You’re scaring yourself. There is no-one there. You fumble in your backpack for your keys and find a Mentos but no keys. You unwrap the Mentos and pop it into your mouth even though you’re aware of the increased chance of choking while walking.
You calculate which house you would run to for help. Who would answer quickly? Who would let a panicked woman in? Maybe the one with the scooters out the front. Or the one with the doormat that says, ‘Home is where the pizza is’. You look back over your shoulder but see no-one.
You think about that drunk guy just before close who asked you for two breasts. You think about all the witty comebacks you could have made. You replay your explanation of the policy that a 2 Piece Combo contains 1 breast and 1 wing or drumstick. Cringe. How they’d hooted and fell about like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Luke was always different round his mates too. You don’t miss that.
‘The likelihood of you having access to two breasts here or anywhere else is slim to none’ is what you should have said. What would they have said then? Probably not much but you would feel better than you do right now.
Your cough echoes in the empty street. The fog from your breath appears then vanishes. If you called out now, would anyone hear you?
Maybe a sandwich then. A toasted sandwich if the ham is still ok. You decide to text your Mum when you get home and ask if the ham is ok.
200 m
Dad will be watching the English football about now, you think. You’ll kiss him on the cheek and he’ll wheel straight over to load the Seinfeld episodes. You’ll say, ‘just one’ and he’ll laugh. You’ll make the toasted sandwiches and Dad will do that snort laugh thing at Kramer and you’ll just smile and say ‘after the next one I’m definitely going to bed’. Your morning self will be tired and mildly annoyed with you.
A blast of cold wind hits your face. You pull the strings from your hoodie tight and now you’re just a nose and a pair of eyes. You remember when you went to Canberra for the school trip and how Olivia told everyone how her sister’s ponytail had snapped off when they went to Perisher the year before. Was she full of shit you wonder? You run your hand over your hoodie where your ponytail is (blessedly still attached). You have your keys now and you hold them close to your body like a gun.
Now that definitely sounded like someone, you think. You stop. You look behind you. A cat is sniffing around a garbage bin. Just a cat. Just a cat.
You look at your phone. Thirty degrees in Phuket today. Is it a crazy idea? You can’t even walk 500 metres without crapping yourself, how can you backpack round Thailand? There will be other travellers you’ll meet on your way, you tell yourself. Will Luke see your photos on Facebook? Would he care?
You think of your Mum’s face when you told her. ‘6 weeks’ she repeated and turned back to the sink.
‘We can ask Lauren to help out more with Dad?’, you’d suggested.
The silence had been excruciating.
‘No motorbikes’ she’d said, finally.
And of course, you wouldn’t get on a motorbike because you know that motorbike rider deaths are nearly 30 times more than drivers of other vehicles.
100 metres
You walk past the construction site which promises to be ‘Deluxe Apartments’ but which is currently just a big gaping hole. You know your feet are walking but you can’t see them anymore. You get out your phone for light but put it back in your pocket because it lights you up like a Christmas tree. Come get me lunatic, right here!
You hear a car’s engine coming up behind you. Keep going. Keep going, you beg. You keep your head down as your heart starts racing. Maybe its Dad, you think, for a stupid second. Of course it’s not bloody Dad. He hasn’t driven a car for ten years. The car slows, then keeps going.
If you cross the park you only have 50 metres to go. If you go around, much more. It is bloody freezing now and the rock in your shoe feels like glass.
You cross the park.
50 metres
Your feet squelch in the damp grass. You can just see signs of life littering the ground.
Empty water bottles. Old tape from footy boots. A hair clip.
You keep your head down, your shoulders closed in and your keys ready. If you feel invisible maybe it will be true.
You’re so close now.
‘Hey!’ A male voice calls out in the distance.
You don’t turn around. Of course, you don’t. The voice is not close. It’s probably coming from one of the houses from Northcote street. They’re probably not even talking to you, idiot. You are nearly home.
You walk as fast as you possibly can without running. Why don’t you run? You don’t want to look stupid. Even to your would-be attacker. It’s probably nothing, no-one.
‘Hey!’
‘Hey!’
Oh fuck, you realise. They are talking to you.
You are a child again. Your voice is a whisper,
‘Dad’, you start saying, ‘Dad.'
Whoever it is, is getting closer.
You can hear footsteps now, running. The squelch of the grass again, but not from your feet.
‘Hey!'
You start sprinting now. Your backpack jumps around excitedly. Your breathe the only thing you hear. Your house the only thing that matters. Your Dad. Just get home. Home home home.
You think about how when you were little, your Dad would carry you in from the car after a long journey. The comfort of your head on his chest and the warmth of his distinctly Dad smell. You’d always pretend to still be asleep so that he wouldn’t make you walk.
Is this how you die? You chance a look over your shoulder.
It’s a middle age man running towards you.
No. It’s not.
‘Shit’. You stop running and briefly close your eyes in relief. The rest of your body takes longer to register the relief. ‘Justin.’
‘Hey’ Justin stops running just before he reaches you and drops his suitcase. He bends over and puts his hands on his knees like an Olympic runner. ‘Did you hear me, I was calling out to you?’
‘Um…yeah…I didn’t know it was you, sorry.’
Did you just apologise to him? You turn back to the direction of your house. ‘I was just trying to get home, Justin.’
‘Cool, me too’ He coughs, loudly bringing up the phlegm in his throat, then swallowing again.
Is it you or does he seem different tonight?
‘I’ll walk you home’, he says picking up the suitcase now sprinkled like a lamington with the damp grass.
‘Okay.’
You walk towards your house. He’s walking too close and you can smell alcohol on his breath.
He looks at you in a strange way.
You look away.
‘So how’s things? he says, finally.
‘Yeah same old’, you reply.
‘Do you still see Sarah?’
