This is Chapter Two of -- "There comes a Dark Bird-Call"
It was two weeks later ---before I saw anyone from the wedding.
Apparently, Abe and Joe had considered for a long time --wether or not it was best to take me to the hospital that day. In the end, after feeding me water for half an hour, they had decided it would be ok --to stick me in a taxi, and tell the driver where I lived. I had gotten home fine---eaten some corn chips--and then had gone straight to bed at 3 in the afternoon.
Abe at least, had been worried enough as a friend, to call me up and ask how I was doing. I told him I was fine, of course, and laughed at myself for greening out. I didn't really try to explain to him --what had happened--how do you explain something like that anyway? Without seeming mentally ill. We talked briefly about the wedding, then decided it would probably be better, to meet in person---and discuss things in a more intimate setting. So Abe agreed to come and meet me, near where I was living, in Darlinghurst.
It is a fairly interesting area of Sydney, (the surrounding suburbs of my old Art Deco apartment). Potts point and the nearby areas, are more tied up with every stage of Australian colonial history, than any in the country. I say all this, with a kind of bias, having more recently been involved in researching the area--although at the time of the wedding, I probably knew as much or less as any foreigner reading this. I am a historian by profession, you see, and that time I met up with Abe, was the exact point when I had been initially contracted privately-- to do a research report about Wollomoloo. (Precisely what that research report involved, I'll get more intricate with, as it relates to the horrible coming events.)
But just for the purpose of setting, I'll give you some introductory facts about the area I live in, right now. Potts point, Darlinghurst, Wooloomooloo, and Kings cross are a series of suburbs in the North East end of Hexton, Sydney, quite close to Elizabeth Bay, and Darling Harbour. Mosman (where the wedding was held) is on the other side of the Northern suburbs of Sydney. They were colonised not long after the discovery of Botany Bay, and the arrival of the First Fleet. The area, was seen by the first Fleeters, mostly as an uninhabitable place, with a sort of --endless forest --along the beach--and nothing but dirty swampland to the South.
The indigenous folk, referred to the area as 'Wooloomooloo', or rather 'Walla Mulla' ---A phrase roughly interpreted as 'place of blood' ---although there's grim evidence for this actually meaning 'place of plenty' (deriving from the bountiful coastland where the indigenous folk fished). During the height of colonial history--it became a real estate for the wealthy--being occupied by enormous grand homesteads. Various waves of migration and social change, and Kings Cross is now the red light district of Sydney, whilst Potts Point and the other areas, still hold a great prestige and aristocratic heritage. The area now boasts a diversity of wealth and poverty, local occupant and tourist, prostitute and barista, bohemian and fascist, hobo and rich investor. It's also a rich multicultural hub. There are all sorts of wonderful heritage buildings, grand old hotels, and art neaveau buildings. There's loads of lovely old town houses awaiting the gentrification of their peeling paintwork and chipped facades. Terrace houses, and other wonderful landmarks have survived in spite of years of industry and concerted efforts to pull them down. Centre of it all, at the junction of William street and Darlinghurst road, (where Kings Cross meets the posher Darlinghurst).... there is a tremendous billboard for Coca Cola standing above it all. Traditionally a huge neon eyesore, it has temporarily been replaced by a ridiculous looking cardboard thing. Perfectly capturing, the kind of cheap and unique ugliness, which is so typical of Sydney---and indeed, most of Australia.
I had arranged to meet Abe underneath the giant coke sign-- that drizzly morning. I spotted him from across the road, in denim jeans and a grunge-ish black band shirt, as he waved his arm and yelled 'Stenton! Stenton!'. Pretty soon, we had walked up Kings Cross famous 'strip'--and arrived at 'The Bourbon' hotel--to grab a drink. Abe seemed to be in pretty good spirits.
Not long after we had sat down, Abe kind of fidgeted, and looked around in an aggravated manner. 'Can we go somewhere else actually?' He said, 'I can't stand this place. It's all rizzle razzle now.' I thought for a moment, and then threw a random suggestion, 'We could go to Gerry's anchor? Its my local. It's a lot more folksy. Better music than here. But it's right over the other side of Darlinghurst.' 'Anywhere's gotta be better than here' said Abe.
So, we got up, and made our way, all the way back down Darlinghurst Road, past all the strip joints, cafés and kebab shops on the main drag. As we were walking, I pointed out Kings Cross library, next to the Vegas club, where I was doing research for my latest client. This was how I started talking to Abe about the report I was doing on the local area. 'Whoa!' Said Abe surprised, 'Who would have thought there was a library there! I must have walked past here a thousand times --and never seen it for all the junkies, hookers, spruikers, drunks and hobos.'
He seemed impressed by the whole project, asking regularly: 'So tell me more about what your working on, it sounds interesting.' Our conversation continued all the way down to Gerry's anchor, and soon enough, we had schooners of beer in our hands, and for a rare chance in the inner city, a place inside where we could drink and smoke ---at the same time.
I started telling Abe about the private employer who had contacted me directly, after reading a paper I wrote about the infamous 'Rum Rebellion' of New South Wales. 'Whats his name? Your employer?' He asked.
I explained that the guys name was Richard Canaan, and that he was apparently closely related to Neville Drury. He then gave me a look like I was stupid, finally asking; 'Who the fuck is Neville Drury??' 'Oh---he's kind of a well known Australian pseudo-historian.' I said, 'Wrote a bunch of books about the occult, and various other pseudo-scientific hokem. Back in the day. Hippy dude. Hung up by the seventies. He's dead now I think. Anyway, this guy Richard is his second cousin or something.'
Abe went to grab us both another beer, whilst I went downstairs to the toilets. When we got back, he still seemed oddly fascinated by my research report, asking as soon as I returned, 'So whats it going to be?--a book?'. (I got the feeling maybe we were both just happy to stall the inevitable talk about the wedding for a while.) Regardless, I was thoroughly enjoying my latest research, so I was more than happy to oblige his curiosity: 'I don't really know yet.' I said, 'The guy hasn't really explained. As far as I can see so far, he just wants me to submit various chapters of research to him, bit by bit. Maybe he just doesn't like studying and has a fetish for this stuff? I don't know. I think he's rich anyway.' 'What makes you think that?' Abe asked, 'What's he paying you? Is it good money?'
I leaned back happily, just thinking about the whole glorious matter. 'Well that's the best part.' I said grinning, '--a shit-ton. He's paying me, a shit-ton.'
There was a group of bikers at a big round table behind us, who were clinking their glasses, and laughing raucously. 'Lucky bludger.' Said Abe, raising his voice, 'So when is it due? You should speak to Miguel. You know --he still has access to the big library at Bourkeley university. He can probably get you any book you want on the subject.' 'I will definitely be asking him about that.' I said. 'Actually I'm meeting the guy this afternoon with some preliminaries to discuss it.' Pretty soon the subject of the wedding came up --Abe told me he had only spoken to Alfie once since the incident, on the phone, but 'he seemed ok'. 'You should call him,' Abe said, 'You know, I don't think he was ever seriously angry at you. By the way, did you really sleep with Rihanna that night?' 'What? NO!' I said angrily.
We talked a little more about Alfie and Chloe, and the trainwreck that was their wedding. Then Abe asked me if I had recovered ok from my greening out on the lawn. I told him I was fine, not mentioning the weird hallucinations of the skeletal winged ghost. We had several more beers, then eventually parted ways.
I had to meet Richard Canaan (My private employer) at 5:00pm, and it was now 3:55--so I had a little time to kill. I decided to get a coffee on Bayswater road, before I headed down to meet him. I passed a destitute old homeless man along the way, he had a sun bleached, wide-brim hat, and his face was brown and wrinkled like a prune. He held his hand out, but didn't bother asking for change. The look on the homeless mans face was one of terror--as if life had suddenly cut him off from the bar, and locked him in some permanent street jail--the wind changing forever on his wretched expression, slowly blowing on him-- till he would erode away into dust.
As I sipped my latte, at the little Greek cafe, I looked over the preliminary notes I had typed out the night before. In a rather odd request, Richard had asked me if he could see the research before I had even written my first draught. He said he wanted to be included in every stage of the research, to direct the contents according to his wishes. The place we were going to meet, was an odd address, out of the central service area, on a quiet, wealthy street called 'Roslyn Gardens' --down towards Elizabeth bay. As far as I knew, there were no cafés or restaurants down there, but he had assured me the address was that of a licensed venue. I scribbled on my typed notes, annoyed at the chaotic disorder of them, but --what was to be expected? I had only less than a day to work on the research so far. The notes I had made --could be little more than pulled quotes from various sources at present, and that really was all they were.
My resolve, was that I at least could eliminate things which weren't actually relevant to Richards request, before meeting him this afternoon. I had included a great deal of previous research from my study of the Rum rebellion, simply because my knowledge allowed me to tie (probably irrelevant) macro cosmic Australian events of this period, (to microcosmic events around Wooloomooloo). I began to cross out paragraphs headed by facts and dates that were superfluous and misplaced. 'Rum rebellion 1808.' (Crossed out). 'Testimony of man dining at government house, the night Bligh was deposed by 'the great perturbator'--John Macarthur, orchestrator of the rum rebellion.' (Crossed out). 'The colony at the time consisted of those who sold rum, and those who drank it.' (Crossed out). 'This began a tradition of wealthy landowners who cared nothing for the residents of the land in Australia. John MacArthur bought pyrmont for a bottle of rum. The ordinary people who worked so tirelessly to build the houses and buildings on those lands, just like the indigenous folk, would never be able to afford to own the land they toiled on themselves.' (crossed out).
Time passed pretty quickly as I edited the notes, and eliminated everything that wasn't really relevant to the Potts Point area. As well as all the Rum rebellion stuff, for some reason I had also included in my initial brainstorming --far too broad a history of greater Sydney. I started tearing out any information about events further West than Hyde Park or further South than Oxford Street. Among the information I began to remove, were facts such as: 'P24--'information surrounding the construction of Paramatta road and Princes highway in 1810' (Torn out) P38--'Information regarding the first stations built at Newtown, in 1855.' (torn out) 'The building of Petersham station, in 1857' (torn out), 'The building of Stanmore station, in 1878. (Torn out), 'The building of Lewisham station, in 1886.' (torn out).
Further to this I eliminated huge sections comprised of four or more pages, which were simply too expansive; such as 'The discovery of gold in Bathurst in 1851 --and it's effect on migration in NSW'. (Thrown in the bin). As it drew closer and closer to five o clock, I was beggining to be satisfied that my stack of papers---were now at least in a reasonable order, and organised as best as they could be --for clarity and demonstration of the content --of what could eventually be a first draft. There was a very attractive girl, sitting on the table opposite me, with a taught face, and flowing brown hair. She was beautiful, and strangely familiar. I tried me best to prevent my head from bobbing up and gawking at her cleavage, peeping out of an elegant green Denmans top, as I worked, but in the end the temptation became so much I had to leave. Unfortunately, that image of the beautiful girl with the bright green top--didn't leave my mind.
I began to walk the long stretch towards Roslyn gardens at about quarter-to-five, and I reached the address Richard had given me before the clock ticked over. As I had suspected, there was nothing along Roslyn Gardens which looked remotely like a cafe or a bar. There were plenty of beautiful heritage buildings and decadent mansions. The address Richard had given me was merely a large white building, built in a curious modern architectural style. It seemed to have no doors or windows, only a long stretch of walled path leading down to the front facade of the building. I stood at the entrance, waiting patiently for any sign of the mysterious Richard Canaan.
In the end, he turned up late--so much that I had been standing there, listening to the dull squawk of birds--for twenty minutes--when he did finally show. He was a tall, thin man, with long, dark hair--a pointy abrahamic face, dressed all-in light black casual wear. On his head, he wore a kind of sleek, black, beatnik-beret. He had a gold ended cane, which he used to hike along the tarmac. He walked down from the other end of Roslyn gardens, and crossed the road to meet me on the footpath, shaking my hand violently.
'You must be Stenton.' He stated formally. 'Yes. That's me.' I said. 'Fantastic. Won't you join me? It's right in here.' He spoke with the posh formality of one who's idle hours had never known economic stress. I followed him down the long twisted white path, that led down to the blank-front-wall.. of the tall, white building, then --leading me around a corner to the left of the building, he brought us to a hidden door. Mr Canaan stood with his head straight --and rapped on the door with his fist. After a minute of silence, there was a clicking latch, and a rather beautiful young blonde girl opened the door. The girl, in her mid twenties, was dressed all in white-- (a fashionable vintage sequinned cabaret number). She winked at us in a rehearsed greeting, and led us down the wooden hallway of the building. 'Welcome to the Xanadu club' --She said in a sultry tone, as she led us through a vibrant, colourful passage, pushing strings of beads out of the way with her body. 'Table for two?' She asked. Richard smiled at her and said, 'Yes my dear. That would be fantastic.'
We passed many glittering, locked doors, until, (after traversing a few flights of stairs) --were lead out onto an immense open space, with a balcony overlooking the foliage of trees. The beautiful call girl, indicated the tables with her hand, and Richard charged toward an elegant table in the left corner of the balcony. We were just about the only other people in there, bar a lonely looking Italian man. I noticed the large room was styled in 19th century designs, with a certain French decadence. The call-girl made her way back towards a hidden room, saying 'I'll return with some menus'. Her fluffy white dress-- hung up quite high, leaving her naked, rotund arse-cheeks protruding from the sides of her silver underwear, like white-melons, and the most elegantly smooth tanned legs, moved-- gracefully catching the light, in the style of an enchantingly erotic dream.
'Have you ever heard of this place?' Richard asked proudly, 'I'm quite sure you haven't. For eighty-years, this darling place has been the secret treasure of Sydney. Many famous people have rubbed shoulders here, but never one member of the press has been invited. No snoops, no cops and no reporters. That's the unofficial policy of 'the Xanadu Club'. Would you like a drink? The cocktails here are simply to die for. It's on me.'
'Sure.' I said, going along for the ride, 'What would you recommend?'
I noticed a giant mural stretching across the right-hand wall of the club. It was bright and elegant looking, with lots of blacks and reds--a kind of festive debaucherous scene --of revelling party goers. There was also another mural on the back wall, of an even darker subject matter, painted all in blacks and browns, it depicted a group of grotesque creatures in a night time beach scene. Richard had not really responded about the cocktails, so I broached the silence with another question. 'Who painted those two murals?' I asked purposefully.
Mr Canaan's eyes widened, his thick black eyebrows lifting up like devils wings. 'Aahh!' He replied passionately, 'Those are very interesting indeed! I presume your art history, is not quite as up to scratch as your cultural history! ....well now....That one on the side there--is merely a reproduction--of the wonderful French painter Toulouse Lautrec! But that one at the back! Now that is far more interesting!'
Mr Canaan leaned into me --until he was almost breathing in my face; 'That painting is a one-off, original artwork by a local talent. Can you believe that such a fantastic piece of art, has never been looked upon by a curator, or any official from the art world of Sydney, or indeed the world.' 'Whats it called?' I asked, 'Who is the artist?'. 'That piece of art ..' Said Richard, '..was painted by Rosaleen Norton, 'the witch of kings cross'--right here in 1953! According to the staff--She named the piece herself, she called it : 'the dark shore'!'
I became completely enchanted by the strange mural, something about the night time beach scene, which was so Australian, and the ghostly white gum trees---and those terrible leering faces---those grotesque horrible yellow eyes-- were intensely haunting--and yet utterly enchanting. 'Its beautiful!' I said. I then pulled the research notes out from my bag and presented them to Mr Canaan. 'I presume you'll want to look at these.' I said, 'They're extremely primitive at this stage I am afraid!'
As Richard took the ream of paper--the striking blonde had wandered back out to us --with the menus. She had been closely followed from the back room ---by another flamboyantly dressed lady, with far too much make up, who was now standing on an elevated platform at the back of the hall. She was also dressed in white feather and fur--but her outfit was so outrageous--she almost looked like she was wearing a cockatoo costume. Instantaneously, the silence of the building was shattered by a blaring cabaret tune over speakers, and the bird-like woman, began to dance and thrust her hips around in time with the music.
'This is KIKI BAKIR!' Said Richard, looking up from my notes in excitement, 'She's a very talented local drag queen. You simply must have heard of her???' 'No' I said, honestly 'I--I'm afraid I haven't'. Mr Canaan seemed slightly disappointed, and returned to silently reading my notes. The fat Italian man inside, meanwhile, was laughing and clapping his hands, as the bird-like drag Queen paraded about and made rude gestures with her hands and genitals.
Richard had become quite distracted by my notes, making only ambiguous grunting sounds under his breath. To busy myself--whilst I awaited his reaction--I began to flick through the cocktail menu. The menu had an elegant mahogany cover, with gold leaf typography. 'XANADU BEAK WETTERS'. There were over ten pages of cocktails, the prices weren't marked--but--as Mr Canaan had offered to pay for them anyway--money wasn't really an object. My eye was caught by a cinnamon twist on a basic Manhattan --which had been called 'Old Spice.'
Suddenly, Richard put his head up with a raised eyebrow, 'Nothing about the early sea voyages of the Dutch or the Portuguese?' He asked menacingly. 'No.' I said, 'I didn't think it was relevant.' He seemed disappointed once more --and buried his head in the manuscript again.
Shortly, the cute blonde waitress came back over to the table, and asked us if we would like any drinks. I waited for Richard to respond, who still kept his head buried for a considerably rude amount of time, (before suddenly looking up at me--annoyed)-- 'Answer her question boy!' He snapped. I mumbled nervously to escape his fiery gaze, 'I'll have the 'Old Spice' thank you.' 'And I'll have a Big Red.' Said Richard coldly, returning to his study.
The blonde left, as Kiki the drag Queen continued to gyrate and croon. The strange melodic carnival music sang out like a broken church organ. Left with nothing to do again, I continued casually flipping through the menu, trying to find the ingredients of the cocktail which Mr Canaan had ordered. Big Red. There it was. Kind of a whiskey sour with Raspberry liqueur in it. Sounded quite nice actually.
Richards eyes darted upwards again, like a sniper setting his sights. 'The description of the land before colonial settlement is good, but there's not much of it. I like this ---your quote about the coast with the endless forest and the swamps to the South. Is there anyway we could make it more personal? I want richness you understand? I want depth.'
(I began regretting editing so much out of the piece. It seemed that less wasn't more-- in this case). 'Yes. I understand.' I said, 'I'm afraid I wasn't quite sure what you were looking for, but now you've made it perfectly clear.' The dashing blonde porn star --returned with our drinks, they were served in quite beautiful antique glasses --slightly tinted an auburn colour. I took a sip, and though the drink was tart, I appreciated the diverse palette. 'Its delicious.' I said, but Richard did not take his eyes from my work.
After another minute he began to comment on larger areas of text. 'Now this part where you describe the destruction of a kind of swampy, coastal paradise' he said, '... I like this.' Then he began to read my research out loud: 'The woodcutters, turf cutters, quarries, and grazing livestock had caused 'serious injury' to the landscape.' He read in a mocking voice. 'Hmm.' He muttered, pausing mid sentence, 'This fact about young Frederick Pawley, who died in 1867 of suffocation...'''when he was buried by an avalanche of sand, playing on a sandhill.''' That's a great fact!' Richard went on, 'But it's simply not detailed enough--When we are talking about devastation ---I want to see devastation! Show me the suffering of our tragic colonial history!'
I smiled and nodded at him, trying to re-evaluate what this wealthy eccentric was really all about. He read the words so seriously, like a cat watching a mouse--I wondered how he could possible have so much invested in it all. Richard began flicking more speedily through the manuscript pages now, seeming to approve of the more generic parts of history. Then he suddenly stopped and re-examined a certain paragraph, slamming his finger into it, his eyes growing cold and narrow again. 'Its all quite good up until the 20th century.' He said sharply, 'Frankly, there's far too much about the war.' He began reading aloud again, '''Men were falling over themselves to enlist' because war meant 'cigarettes, and cards and new mates, instead of the same old round, the same dirty terrace, the same job year after year. It meant a free sea trip, a glorious if restricted holiday, the only drawback being the drill sargeants and the unnecessary early hours.''' 'Now I ask you', he interrupted himself, 'What does this have to do with the local area of Wooloomoloo and Kings Cross??'
I ground my teeth and looked at him unknowingly. 'Look.' He said tearing a whole ream of the paper I had given him into shreds, (my eyes opening in stunned shock). 'We'll start from scratch. This will give you the ground work to learn the way I want you to learn. The way I would like to do this --is for you to research smaller areas as I designate them. Once all the research is done, you can compile it all into one coherent meaning. You can pull it all together into one grand story.' I told him I was absolutely fine with this. Then he insisted we order some more drinks, (before explaining my first research topic for the next week). The latest drinks, added with the drinks with Abe earlier, I was starting to get intoxicated again. When Mr Canaan handed me a white envelope with two thousand dollars cash in it, I became even more intoxicated. 'For all your work so far.' He said, 'There is plenty more where that came from. Now, if you would be so kind, we will meet here again in precisely one weeks time--at which point I will be satisfied only when you can tell me --all about the 'Kings Cross theatre! around 1827. I would like to know the entire repertoire of plays for that year, then I will be quite confident that we are on the same page.' He stood up after finishing his drink, 'Now --I will be taking my business upstairs. However, in the interim, I would like you to stay in the company of these wonderful girls, and help yourself to as many drinks as you like--on my tab.'
And so, the strange Mr Canaan, took his leave of me and wandered out --into the corridor of endless doors. My instant reaction had been to leave this strange place immediately, but it was hard to resist the charm of the blonde girl--when she returned asking what I would like to drink 'on the house'. I quickly caved in --and got myself a 'big red'. Then the hours passed, and the strange spell of the symphonic circus cabaret music, the perfume of the beautiful angelic waitress, and the enchanting power of the mural of 'the dark shore' all conspired to work me into a fine drunken trance.
I'm quite sure I was utterly tanked, by the time I left the curious sights, smells and sounds of the 'Xanadu club'. I know at least that I patted down my pockets, making sure I had that generous wad of cash Richard had given me. I lit up a cigarette and began to walk up the long stretch leading back to the Darlinghurst strip. I felt as frisky as a dog as I stumbled down Bayswater Road. It was no surprise --really then --that the beckoning girls outside the Badabing club --caught my aroused and drunken eye. Feeling the wad of cash under my arm, a guilty pleasure which normally felt off limits-- now seemed well within my grasp.
(Badabing was one of the classier strip joints on the main drag of the cross). There's probably numerous reasons for this, the most obvious being that the other ones were so notoriously bad. The type of girls who hung around 'dreamgirls' and some of the seedier joints, looked like 70 year old emu's who'd been out in the sun too long. A cabbie once told me a joke about 'dream girls'--that he'd driven a respectable looking foreigner who wanted to see a strip show up past 'dream girls'--but the guy had taken one look at the hideous old crones--and said 'Driver. Put your goddamn foot down.'
A lot of the girls at Badabing were just topless waiters. Pretty college girls who needed some extra cash, but weren't willing to completely give themselves away to the night. Really classy dames. Sometimes the beautiful, but prudish girls --would loosen up after a few drinks --and go all out for the patrons. Anything could happen at Badabing --and it often did.
It's a monstrous haze, the rest of that night--in my shattered memory. I know the club was basically empty, and to my amazement, some sort of bizarre serendipity or coincidence---I ended up having a private show with the stunning brunette girl I had seen at the cafe earlier. The one with the green top. I had thought she looked eerily familiar, and now I remembered why. We'd come to Badabing for Alfie's bucks night a month ago--(I had organised the whole thing). Earlier at the cafe, I hadn't placed the face of that brunette, but now I recalled-- by some ridiculous deus ex-machina--she was the same stripper we'd watched perform on Alfie's bucks night. I was drinking loads of rum and cokes that evening after the Zanadu club--as I drueled over the brunette Venus, as she danced, like a siren in front of me. Perhaps foolishly--I broke the fourth wall. I think it was because seeing her in the cafe --had made me consciously realise, the usually forgotten fact, that she was a real person. I remember being turned on beyond control, yet somehow making normal conversation with her. I recall distinctly-- asking her name. Rita. I remember her telling me she was studying business at uni, and how she liked sailing. I remember her taking off her underwear, as I handed her piles of banknotes. Then her bare curves, squatting naked, like a cruelly unresistable curvaceous frog--in front of me--she leaned in to whisper in my ear--'You want to go out to the back room?'
I remember a terrible nightmare, about the winged, skeletal phantom--sucking the life out of my soul.
But that's all I remember.
I woke up with a swollen eye, and jaw, lying in the park outside my house. My fist was swollen up like a giant apple. I guessed I had gotten in some shit with the bouncers at Bada Bing. They were usually pretty violent with anyone who got remotely close or comfortable with the girls. My memory was shot. My hangover was worse than the day of the wedding--and I still felt feverish --from the most terrible nightmares--of abstract black shapes--dissecting lines--and fractal patterns, and that artwork. 'The Black Coast.' Whatever substance nightmare was made of, I could feel it --brimming over the edges of sleep --and filling up the vessel of my waking life, more and more, every day.
Things got progressively darker over those next few months--as I reported to Richard every week--with my latest research. Enchanted by the seductive atmosphere of the 'Xanadu club' --and spending more and more time alternatively at the library--and the Badabing club--pissing away Mr Canaan's money--and gazing for hours on end at Rita's perfect body, and studying her, learning about who she was, this 'angel of the Badabing club'.
But it was my own fascination--my own research which drew me deeper and deeper into the spiders nest. My fascination over that strange artwork on the wall of the Xanadu dining-hall. The strange dark beach in the mural. I had to find out more ---about the artist.
In spite of my horrifying growing sense of primal terror, I had to learn more about Rosaleen Norton.
Continued in chapter Three - 'The Witch of Kings Cross'
https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/comments/4gd0tz/the_witch_of_kings_cross/ This is Chapter Two of -- "A Bird falls to the earth and then dies"
It was two weeks later ---before I saw anyone from the wedding.
Apparently, Abe and Joe had considered for a long time --wether or not it was best to take me to the hospital that day. In the end, after feeding me water for half an hour, they had decided it would be ok --to stick me in a taxi, and tell the driver where I lived. I had gotten home fine---eaten some corn chips--and then had gone straight to bed at 3 in the afternoon.
Abe at least, had been worried enough as a friend, to call me up and ask how I was doing. I told him I was fine, of course, and laughed at myself for greening out. I didn't really try to explain to him --what had happened--how do you explain something like that anyway? Without seeming mentally ill. We talked briefly about the wedding, then decided it would probably be better, to meet in person---and discuss things in a more intimate setting. So Abe agreed to come and meet me, near where I was living, in Darlinghurst.
It is a fairly interesting area of Sydney, (the surrounding suburbs of my old Art Deco apartment). Potts point and the nearby areas, are more tied up with every stage of Australian colonial history, than any in the country. I say all this, with a kind of bias, having more recently been involved in researching the area--although at the time of the wedding, I probably knew as much or less as any foreigner reading this. I am a historian by profession, you see, and that time I met up with Abe, was the exact point when I had been initially contracted privately-- to do a research report about Wollomoloo. (Precisely what that research report involved, I'll get more intricate with, as it relates to the horrible coming events.)
But just for the purpose of setting, I'll give you some introductory facts about the area I live in, right now. Potts point, Darlinghurst, Wooloomooloo, and Kings cross are a series of suburbs in the North East end of Hexton, Sydney, quite close to Elizabeth Bay, and Darling Harbour. Mosman (where the wedding was held) is on the other side of the Northern suburbs of Sydney. They were colonised not long after the discovery of Botany Bay, and the arrival of the First Fleet. The area, was seen by the first Fleeters, mostly as an uninhabitable place, with a sort of --endless forest --along the beach--and nothing but dirty swampland to the South.
The indigenous folk, referred to the area as 'Wooloomooloo', or rather 'Walla Mulla' ---A phrase roughly interpreted as 'place of blood' ---although there's grim evidence for this actually meaning 'place of plenty' (deriving from the bountiful coastland where the indigenous folk fished). During the height of colonial history--it became a real estate for the wealthy--being occupied by enormous grand homesteads. Various waves of migration and social change, and Kings Cross is now the red light district of Sydney, whilst Potts Point and the other areas, still hold a great prestige and aristocratic heritage. The area now boasts a diversity of wealth and poverty, local occupant and tourist, prostitute and barista, bohemian and fascist, hobo and rich investor. It's also a rich multicultural hub. There are all sorts of wonderful heritage buildings, grand old hotels, and art neaveau buildings. There's loads of lovely old town houses awaiting the gentrification of their peeling paintwork and chipped facades. Terrace houses, and other wonderful landmarks have survived in spite of years of industry and concerted efforts to pull them down. Centre of it all, at the junction of William street and Darlinghurst road, (where Kings Cross meets the posher Darlinghurst).... there is a tremendous billboard for Coca Cola standing above it all. Traditionally a huge neon eyesore, it has temporarily been replaced by a ridiculous looking cardboard thing. Perfectly capturing, the kind of cheap and unique ugliness, which is so typical of Sydney---and indeed, most of Australia.
I had arranged to meet Abe underneath the giant coke sign-- that drizzly morning. I spotted him from across the road, in denim jeans and a grunge-ish black band shirt, as he waved his arm and yelled 'Stenton! Stenton!'. Pretty soon, we had walked up Kings Cross famous 'strip'--and arrived at 'The Bourbon' hotel--to grab a drink. Abe seemed to be in pretty good spirits.
Not long after we had sat down, Abe kind of fidgeted, and looked around in an aggravated manner. 'Can we go somewhere else actually?' He said, 'I can't stand this place. It's all rizzle razzle now.' I thought for a moment, and then threw a random suggestion, 'We could go to Gerry's anchor? Its my local. It's a lot more folksy. Better music than here. But it's right over the other side of Darlinghurst.' 'Anywhere's gotta be better than here' said Abe.
So, we got up, and made our way, all the way back down Darlinghurst Road, past all the strip joints, cafés and kebab shops on the main drag. As we were walking, I pointed out Kings Cross library, next to the Vegas club, where I was doing research for my latest client. This was how I started talking to Abe about the report I was doing on the local area. 'Whoa!' Said Abe surprised, 'Who would have thought there was a library there! I must have walked past here a thousand times --and never seen it for all the junkies, hookers, spruikers, drunks and hobos.'
He seemed impressed by the whole project, asking regularly: 'So tell me more about what your working on, it sounds interesting.' Our conversation continued all the way down to Gerry's anchor, and soon enough, we had schooners of beer in our hands, and for a rare chance in the inner city, a place inside where we could drink and smoke ---at the same time.
I started telling Abe about the private employer who had contacted me directly, after reading a paper I wrote about the infamous 'Rum Rebellion' of New South Wales. 'Whats his name? Your employer?' He asked.
I explained that the guys name was Richard Canaan, and that he was apparently closely related to Neville Drury. He then gave me a look like I was stupid, finally asking; 'Who the fuck is Neville Drury??' 'Oh---he's kind of a well known Australian pseudo-historian.' I said, 'Wrote a bunch of books about the occult, and various other pseudo-scientific hokem. Back in the day. Hippy dude. Hung up by the seventies. He's dead now I think. Anyway, this guy Richard is his second cousin or something.'
Abe went to grab us both another beer, whilst I went downstairs to the toilets. When we got back, he still seemed oddly fascinated by my research report, asking as soon as I returned, 'So whats it going to be?--a book?'. (I got the feeling maybe we were both just happy to stall the inevitable talk about the wedding for a while.) Regardless, I was thoroughly enjoying my latest research, so I was more than happy to oblige his curiosity: 'I don't really know yet.' I said, 'The guy hasn't really explained. As far as I can see so far, he just wants me to submit various chapters of research to him, bit by bit. Maybe he just doesn't like studying and has a fetish for this stuff? I don't know. I think he's rich anyway.' 'What makes you think that?' Abe asked, 'What's he paying you? Is it good money?'
I leaned back happily, just thinking about the whole glorious matter. 'Well that's the best part.' I said grinning, '--a shit-ton. He's paying me, a shit-ton.'
There was a group of bikers at a big round table behind us, who were clinking their glasses, and laughing raucously. 'Lucky bludger.' Said Abe, raising his voice, 'So when is it due? You should speak to Miguel. You know --he still has access to the big library at Bourkeley university. He can probably get you any book you want on the subject.' 'I will definitely be asking him about that.' I said. 'Actually I'm meeting the guy this afternoon with some preliminaries to discuss it.' Pretty soon the subject of the wedding came up --Abe told me he had only spoken to Alfie once since the incident, on the phone, but 'he seemed ok'. 'You should call him,' Abe said, 'You know, I don't think he was ever seriously angry at you. By the way, did you really sleep with Rihanna that night?' 'What? NO!' I said angrily.
We talked a little more about Alfie and Chloe, and the trainwreck that was their wedding. Then Abe asked me if I had recovered ok from my greening out on the lawn. I told him I was fine, not mentioning the weird hallucinations of the skeletal winged ghost. We had several more beers, then eventually parted ways.
I had to meet Richard Canaan (My private employer) at 5:00pm, and it was now 3:55--so I had a little time to kill. I decided to get a coffee on Bayswater road, before I headed down to meet him. I passed a destitute old homeless man along the way, he had a sun bleached, wide-brim hat, and his face was brown and wrinkled like a prune. He held his hand out, but didn't bother asking for change. The look on the homeless mans face was one of terror--as if life had suddenly cut him off from the bar, and locked him in some permanent street jail--the wind changing forever on his wretched expression, slowly blowing on him-- till he would erode away into dust.
As I sipped my latte, at the little Greek cafe, I looked over the preliminary notes I had typed out the night before. In a rather odd request, Richard had asked me if he could see the research before I had even written my first draught. He said he wanted to be included in every stage of the research, to direct the contents according to his wishes. The place we were going to meet, was an odd address, out of the central service area, on a quiet, wealthy street called 'Roslyn Gardens' --down towards Elizabeth bay. As far as I knew, there were no cafés or restaurants down there, but he had assured me the address was that of a licensed venue. I scribbled on my typed notes, annoyed at the chaotic disorder of them, but --what was to be expected? I had only less than a day to work on the research so far. The notes I had made --could be little more than pulled quotes from various sources at present, and that really was all they were.
My resolve, was that I at least could eliminate things which weren't actually relevant to Richards request, before meeting him this afternoon. I had included a great deal of previous research from my study of the Rum rebellion, simply because my knowledge allowed me to tie (probably irrelevant) macro cosmic Australian events of this period, (to microcosmic events around Wooloomooloo). I began to cross out paragraphs headed by facts and dates that were superfluous and misplaced. 'Rum rebellion 1808.' (Crossed out). 'Testimony of man dining at government house, the night Bligh was deposed by 'the great perturbator'--John Macarthur, orchestrator of the rum rebellion.' (Crossed out). 'The colony at the time consisted of those who sold rum, and those who drank it.' (Crossed out). 'This began a tradition of wealthy landowners who cared nothing for the residents of the land in Australia. John MacArthur bought pyrmont for a bottle of rum. The ordinary people who worked so tirelessly to build the houses and buildings on those lands, just like the indigenous folk, would never be able to afford to own the land they toiled on themselves.' (crossed out).
Time passed pretty quickly as I edited the notes, and eliminated everything that wasn't really relevant to the Potts Point area. As well as all the Rum rebellion stuff, for some reason I had also included in my initial brainstorming --far too broad a history of greater Sydney. I started tearing out any information about events further West than Hyde Park or further South than Oxford Street. Among the information I began to remove, were facts such as: 'P24--'information surrounding the construction of Paramatta road and Princes highway in 1810' (Torn out) P38--'Information regarding the first stations built at Newtown, in 1855.' (torn out) 'The building of Petersham station, in 1857' (torn out), 'The building of Stanmore station, in 1878. (Torn out), 'The building of Lewisham station, in 1886.' (torn out).
Further to this I eliminated huge sections comprised of four or more pages, which were simply too expansive; such as 'The discovery of gold in Bathurst in 1851 --and it's effect on migration in NSW'. (Thrown in the bin). As it drew closer and closer to five o clock, I was beggining to be satisfied that my stack of papers---were now at least in a reasonable order, and organised as best as they could be --for clarity and demonstration of the content --of what could eventually be a first draft. There was a very attractive girl, sitting on the table opposite me, with a taught face, and flowing brown hair. She was beautiful, and strangely familiar. I tried me best to prevent my head from bobbing up and gawking at her cleavage, peeping out of an elegant green Denmans top, as I worked, but in the end the temptation became so much I had to leave. Unfortunately, that image of the beautiful girl with the bright green top--didn't leave my mind.
I began to walk the long stretch towards Roslyn gardens at about quarter-to-five, and I reached the address Richard had given me before the clock ticked over. As I had suspected, there was nothing along Roslyn Gardens which looked remotely like a cafe or a bar. There were plenty of beautiful heritage buildings and decadent mansions. The address Richard had given me was merely a large white building, built in a curious modern architectural style. It seemed to have no doors or windows, only a long stretch of walled path leading down to the front facade of the building. I stood at the entrance, waiting patiently for any sign of the mysterious Richard Canaan.
In the end, he turned up late--so much that I had been standing there, listening to the dull squawk of birds--for twenty minutes--when he did finally show. He was a tall, thin man, with long, dark hair--a pointy abrahamic face, dressed all-in light black casual wear. On his head, he wore a kind of sleek, black, beatnik-beret. He had a gold ended cane, which he used to hike along the tarmac. He walked down from the other end of Roslyn gardens, and crossed the road to meet me on the footpath, shaking my hand violently.
'You must be Stenton.' He stated formally. 'Yes. That's me.' I said. 'Fantastic. Won't you join me? It's right in here.' He spoke with the posh formality of one who's idle hours had never known economic stress. I followed him down the long twisted white path, that led down to the blank-front-wall.. of the tall, white building, then --leading me around a corner to the left of the building, he brought us to a hidden door. Mr Canaan stood with his head straight --and rapped on the door with his fist. After a minute of silence, there was a clicking latch, and a rather beautiful young blonde girl opened the door. The girl, in her mid twenties, was dressed all in white-- (a fashionable vintage sequinned cabaret number). She winked at us in a rehearsed greeting, and led us down the wooden hallway of the building. 'Welcome to the Xanadu club' --She said in a sultry tone, as she led us through a vibrant, colourful passage, pushing strings of beads out of the way with her body. 'Table for two?' She asked. Richard smiled at her and said, 'Yes my dear. That would be fantastic.'
We passed many glittering, locked doors, until, (after traversing a few flights of stairs) --were lead out onto an immense open space, with a balcony overlooking the foliage of trees. The beautiful call girl, indicated the tables with her hand, and Richard charged toward an elegant table in the left corner of the balcony. We were just about the only other people in there, bar a lonely looking Italian man. I noticed the large room was styled in 19th century designs, with a certain French decadence. The call-girl made her way back towards a hidden room, saying 'I'll return with some menus'. Her fluffy white dress-- hung up quite high, leaving her naked, rotund arse-cheeks protruding from the sides of her silver underwear, like white-melons, and the most elegantly smooth tanned legs, moved-- gracefully catching the light, in the style of an enchantingly erotic dream.
'Have you ever heard of this place?' Richard asked proudly, 'I'm quite sure you haven't. For eighty-years, this darling place has been the secret treasure of Sydney. Many famous people have rubbed shoulders here, but never one member of the press has been invited. No snoops, no cops and no reporters. That's the unofficial policy of 'the Xanadu Club'. Would you like a drink? The cocktails here are simply to die for. It's on me.'
'Sure.' I said, going along for the ride, 'What would you recommend?'
I noticed a giant mural stretching across the right-hand wall of the club. It was bright and elegant looking, with lots of blacks and reds--a kind of festive debaucherous scene --of revelling party goers. There was also another mural on the back wall, of an even darker subject matter, painted all in blacks and browns, it depicted a group of grotesque creatures in a night time beach scene. Richard had not really responded about the cocktails, so I broached the silence with another question. 'Who painted those two murals?' I asked purposefully.
Mr Canaan's eyes widened, his thick black eyebrows lifting up like devils wings. 'Aahh!' He replied passionately, 'Those are very interesting indeed! I presume your art history, is not quite as up to scratch as your cultural history! ....well now....That one on the side there--is merely a reproduction--of the wonderful French painter Toulouse Lautrec! But that one at the back! Now that is far more interesting!'
Mr Canaan leaned into me --until he was almost breathing in my face; 'That painting is a one-off, original artwork by a local talent. Can you believe that such a fantastic piece of art, has never been looked upon by a curator, or any official from the art world of Sydney, or indeed the world.' 'Whats it called?' I asked, 'Who is the artist?'. 'That piece of art ..' Said Richard, '..was painted by Rosaleen Norton, 'the witch of kings cross'--right here in 1953! According to the staff--She named the piece herself, she called it : 'the dark shore'!'
I became completely enchanted by the strange mural, something about the night time beach scene, which was so Australian, and the ghostly white gum trees---and those terrible leering faces---those grotesque horrible yellow eyes-- were intensely haunting--and yet utterly enchanting. 'Its beautiful!' I said. I then pulled the research notes out from my bag and presented them to Mr Canaan. 'I presume you'll want to look at these.' I said, 'They're extremely primitive at this stage I am afraid!'
As Richard took the ream of paper--the striking blonde had wandered back out to us --with the menus. She had been closely followed from the back room ---by another flamboyantly dressed lady, with far too much make up, who was now standing on an elevated platform at the back of the hall. She was also dressed in white feather and fur--but her outfit was so outrageous--she almost looked like she was wearing a cockatoo costume. Instantaneously, the silence of the building was shattered by a blaring cabaret tune over speakers, and the bird-like woman, began to dance and thrust her hips around in time with the music.
'This is KIKI BAKIR!' Said Richard, looking up from my notes in excitement, 'She's a very talented local drag queen. You simply must have heard of her???' 'No' I said, honestly 'I--I'm afraid I haven't'. Mr Canaan seemed slightly disappointed, and returned to silently reading my notes. The fat Italian man inside, meanwhile, was laughing and clapping his hands, as the bird-like drag Queen paraded about and made rude gestures with her hands and genitals.
Richard had become quite distracted by my notes, making only ambiguous grunting sounds under his breath. To busy myself--whilst I awaited his reaction--I began to flick through the cocktail menu. The menu had an elegant mahogany cover, with gold leaf typography. 'XANADU BEAK WETTERS'. There were over ten pages of cocktails, the prices weren't marked--but--as Mr Canaan had offered to pay for them anyway--money wasn't really an object. My eye was caught by a cinnamon twist on a basic Manhattan --which had been called 'Old Spice.'
Suddenly, Richard put his head up with a raised eyebrow, 'Nothing about the early sea voyages of the Dutch or the Portuguese?' He asked menacingly. 'No.' I said, 'I didn't think it was relevant.' He seemed disappointed once more --and buried his head in the manuscript again.
Shortly, the cute blonde waitress came back over to the table, and asked us if we would like any drinks. I waited for Richard to respond, who still kept his head buried for a considerably rude amount of time, (before suddenly looking up at me--annoyed)-- 'Answer her question boy!' He snapped. I mumbled nervously to escape his fiery gaze, 'I'll have the 'Old Spice' thank you.' 'And I'll have a Big Red.' Said Richard coldly, returning to his study.
The blonde left, as Kiki the drag Queen continued to gyrate and croon. The strange melodic carnival music sang out like a broken church organ. Left with nothing to do again, I continued casually flipping through the menu, trying to find the ingredients of the cocktail which Mr Canaan had ordered. Big Red. There it was. Kind of a whiskey sour with Raspberry liqueur in it. Sounded quite nice actually.
Richards eyes darted upwards again, like a sniper setting his sights. 'The description of the land before colonial settlement is good, but there's not much of it. I like this ---your quote about the coast with the endless forest and the swamps to the South. Is there anyway we could make it more personal? I want richness you understand? I want depth.'
(I began regretting editing so much out of the piece. It seemed that less wasn't more-- in this case). 'Yes. I understand.' I said, 'I'm afraid I wasn't quite sure what you were looking for, but now you've made it perfectly clear.' The dashing blonde porn star --returned with our drinks, they were served in quite beautiful antique glasses --slightly tinted an auburn colour. I took a sip, and though the drink was tart, I appreciated the diverse palette. 'Its delicious.' I said, but Richard did not take his eyes from my work.
After another minute he began to comment on larger areas of text. 'Now this part where you describe the destruction of a kind of swampy, coastal paradise' he said, '... I like this.' Then he began to read my research out loud: 'The woodcutters, turf cutters, quarries, and grazing livestock had caused 'serious injury' to the landscape.' He read in a mocking voice. 'Hmm.' He muttered, pausing mid sentence, 'This fact about young Frederick Pawley, who died in 1867 of suffocation...'''when he was buried by an avalanche of sand, playing on a sandhill.''' That's a great fact!' Richard went on, 'But it's simply not detailed enough--When we are talking about devastation ---I want to see devastation! Show me the suffering of our tragic colonial history!'
I smiled and nodded at him, trying to re-evaluate what this wealthy eccentric was really all about. He read the words so seriously, like a cat watching a mouse--I wondered how he could possible have so much invested in it all. Richard began flicking more speedily through the manuscript pages now, seeming to approve of the more generic parts of history. Then he suddenly stopped and re-examined a certain paragraph, slamming his finger into it, his eyes growing cold and narrow again. 'Its all quite good up until the 20th century.' He said sharply, 'Frankly, there's far too much about the war.' He began reading aloud again, '''Men were falling over themselves to enlist' because war meant 'cigarettes, and cards and new mates, instead of the same old round, the same dirty terrace, the same job year after year. It meant a free sea trip, a glorious if restricted holiday, the only drawback being the drill sargeants and the unnecessary early hours.''' 'Now I ask you', he interrupted himself, 'What does this have to do with the local area of Wooloomoloo and Kings Cross??'
I ground my teeth and looked at him unknowingly. 'Look.' He said tearing a whole ream of the paper I had given him into shreds, (my eyes opening in stunned shock). 'We'll start from scratch. This will give you the ground work to learn the way I want you to learn. The way I would like to do this --is for you to research smaller areas as I designate them. Once all the research is done, you can compile it all into one coherent meaning. You can pull it all together into one grand story.' I told him I was absolutely fine with this. Then he insisted we order some more drinks, (before explaining my first research topic for the next week). The latest drinks, added with the drinks with Abe earlier, I was starting to get intoxicated again. When Mr Canaan handed me a white envelope with two thousand dollars cash in it, I became even more intoxicated. 'For all your work so far.' He said, 'There is plenty more where that came from. Now, if you would be so kind, we will meet here again in precisely one weeks time--at which point I will be satisfied only when you can tell me --all about the 'Kings Cross theatre! around 1827. I would like to know the entire repertoire of plays for that year, then I will be quite confident that we are on the same page.' He stood up after finishing his drink, 'Now --I will be taking my business upstairs. However, in the interim, I would like you to stay in the company of these wonderful girls, and help yourself to as many drinks as you like--on my tab.'
And so, the strange Mr Canaan, took his leave of me and wandered out --into the corridor of endless doors. My instant reaction had been to leave this strange place immediately, but it was hard to resist the charm of the blonde girl--when she returned asking what I would like to drink 'on the house'. I quickly caved in --and got myself a 'big red'. Then the hours passed, and the strange spell of the symphonic circus cabaret music, the perfume of the beautiful angelic waitress, and the enchanting power of the mural of 'the dark shore' all conspired to work me into a fine drunken trance.
I'm quite sure I was utterly tanked, by the time I left the curious sights, smells and sounds of the 'Xanadu club'. I know at least that I patted down my pockets, making sure I had that generous wad of cash Richard had given me. I lit up a cigarette and began to walk up the long stretch leading back to the Darlinghurst strip. I felt as frisky as a dog as I stumbled down Bayswater Road. It was no surprise --really then --that the beckoning girls outside the Badabing club --caught my aroused and drunken eye. Feeling the wad of cash under my arm, a guilty pleasure which normally felt off limits-- now seemed well within my grasp.
(Badabing was one of the classier strip joints on the main drag of the cross). There's probably numerous reasons for this, the most obvious being that the other ones were so notoriously bad. The type of girls who hung around 'dreamgirls' and some of the seedier joints, looked like 70 year old emu's who'd been out in the sun too long. A cabbie once told me a joke about 'dream girls'--that he'd driven a respectable looking foreigner who wanted to see a strip show up past 'dream girls'--but the guy had taken one look at the hideous old crones--and said 'Driver. Put your goddamn foot down.'
A lot of the girls at Badabing were just topless waiters. Pretty college girls who needed some extra cash, but weren't willing to completely give themselves away to the night. Really classy dames. Sometimes the beautiful, but prudish girls --would loosen up after a few drinks --and go all out for the patrons. Anything could happen at Badabing --and it often did.
It's a monstrous haze, the rest of that night--in my shattered memory. I know the club was basically empty, and to my amazement, some sort of bizarre serendipity or coincidence---I ended up having a private show with the stunning brunette girl I had seen at the cafe earlier. The one with the green top. I had thought she looked eerily familiar, and now I remembered why. We'd come to Badabing for Alfie's bucks night a month ago--(I had organised the whole thing). Earlier at the cafe, I hadn't placed the face of that brunette, but now I recalled-- by some ridiculous deus ex-machina--she was the same stripper we'd watched perform on Alfie's bucks night. I was drinking loads of rum and cokes that evening after the Zanadu club--as I drueled over the brunette Venus, as she danced, like a siren in front of me. Perhaps foolishly--I broke the fourth wall. I think it was because seeing her in the cafe --had made me consciously realise, the usually forgotten fact, that she was a real person. I remember being turned on beyond control, yet somehow making normal conversation with her. I recall distinctly-- asking her name. Rita. I remember her telling me she was studying business at uni, and how she liked sailing. I remember her taking off her underwear, as I handed her piles of banknotes. Then her bare curves, squatting naked, like a cruelly unresistable curvaceous frog--in front of me--she leaned in to whisper in my ear--'You want to go out to the back room?'
I remember a terrible nightmare, about the winged, skeletal phantom--sucking the life out of my soul.
But that's all I remember.
I woke up with a swollen eye, and jaw, lying in the park outside my house. My fist was swollen up like a giant apple. I guessed I had gotten in some shit with the bouncers at Bada Bing. They were usually pretty violent with anyone who got remotely close or comfortable with the girls. My memory was shot. My hangover was worse than the day of the wedding--and I still felt feverish --from the most terrible nightmares--of abstract black shapes--dissecting lines--and fractal patterns, and that artwork. 'The Black Coast.' Whatever substance nightmare was made of, I could feel it --brimming over the edges of sleep --and filling up the vessel of my waking life, more and more, every day.
Things got progressively darker over those next few months--as I reported to Richard every week--with my latest research. Enchanted by the seductive atmosphere of the 'Xanadu club' --and spending more and more time alternatively at the library--and the Badabing club--pissing away Mr Canaan's money--and gazing for hours on end at Rita's perfect body, and studying her, learning about who she was, this 'angel of the Badabing club'.
But it was my own fascination--my own research which drew me deeper and deeper into the spiders nest. My fascination over that strange artwork on the wall of the Xanadu dining-hall. The strange dark beach in the mural. I had to find out more ---about the artist.
In spite of my horrifying growing sense of primal terror, I had to learn more about Rosaleen Norton.
UP NEXT: Chapter Three - 'The Witch of Kings Cross'
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