Three seagulls fight over a discarded pizza slice in the middle of La Trobe Street. They take turns perching on it like a ham-and-cheese covered throne, pecking furiously until the next challenger wrests control. Traffic roars past, but they’re too involved with their prize-fight to notice. I’m grateful for the entertainment; my tram is late, and I’m kind of invested in these seagulls now. In fact, I’m fighting the urge to break the pizza slice into three and distribute it fairly, before they all end up as roadkill. Maybe they represent something deeper to me. It would make a great pop-psychology meme: Inside you, there are three seagulls…
A crow arrives, and two seagulls fly away, defeated. The smallest though, equipped with only one leg, stays to fight. It screeches at the crow, and raises its wings high, perhaps for balance, or perhaps to look more threatening. Either way, it makes me think of Ralph Macchio in that famous fight scene in the Karate Kid. Suddenly, I really want that scrappy little seagull to win.
The wind from a passing truck knocks the crow off balance, just long enough for the seagull to seize the pizza slice and take flight. Its screams are triumphant as it circles high above Melbourne Central, a performative victory lap before it’s swallowed by the city skyline. The crow watches it calmly, and I swear it winks at me as my tram rumbles away.
It’s been a long day, and I’m looking forward to pouring a drink, getting into a hot bath, and telling my night-time companion, Homebrand, about the pizza fight. He loves a good underdog story. Later, I might paint those birds for him, like David and Goliath, with David as a one-legged seagull, wielding a slice of pizza instead of a slingshot. I reckon it’ll make him laugh his ass off. I like it when he laughs; it stirs things in me that I didn’t know existed.
••
Of course, Homebrand isn’t really his name. He’s been visiting me every night for over six months now, and the truth is, I still don’t know what it is. I asked him once, and this look of irritation crossed his smooth features, just for a moment, but it was enough to turn my insides to ice.
‘That’s between me and the man upstairs’ was his answer, and the steely glint in his eyes told me that he wasn’t referring to God, or at least not the God of my understanding. Then he rubbed his hands together gleefully, the storm-clouds gone from his eyes as quickly as they’d appeared. He’s like that. Unstable. Like smoke and thunder and fire and rage, all bubbling away inside the cheerful visage of a good-looking man in a well-tailored suit.
‘You can call me Homebrand,’ he went on. ‘Because as far as you’re concerned, I have no name. Get it?’
And he laughed and clapped maniacally at his own joke, reminding me of a game-show host. He looks the part too; never a hair out of place, and sporting a cheeky smile and a different novelty tie every time I see him. He thinks his ties are hilarious.
He’s a dangerous, irresistible mystery, and when he touches me, it’s like falling into a glacier in the middle of the sun. He fills me with white hot light and the blackest darkness, and I feel like I am dying, yet at the same time I’m more alive than I’ve ever been. Afterwards, he goes back to his jokes and stories as if nothing has happened. I shake for hours, and he thinks that’s hilarious too.
••
It’s hard to believe that I lived in this house for over three years before I learned that he existed. But he only appears in a single bathroom, in a bungalow, at the rear of the property. Back then, the bungalow was occupied by the previous owner of my place, the senior Mr Langley, who let me rent the house cheaply, in exchange for driving him around in his old ute and helping him with the heavy lifting. We collected abandoned junk from around the neighbourhood, which he turned into sculptures. Then we’d sell his work at auction, and he’d give the proceeds to charity. Mr Langley was a talented artist and a bit of a local celebrity, so his pieces sold like hotcakes.
Did I think that it was odd that he chose to live in a tiny shack and rent the main house out cheaply? Of course I did. But he was a lovely old man, and he seemed as happy with the arrangement as I was.
When I found him dead in his bath, I was really sad; we had become good friends during those three years. But he was very old, and his heart was weak, and he’d told me more than once that he was ready to ‘go to the other side’. Now that I’ve met Homebrand, I know why Mr Langley phrased it that way, and I wonder if he got his wish. It’s another question I don’t dare to ask.
After Mr Langley passed, his son Heath and daughter-in-law Margaret became my landlords, and I came to understand why he never spoke about them, or invited them to visit. The day after he died, they served me notice of a massive rent increase, and then offered me a miserly discount, in exchange for fixing up the bungalow and ‘getting rid of all the junk’, meaning Mr Langley’s art. I stayed because I wanted to be the one to sort through the old man’s things; he hated to see anything go to waste. But then, Homebrand introduced himself to me, and now, tolerating the Langleys is just an irritating necessity. I often worry I won’t be able to see Homebrand once my work on the bungalow is finished, but he laughs it off.
‘There are other bathtubs’ is all he will say.
••
Margaret is rude and demanding, but my dislike of Heath is personal. He doesn’t remember me, but I sure remember him. When I was fourteen, Heath advertised for a local kid to sand and paint an old cabinet, ‘no experience required’. I followed his instructions painstakingly, taking a whole weekend to complete the job.
When I turned up to collect my pay, he refused, saying I’d ruined the cabinet. Once dried, the top coat of paint had thinned and faded, and the dark undercoat was showing through in patches. He said I was damn lucky he didn’t make me pay for the damage. I was beside myself, crying and apologising. But then I saw that cabinet in the window of the local auction house, just the way I had painted it, and it had sold for $900! It turns out, he’d taught me how to paint an antique finish, and I’d done a damn fine job of it too. When I mustered up the courage to bang on his door and demand payment, he said if I ever bothered him again he’d call the police. He never reimbursed me for the paint brush and turpentine he asked me to buy either.
I learned two things from that experience – never do a day’s work without a written contract, and that there’s money to be made in making old furniture look even older.
••
Once I received the keys to the bungalow and met Homebrand, I understood why Mr Langley chose to live out there. Truth be told, I’ve barely been into the main house for months.
I first went into the bathroom intending to clean it, but when I got there, the whole room was spotlessly clean, and a vase of native flowers was sitting next to an inexplicably frosty glass of champagne on the edge of the tub.
I was scared, and about to run out of there as fast as I could, when the bath suddenly filled with steaming water right in front of my eyes- not from the tap, but out of thin air, rising from the bottom in an instant and swirling with bubble-bath and rose-petals. From deep inside the water, a voice called out to me. I couldn’t make out the words, but I knew what it wanted me to do, and I felt powerless to stop myself. I gulped down the champagne, stripped off and got into the bath, submerging myself below the water. I know how crazy that sounds, but the fact is, I’d probably crawl through hell itself, if Homebrand was calling to me.
I was so afraid the first time I climbed into that bath; now it’s all I can think about doing. My job has become intolerable; every part of my life outside that bathroom feels like a monotonous trial.
Each night, when my head emerges from the water again, I find myself in a thermal spring, surrounded by waterfalls and gum trees, and moonlight, and fog. The air is filled with the sounds of kookaburras and crickets, and occasional screaming, which Homebrand says is just foxes. His realm reminds me of the Daintree rainforest at night, except the water is hot, and everything else is freezing cold.
Gum trees and native shrubs glisten in the moonlight, and the moon is perpetually full. Possums hiss, and snakes sometimes slither through the water beside me. One time, a huge crocodile sat just an arm’s length away and watched me bathe, open mouthed and staring. I could feel its breath on my face, and thought I would go mad with terror. Homebrand spoke to the crocodile in a serpentine rattle and just for a moment, he was a crocodile too and I thought the two enormous lizards would devour me together. Then in a blink, the first crocodile vanished, and Homebrand was Homebrand again, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world. The next time I saw him, his tie was adorned with cartoon crocodiles.
Random remnants of my world sometimes linger; the rusty old Hills Hoist from my backyard often appears in the middle of a bubbling stream. Most times, the fallen apples from the orchard that separates the bungalow from the main house materialise on the snowy ground around me, and are quickly gobbled up by possums, rosellas and galahs, which descend from the trees to feast, even though it’s always night- time. Once, the crumbling old bluestone BBQ from my yard appeared, smoking on the snowy ground. Homebrand cooked me dinner on it. It was delicious.
He chats enthusiastically about the most mundane things. He asks for sports results, and I put bets on different games for him. I don’t think he can come fully into my world, although he knows a lot about it. His gambling tips are spot-on though, and I get to keep the cash, so I’m not complaining. He asks me about local news, and politics, and the stock market, and The Bachelorette. He’s obsessed with reality TV. It’s not my cup of tea, but I watch it religiously now, just to see his face light up when I tell him about the latest drama.
••
It’s dark when I finally get off the tram and walk to my house. A thunderstorm is brewing, and Margaret and Heath are waiting outside in their car. I’m surprised and dismayed, but I invite them in, noting that a layer of dust has settled on every surface. Like I said, I haven’t been in the main house much lately. Margaret wipes up dust with her fingertip and gives me a withering look.
‘I’ve been staying in the bungalow,’ I explain. ‘I’m running the aircon flat chat out there anyway, because you can’t paint in this humidity. It spoils the finish.’
Margaret’s mouth is hanging open.
‘But we pay the power bill for the bungalow,’ she snaps, barely able to contain her outrage. ‘We ‘ll be adding that to your rent. Retrospectively.’
‘Seriously?’ I look at Heath.
‘Sounds fair to me,’ he mutters, and I hate him more than ever.
‘The reason we’re here,’ Margaret practically shouts, ‘is because you’ve had more than enough time to renovate that bungalow and get rid of all the crap Heath’s father left behind. Meanwhile, we’ve been subsidising your rent. So, we’re here to inspect it, and it better look fantastic, because I’m going to take some photos and advertise it for rent tomorrow, to try to recoup what you’ve cost us.’
Panic rises in my throat. In truth, the bungalow has been finished for weeks, and I’ve already donated most of Mr Langley’s artwork and his modest possessions to local charities, like he would have wanted. But I don’t want to give up that bathroom, and I sure as hell don’t want these horrid people discovering its secrets.
Margaret gets up expectantly. She reminds me of a Clydesdale, her tall frame mounted on a pair of clacking stilettos, topped with a mane of violently blonde hair. She tosses her head back, and I half expect her to whinny.
‘Hurry up, dear,’ she snaps at Heath.
Lightning flashes as a bird flies into the window with a loud, sickening thud, followed by two more. My heart skips a beat, and Heath yelps as the loudest crack of thunder I have ever heard erupts overhead. Heavy rain descends out of nowhere, banging on the roof loudly, and the lights flicker, and go out. Heath is breathing heavily; I think he might be having a panic attack. Margaret sighs loudly and tells him to grow up. She leads him through the house by the light of her phone, holding his arm like he’s an errant child. I find a torch, and quickly check for injured birds, but the garden bed below the window is empty. I’m surprised; those birds hit the window hard. I don’t know how they could have flown away.
The rain pounds us as we walk through the orchard. Heath trips in the darkness; he’s limping by the time we get to the bungalow, and when I shine my torch on him, I see he’s skinned his knee, quite badly.
‘Don’t bleed on the carpet,’ Margaret snaps at him. She snatches the keys from me as I try to open the door for her.
She stomps around the bungalow in the dark, using her phone as a torch, and when she enters the bathroom, she lets out an excited ‘Oooh!’
The light of her phone reveals the bathtub, full of steaming water, bubble bath and rose petals. The window has blown open; the faulty latch has failed again. I try to push past Margaret to close it, and shut out the howling wind, but she shoves me back sharply.
‘About to have a bath in here too, were you? Using our gas hot water as well?’
It’s a ridiculous suggestion; she watched me arrive home less than fifteen minutes ago. She closes the door, and Heath looks away uncomfortably. Is she going to use the toilet? I get busy packing up my personal effects. I hope I don’t miss anything in the dark.
Ten minutes pass before Health knocks on the door, and shouts, ‘Are you OK, love?’
Margaret doesn’t respond. Heath tries the door, and it’s locked.
‘Break the door,’ he barks at me, as if I’m his hired goon.
The door opens easily when I turn the handle, revealing an empty bathroom- the only traces of Margaret are her shoes on the floor, and her phone on top of a neatly folded pile of clothes. The bath is still full, the bubbles now diminished, and the water rippling gently as if something recently broke the surface tension.
Heath has a meltdown.
‘I knew this place was cursed. Dad always told me to stay out of here, and now something’s happened to my Margie. Why are you just standing there, you idiot? Help me!’
Lightning illuminates the window behind him, where a big black cockatoo is tearing through the flyscreen like it’s ripping bark from a gumtree. It launches itself at Heath, clawing at his head. He screams and falls backwards, into the bath, and he dissolves right in front of my eyes, the water turning red as if he’s just been run through a blender. Seconds later it turns clear once more, faint ripples on the surface the only sign he was ever there. Is that what happens to me when I go to the other realm? Do I liquify? The idea horrifies me almost as much as the cockatoo, now watching me from atop the shower rail.
I’m repulsed by what I’ve witnessed, but I get in the bath anyway, submerging myself over and over, holding my breath. The cockatoo watches silently, as the water cools around me, and the rose petals cling to my skin. I shiver in the stone-cold water for hours. I’m as heartbroken as I am frightened.
No-one turns up looking for the Langleys. No-one asks me to move out, or to pay to rent. I’m too despondent to care. I move back into the main house, quit my job, and take to sleeping all day, painting pictures of Homebrand and his realm by night.
••
A month later, I find a newspaper on the doorstep. Folded inside is the deed to the house, now bearing my name. Heath and Margaret beam from the front page of the paper. It’s an old picture, and they’re both smiling.
A house fire has claimed the lives of local property moguls, Heath and Margaret Langley, just days after donating the entirety of their substantial holdings to local charities. The couple were found dead in a spa-bath at their Kynseborough residence. Officials report the home has been damaged beyond repair. There is no evidence of suspicious circumstances.
I’m startled by a sharp tap at the window. A magpie perches on the sill, something shiny dangling from its beak. It drops the keys to the bungalow, chortles at me, and flies away.
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