The Dark Part of Me by Belinda Burns

Greenwood pulled a tray of ice-cubes from the deep-freeze.
    ‘Better not,’ said Kirstie. ‘I’ve got to study this weekend.’
    ‘Rosie?’ Mrs Greenwood cracked the ice-tray against her thigh and bashed the cubes out onto the bench.
    ‘Sure.’ I jumped up off the stool, eager to talk more about Scott.
    Armed with a bottle of Jim Beam, a litre of Coke and two glasses with ice, we went out to the front veranda. Mrs Greenwood lit a citronella candle for the mossies as I kicked back in a low-slung
deck chair, my feet up on the railing. The night hummed around us. A streetlight flickered out front. The last train to Ipswich rattled in the distance. Mrs Greenwood mixed our drinks. I was
wrecked before we even started. We chatted for a good hour or so about all kinds of rubbish. Like the new dress she was making to wear on Christmas Day, the best way to make pavlova, and her
menopause. She told me all about the hot and cold flushes, the nausea and the periods of forgetfulness and neurotic behaviour. She said you could feel your eggs drying up inside you. It was strange
how Mum never talked to me about these kinds of things. She was only a few years younger than Mrs Greenwood so she was probably due her menopause quite soon.
    ‘But listen to me droning on,’ Mrs Greenwood said, mixing herself another bourbon. ‘I’m starved for female conversation.’
    ‘We used to chat all the time.’
    ‘That’s right. Scott used to complain that I hogged you.’
    ‘So, d’ya reckon he’s changed much since he’s been overseas?’ I wheedled.
    ‘He’s got that dreadful beard.’
    ‘I don’t mind it.’
    ‘It’s terrible.’
    ‘What about what Kirstie said?’
    ‘Don’t worry, love,’ she said, patting my lap. ‘He’d have told me if there was anyone serious.’
    ‘But do you think… ’ I wanted more, some extra reassurance but I held back. ‘Do you think he’ll stay here for a while?’
    ‘If he so much as mentions going anywhere we’ll chain him to the bed!’
    We laughed and, after finishing our second bourbon each, Mrs Greenwood yawned.
    ‘Nearly two!’ she said. ‘I’ll turn into a pumpkin. Do you want me to call you a cab?’
    ‘No… I’ll be alright.’ Why couldn’t I just stay over like all the other times when I slept in the spare room, sneaking downstairs to Scott’s bedroom once
she’d hit the sack? What was different now? I felt cheated, like she’d been leading me on.
    ‘But how will you get home?’ She stood up. ‘You’ll be over the limit.’
    A knot of steel twisted in my chest as it dawned on me that things were different between us. ‘Mum said she’d pick me up,’ I lied.
    ‘At this hour?’
    ‘Yeah, she doesn’t mind.’
    ‘Well, say hi to her for me.’
    ‘Yeah, OK.’
    She said goodnight, bending over and kissing me on the cheek. Her lips were sticky with booze.
    After she’d gone inside, I emptied the rest of the bourbon into the half-empty Coke bottle and went down the front steps, around through the side door and across the rumpus to
Scott’s bedroom. I’d had a fair bit to drink but I felt alright considering. There were low voices and music coming from inside but the door was locked. In the past, Scott’d only
locked the door when we were having sex, in case Mr Greenwood, mistaking grunts and groans for burglars, came downstairs swinging his riot baton. I rapped lightly. The music went dead, followed by
hushed whispering and muffled footsteps across the carpet.
    ‘Who is it?’ An edgy whisper. His.
    ‘Rosie.’
    A pause, then the door opened. Scott’s face appeared in the crack.
    ‘I thought you were Dad.’ His eyes were bloodshot and he was grinning.
    ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’
    ‘But we’re—’
    I barged past him into the room. The curtains were pulled tight, held together by a clothes peg. The air was thick and hazy with smoke, the smell of pot overpowering. Bomber and Muzza sat
cross-legged on the bed: Bomber puffing on the