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It took most of the Thunderdome battle for her to soften and relax into him. It took all of his willpower not to force more of his touch on her. His thighs, his hips, his chest, all had contact with her. He braced his hands behind him so he could take her lush weight, so he could contain the want to wrap himself around her, bury his face in her neck and fill his nose with the scent of her.
She fell asleep during Fury Road.
She curled sideways, bringing her knees around, tucking her face into his chest. He froze, her breath on his neck, the blood long gone from his hands, the pins and needles were a memory and they were lumps of flesh and gristle. He had to move so he brought his arms around her, rested them across her waist and hip. That adjustment must’ve woken her, but she was content to snuggle and he was at a loss what else to do other than wake her and go home, and to his own unease he didn’t want that. He wanted this, Foley in his arms, in his life.
This was the tenth day in a row he’d spent time with her. This was the first time he’d willingly, deliberately, touched her with intent, since their handshakes, since helping her over rocks, or to her feet from the sand, since he’d let her pound his chest with her stinging fists for scaring her.
It was dark, no one could see them. Anyone who could didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around her and held her fast.
This was the tenth day he’d stood on the cliff edge and hadn’t needed its power to remind him not to jump.
17: Juggling Chainsaw
He’d insisted on paying his own bus fare and now Drum was emptying his pockets into the upturned cap of the man begging outside Town Hall train station.
Foley had lost him in the Saturday night crowd, only realising she’d crossed the road alone when she pointed out a busker on a unicycle juggling machetes and the person beside her who said, “Rad,” wasn’t Drum.
She went back the way she’d come, crossed the road again. Drum was on his haunches talking to the older man. As she approached, they both stood and shook hands and Drum tipped his chin at her in a way that indicated he knew she was waiting.
She flushed with embarrassment. She’d seen the man, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, a nuisance, a hazard. She’d ploughed straight past him without a thought as to why he was there, other than a vague concern about stepping on his hat.
She went for her wallet, tipped change and two five dollar notes into her hand and bent to put them in the man’s hat. Was it enough, too much? It was guilt rather than any specific currency. It was a busy corner and people had to dodge around her, a woman saying loudly, “Watch out,” another person’s shopping bag slapping against her legs.
When she straightened up, it was to be swamped by a crowd of people streaming up from the train station. She pulled her arms in tight and tucked her head down as the mass of people split, going either side of her.
A strong arm circled her waist from behind and eased her out of the way. Drum pulled her against the glass window of a shopfront, keeping his body between her and the crowd. She was inexplicably annoyed with him and ducked under the arm he had resting on the window to stand beside him.
“I was fine.”
He turned to face the street like she was doing and put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. They were loose all over on him and not long enough to fall over the front of his beaten-up runners, showing his bare ankles. A worse fit would be hard to imagine. But he wouldn’t let her buy him a cheap pair the right size and he was still weird with her, still needed an excuse to touch her and then when he did, he was so intense with it, he made her feel all kinds of inappropriate things that were better than chilli chocolate.
“What made you give him money?”
Drum frowned. “What made you?”
“You.” Foley grunted her annoyance. She was angry with Drum because he’d given all his coin away, which meant he’d insist on walking back to the beach instead of taking the bus, and if she wanted to eat, she’d be doing it alone, because now even McDonald’s was out of his budget.
“There are things you need, like a warm coat, a wool jumper, pants that fit properly, and you won’t let me help and you gave away your bus fare.”
“He’ll eat tonight.”
“And you won’t because you won’t let me shout you a lousy burger.”
“Are you angry with me or yourself?”
With herself because Drum had shown compassion when she’d been blind, and consideration when she’d felt nothing, and she knew so much better than that, but that was hard to admit and what boiled in her belly was shame.
“With you. Because you’ll help a random homeless man before you’ll help yourself. It makes no sense.”
“Ah, Foley.” Drum dropped his head. “I am a random homeless man.” He looked up and into her face. “You need to stop expecting me to be something else.”
She opened her mouth to protest and the crowd around the busker erupted into whistles and applause. She glanced across. He’d switched from machetes to chainsaws, the noise of the engines revving distinct amongst the sounds of traffic and people. She knew the chainsaws would have a cut-off switch, that there was no way the busker would lose a hand or a leg to their teeth because she’d signed permits for performers like this, but most of the audience wouldn’t stop to rationalise it and the threat was a wild thrill.
The performer was smarter than she was and Drum was right. She did expect him to be different because he was different to the other homeless man who, even from a distance, smelled of alcohol and days without washing.
“Why is it wrong for me to want better for you?”
She’d read up on the mental illnesses homeless people tended to have; post-traumatic stress syndrome, obsessive compulsive disorder, alcoholism, addiction. She’d known Drum long enough to know he wasn’t a substance abuser, but he was obsessed about the cave and the rules for living hard that he’d created for himself.
