I.
The boys are playing cards in the kitchen. Water drips in the sink, and the whole house smells of infestation. Same musty stink I remember from growing up in a house full of rats and weed. Nobody asks, but I say I’m doing the hourly perimeter sweep. The evening air is cold and the yard has gone wild, there are six foot roses coming budding behind the bushes. There’s a thick silver padlock on the gate, and the neighbourhood is empty, as it always is. As it should be. Tonight there will be killing, and you can already see the moon is full. It’ll be a bright moon while we do our dirty work. There’s something thrilling about that thought. I stop for a moment on the backsteps and light a black cigarette. Not good for me, but as the Reverend said, longevity has its limits. Good living is just another holding pattern. There are some larks up on the fence, flitting over the bins. They kill, too, I decide. Everything kills, and when we do, it’s just another metaphor for God’s dreams and desires.
When the sun has set, we get in the car, wearing suits, and head to the premier. No one else is at the theatre. Must be someone in the projection booth though, cause the film is already playing when we wander down to our seats. The scene we’ve walked in on hasn’t got enough actors, some roles are going unplayed. The boys and I look at each other and shrug. I suppose we’ll have to climb up into the frame, I say. The light coming from the projector is so bright in this dark movie-house. Remember that Leonard Cohen song? I ask my brothers, but they don’t say peep. There’s so much killing in the movies these days. A pair of twins with machetes come into the kitchen while I’m loading my gun. We stand there, looking at each other. It’s a little funny, I say, like a Mexican standoff. The two twins give each other a sideways glance. That’s not what a Mexican standoff is, one of the twins says. He has a thick moustache, I notice, just before someone blows his head clean off. When the killing is done, the kitchen is painted in slashes of blood and chunks of brain and skull. This must be an R-rated film. They’re all R-rated, these days.
When the credits start to roll, I climb back down into the empty theatre. I must hold my hands up to shield my eyes from the projector’s light. Is there someone up there, or does this thing just go by itself. What was it the philosopher said? It doesn’t matter, I hate films with a message. Well, I say to the boys, looks like we better go back into hiding again. Course, we know sooner or later we’re all going to be caught. That night, I volunteer to do the perimeter sweep while the boys are playing checkers at the table, and I have a vision of the central police on the horizon. They will come for us in the morning. The county sheriff is my father, and you can’t deceive your father forever. They’ll find me, hiding like a lizard in the gaps of some crawl space above the harbour bridge. The vision shows me this, and I smile and smoke another black cigarette.
II.
Invited to have dinner with the Caves. Nick Cave wears a three-piece suit to the table, and his ex-wife arrives wearing a white wedding dress with a black train. Annie and I are on our best behaviour, and I have to admit these Caves sure know how to host a dinner. They’re treating us with tremendous politeness, but there’s a tension in the air. There are waiters bringing platters to the table, and they silently light candles while we talk about art and other consolations. Yes, that is an original, Nick Cave says, twisting around in his chair to get a good look at the painting hanging behind him. Annie is quite taken with it, knows the artist. Of course she does, I say, smiling. The gravy is so hot it scalds my tongue. Lots of garlic on the potatoes. Butter on the green beans, with a sprig of mint. Is that the right word for it, a sprig? I hear a shriek from a farther room while Annie is looking for the toilet. The Caves try to play it down, just the cat, they assure me, but when she returns looking pale, I demand an answer. Cave’s son, a tall boy with jet black hair, explains in lurid detail that Annie had walked in on him having passionate intercourse with his girlfriend. It’s funny, I didn’t see him leave the table. He seems a very theatrical young man. His nails are painted red. I think he’s wearing mascara, but it’s hard to tell. Just as dessert is being served, some monumental jelly, the family doctors arrive. One of them is wearing a pork-pie hat and a monocle. Nick Cave attempts to sell these two doctors some artwork made by his wife. It’s a photograph of Nick, performing exercise on a pec-dec, shirtless. There’s a shred of newspaper attached to the photograph, explaining that the singer used to begin each day by benching 150 pounds. I can’t help but interrupt the sales pitch Nick is spinning to ask if there’s any truth to those claims. He looks at me with a sly smile on his face, but only arches one long black eyebrow and continues trying to coax a sale out of these interloping doctors. Annie scoops an enormous spoonful from the giant jelly in the centre of the table, I notice the colour has returned to her cheeks.
III.
Rich Evans invites me into his studio to hear a song he has written. Perhaps he has mistaken me for a record producer, or some sort of agent. He bids me to sit on a battered old couch and plug a fender guitar into a small amp. From what I can understand of the lyrics, once he begins to sing, the song is about trying to seduce a beautiful woman. Oh, why won’t she love me the way that I love she, he sings, rather sweetly. There’s nothing particularly terrible about the song beside the lyrics, but I am embarrassed for him. Is this what people think of me, I can’t help but wonder. It’s not for me to say, I tell him, when he asks me about the song, and I put on my hat and show myself the door without another word.