So Close to Home

by Mick Cummins

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Eighteen-year-old Aaron is charismatic, resourceful and addicted to heroin. His mum has kicked him out of home in a last-ditch move to help him get straight, and he wanders the streets of South Melbourne, living on his wits and sleeping rough - all the while chasing drugs, dreams and love.

Desperate to fund his addiction, Aaron climbs into the car of The Man, a distinguished elderly gentleman willing to pay for a certain kind of relationship. This regular cash could be the lifeline Aaron needs to start again, but The Man keeps raising spectres from Aaron's past that he'd rather forget. As Aaron gathers the courage to confront the events that derailed his life, his rage grows - and the consequences could be fatal.

So Close to Home is a pacy, gritty and captivating novel exploring homelessness, power dynamics and the ties that bind. Social worker, debut author and winner of the prestigious VPLA for Unpublished Manuscript Mick Cummins has created a striking, emotionally complex and unnervingly tense narrative that poses one simple question: who can we ever truly rely on?

Release date: October 31, 2023

Publisher: Affirm Press

Print pages: 304

Sample

1

The waiting room is full and warm, with the soothing voice of the television cooking show host lulling Aaron toward sleep. Only the astringent smell of urine wafting across him is keeping him awake. He lifts his heavy eyelids and looks directly at a bearded middle-aged man chuckling to himself nearby, his legs shaking constantly in pants stiff with grime. Aaron scans the parts of the room further from the odour. He sees a spare seat at the reading table, but the familiar body language and furtive conversation between the men who occupy the other three chairs make it very clear that this is their private space.

On the black vinyl couch opposite Aaron, a young couple are completely entwined and fast asleep. Lucky them, Aaron thinks. They must be in love, or stoned, or both. Next to them, on one of the two black vinyl armchairs, sits a man in his fifties; in the other is a weathered older man in a stained brown business suit clutching a leather satchel tightly at his chest. Aaron follows their blank stares to the excited cooking show host carving through the crisp, golden pastry of a beef Wellington to reveal the just-pink meat it encases. The cook’s upbeat demeanour annoys Aaron intensely. It is a robust reminder of his own deteriorating mood. He turns away from the screen, back to the source of the urine smell and the woman directly opposite wearing a hijab. She smiles back spontaneously, and he receives it as her understanding of his predicament. He smiles back at her in an exchange that unexpectedly soothes him.

As the clock ticks on, Aaron feels his anxiety rising sharply. It has been five hours now, although he doesn’t need the clock to tell him what his cramping stomach and legs are already saying. He stares at the automatic glass doors and the possibilities on the streets outside. He could steal something and score then find relief in a laneway or a park. But then what? He can’t return to the gardener’s shed in the grounds of St Peter and Paul’s Church. Father Brian had let him stay there after his mother kicked him out, until some nosy parishioners had lodged a complaint with the Archbishop. The priest had no choice but to ask Aaron to leave. ‘Do what your mother asked you to do in the first place,’ Father Brian said. ‘Go to one of the housing organisations. That’s what they’re there for.’

He wipes the sweat from his face and looks impatiently for any sign of movement from the two workers at the reception desk. One lifts her eyes to meet his briefly before returning quickly back to her screen. It’s as if someone has pushed the pause button on the room. He reaches down to drag his large plastic storage bag of possessions closer to his feet, just to give himself something to do. Short-lived. He glances again at the hijab-wearing woman, hoping for another smile. But she is completely occupied with the five children gathering around her, speaking an unfamiliar language, obviously bored and impatient to go. He wonders about them. Where are they from? Africa, he thinks. But then he doesn’t really know. Do they have Muslims in Africa? Are they homeless too? Surely not. How hard would that be? He forces himself to stay with these thoughts until they are broken by a voice calling his name.

‘Aaron … Aaron Peters?’

A young woman leans over the reception desk scanning the waiting room for a response. He stands to look back at her.

‘Room 2,’ she says pointing to the door closest to her.

He crosses the waiting room carrying his bag of possessions without a sideways glance at the envious eyes fixed on him. Opening the numbered door, he enters the sterile interview room in unison with the same young woman appearing through the door opposite. A desk spanning the width of the room creates a physical barrier between them.

‘Hi Aaron,’ she says, ‘I’m Kate. Take a seat.’

He puts the bag on the floor and sits down to watch her click the mouse and scan the computer screen in front of her.

‘Bear with me for a moment,’ she says.

As she types, he fidgets with a biro attached to a long chain anchored to the desk. Who would want to steal a plastic biro? he ponders. You’d have to be desperate. He peers through the venetian blinds of the small window providing a shuttered view to the reception area where the two workers are now answering constantly ringing telephones while dealing with another needy person appearing from the street before them. He turns back to Kate, who is still focusing on her screen intently, occasionally twisting her mouth with uncertainty. He wonders how old she is. No more than twenty-five. He likes her orange cardigan and her matching lipstick. The ring in her right nostril intrigues him. He touches his nose. Perhaps he could get one too. Finally, she turns back to him.

‘Okay,’ she says, ‘sorry about that but I’ve only just started here and there’s all sorts of software and passwords and instructions. It’s complicated. Anyway, you don’t need to know all that. Let’s try and get you sorted, eh?’

She tells him that she needs to complete an assessment so that they can get a clear idea of his circumstances. ‘Is that okay?’

He nods.

She smiles and returns to the computer screen.

‘Okay. Let’s start with your date of birth.’

‘April fifth, nineteen ninety-four.’

‘So you’ve just turned eighteen?’ she says, looking across at him.

‘Yep.’

‘Did you get a chance to celebrate?’

He shakes his head.

‘That’s a shame.’

A loud and agitated voice is heard from the adjoining reception area, and Kate and Aaron simultaneously peer through the slots in the venetian blinds. A thickset and angry middle-aged man is waving his arms and making demands in a thick European accent. He wants to see his caseworker; he knows the caseworker is here and he wants to see him now! Not tomorrow! Now! The softer, calming voice of the older of the two workers on reception patiently persists against the man’s tirade. Kate turns back to Aaron. She shakes her head and smiles.

‘I’m glad it’s not me out there. That man scares me.’

‘He’s all mouth,’ says Aaron confidently.

‘I think you’re right. But it’s not very nice.’

This sharing of her feelings with him makes him smile inside. She must trust me or even like me to do that, he thinks. His anxiety melts further as he watches her return to her screen and the assessment.

‘Phone number?’

He shakes his head while trying to think of a good story. ‘I fell asleep on the tram and when I woke up my phone was gone.’

‘It certainly helps to have one, doesn’t it? I don’t think I could live without mine.’

‘I know. But I don’t have the money to buy another one.’

For a brief moment he allows himself to think that she will offer him one of her old models, one that has been put away in her desk drawer and forgotten. But it doesn’t happen.

‘How long have you been homeless?’ she continues.

‘A couple of weeks.’

‘Where were you living?’

‘With Mum.’

‘Why did you leave?’

His legs twist together tightly under the chair and the lie rolls out easily. ‘I don’t get on with her boyfriend.’

She asks why and he answers quickly to get it over with, hoping that it will be enough.

‘He doesn’t like me and I don’t like him.’

‘And your mum?’

‘We’re good, yeah.’ Another lie, wanting it to be true.

‘Only the boyfriend then?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What about your father?’

Now his stomach tightens several notches more. This question is leading somewhere else. Even the tone of her voice has changed. He hates this feeling. Perpetually there, lurking.

‘I don’t see him.’

Kate waits for more, but there is only silence. She looks at the assessment template on her screen and the many blank spaces still to be filled with words. She turns back to Aaron to tell him that she understands how difficult this must be for him but unless she gets more information she can’t help.

He says, ‘Okay,’ without meaning it.

‘Is there any chance you can fix things at home with your mum’s boyfriend? Because that’s going to make life so much easier for you.’

He shakes his head. ‘Nah.’

She looks back at him for a moment, giving him the opportunity to change his mind. He gives her nothing. His imagination has already filled with a picture of him living with Kate. Just the two of them. Sharing breakfast together. Everything warm and fun.

‘Drugs and alcohol?’

Reality returns like a door slamming in his face. Everything cold and hard again. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you drink alcohol? Take any drugs?’

The truth hovers on his lips for a microsecond only. ‘No,’ he says.

‘Nothing?’

‘I’ve tried a few things. Weed. Ice once or twice. I haven’t got the money, even if I wanted it.’

She types into the space below the appropriate heading on the assessment and turns back to him.

‘Any mental health issues?’

He looks down at his clenched fists, fighting the desire to stand and leave. She sees him struggling.

‘You must feel anxious at times. I know I would in your situation.’

‘Sometimes, yeah.’

She keeps digging. ‘It must be depressing too?’

He shrugs his shoulders. Please stop. No more questions. Just tell me you’ve got a spare room at your place and I can stay with you for as long as I like.

‘You know that if you are feeling overwhelmed at any time you could see a doctor about it. There are some medications that can help. In the short term, at least.’

‘I’m good.’

Obviously unconvinced, she returns to the assessment and more typing. He watches her, wanting to tell her everything, but not here, not now. One day maybe, parked in her comfortable car above a beach, looking out over a vast ocean sparkling with promise, the horizon within touching distance, a warming sun.

‘Okay, last one,’ she says, looking directly at him. ‘Violence?’

Black clouds eclipse the sun. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, I have a sense you’re not a violent person.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Have you experienced any violence aimed at you?’

‘Some threats maybe.’

‘From?’

Aaron sighs. This is definitely not where he wants to be. He looks back at her open, enquiring face. She is so pretty. She must know that. If only he could tell her it all, he thinks. But he simply can’t go there. Not here, not now.

‘You know what it’s like out there.’

‘I can only imagine, Aaron.’

He shrugs his shoulders and his story continues on the same path. ‘It’s not that bad. I can ignore it most of the time.’

She nods empathically, glances at her screen then back to him.

‘I’ll finish that off later. You’ve been here long enough.’

No, I haven’t, he thinks, nowhere near long enough. She sighs as she thinks, tapping her fingers lightly on the edge of the desk.

‘I have to be honest with you, Aaron, there are not many options for you.’

He watches as she returns to scan her computer screen, the words he wants to say to her locked tightly away in his brain. What about your place, Kate? I won’t cause you any problems, I promise. I could do all the housework while you’re at work. When you get home, it’ll all be done. Washing up, vacuuming, everything.

‘None of the rooming houses have a vacancy. Except for this one.’ She looks across the desk at him, almost sheepishly. ‘It’s in Moe.’

‘That’s hours away. No. I can’t go there.’

He sees the muscles in her jaw tighten, her brain ticking over.

‘Actually, I don’t blame you.’

She picks up the phone. ‘Let me try this before we give up.’ She glances back and forth from the accommodation list on the wall to the phone as she dials the number.

Aaron’s thoughts are drawn back to the same beach, but this time he is standing on the hard sand under a heavy sky swallowing the horizon. Turning away from the dark ocean, he looks up the steep bank for her parked car. It’s gone, replaced by a large black Mercedes-Benz, and his grandfather in the driver’s seat with his wavy, silver hair and eager eyes.

‘Well, that’s better news,’ Kate says.

Aaron doesn’t register her words, but the sound of her voice brings him back to the room and her faint smile on the other side of the desk.

‘Hostel Plus have a vacancy in their eight-bed dorm. It’s for tonight only, though. They like to make sure whoever we send them is okay. You are, so there won’t be a problem extending it. It just means you’ll have to come back here tomorrow so we can book you in until your next payday. When’s that again?’ She looks at the screen and answers her own question. ‘Um … seven, yes, so you’ll have seven days there on us.’

‘Will I see you tomorrow?’

‘I don’t have a shift tomorrow. Even if I did, it could be any one of us that sees you.’

He can’t hide his disappointment. She smiles encouragingly.

‘Everyone’s nice here. More experienced than me, that’s for sure.’ She stands. ‘I’ll get you the cheque for tonight and you can get going.’ She opens the door behind her. ‘You can wait outside at reception. I won’t be long.’ She is half out the door before she turns back to him with a big, warm smile. ‘We have some large backpacks in the storeroom – would you like one? That plastic bag’s not a good look.’ Then she’s gone.

He stares at the closed door thinking that he couldn’t care less how nice the other workers are or if he has a backpack. Instead all he has is an overwhelming desire to be alone with her again in their white-walled room so he can tell her the truth. He stands, picks up his bag and takes two mechanical steps to the door. He hesitates and looks back at the room as if he has left something behind, something of himself. He sees only two empty chairs.

In the waiting room, Kate passes a cheque and a large backpack across the reception desk to him.

‘Good luck, Aaron.’

He takes it wanting to return her smile, but the muscles in his mouth and cheeks refuse to respond. He moves away from the desk to the space furthest from the eyes in the waiting room, where he transfers his meagre belongings to the backpack: a pair of jeans, shorts, a couple of T-shirts – all crumpled and soiled – some socks and jocks, a school pencil case and a blanket wrapped tightly in a thin, blue tarpaulin. He stuffs the plastic bag into the nearby bin and goes down the steps. The automatic glass doors slide open to the footpath and the chase.

2

Outside on the busy inner-city footpath, Aaron settles the backpack onto his shoulders and sees the dodgy looking trio from the table in the waiting room are now lingering on the street: reversed baseball caps, homemade tattoos and tracksuits. He goes to them without a second thought.

‘Any chance of a smoke?’

They check him over briefly before one reaches into his pocket. ‘Sure, mate’ – taking a cigarette from a full packet and handing it to him – ‘there you go.’

‘Thanks heaps,’ Aaron replies. As he leans in to accept the offer of a light, his greatest need propels two discreetly delivered words to his lips. ‘Got anything?’

The skinniest of the trio nods back at him even more discreetly.

‘I’ll fix you up tomorrow.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Tonight then?’

His potential supplier turns back to his mates shaking his head disdainfully. Aaron steps away from them. Pricks. He draws on the cigarette, looking across the street at the long row of renovated factory apartments. Melbourne’s autumn sun throws leafy shadows across the late nineteenth-century red-brick facades, where a middle-aged woman in polka-dotted jeans grabs his attention. She is carrying a Uniqlo bag in one hand and a leash leading to a curly-haired dog in the other. She reaches one of the tall, black gates spaced between the various apartment blocks, clumsily swipes her card on the keypad then pushes the gate open just enough to squeeze through with her dog and recent purchase. The gate clicks shut, rapidly cutting off any thoughts Aaron’s racing brain might have of a profitable entry.

He’s driven on by his cramping legs and stomach, checking out the interiors of parked cars as he goes. Two young men in tight suits step out in front of him from an architect’s office, forcing him to give way to them. Not a sideways glance. He must be invisible. That would be handy right now, he thinks. He could go anywhere. Do anything. An expensive-looking road bike captures his interest before he sees the heavy chain mooring it to the U-bar. He walks on to a cafe populated inside and out with heads over laptops and the sound of grinding coffee beans and steaming milk. He slows down slightly to scan for unattended handbags or briefcases, only to be met by wary eyes. Cursing silently, he turns the corner to continue his battle with the incoming tide of pain.

~

Aaron walks toward Hostel Plus, a double-storeyed ex-hotel situated in the not-so-trendy end of Collingwood. Opposite are a car repair shop, a kebab shop, a tattoo parlour and an abandoned house secured with corrugated iron sheets. Along with other brightly coloured graffiti, a giant mural of a bearded hipster is painted across an exterior wall of the backpackers in an obvious attempt to produce the right vibe. Aaron stops at the front door and reaches into his coat pocket to pull out the thirty-dollar cheque Kate gave him for his night’s accommodation: one last look to verify its non-negotiability. He folds it in his hand and looks up at three residents, not much older than him, bursting through the door laughing and acting as if they are ready to take on the world. They acknowledge him with a collective ‘Hey man,’ before bouncing their way up the street.

The reception area is a large, open-plan room with walls covered in brightly coloured murals of the cityscape. It is at once welcoming and intimidating. He walks across the polished stone floor toward the reservation desk where a young, long-haired woman seems to deliberately be taking her time to acknowledge him. While Aaron waits, he listens to the music being piped through the room, tapping his foot and nodding to the driving rock beat of Sleater-Kinney in an attempt to ease his anxiety.

‘Triple R,’ he says in an attempt to gather the receptionist’s attention. She looks up at him, thin-lipped and hollow-cheeked.

‘What’s that?’ she asks flatly.

Ah, he thinks. Pretending to be something she isn’t. It helps him. ‘Triple R,’ he repeats. ‘The best.’

She wants the upper hand back. ‘Reservation?’

He passes her the cheque. She glances at it then back at him. ‘ID?’

He reaches in his jeans pocket, pulls out his creased Health Care Card and places it down in front of her. She shakes her head. ‘Photo ID.’

‘She didn’t tell me I needed it.’

The receptionist glances at the phone ringing next to her and at the growing line of backpackers behind Aaron.

‘Well, she should’ve. They know our policy.’

‘She said she was new.’

The phone stops ringing and immediately starts up again. Her irritation grows. He needs to smile, and he does. She sighs and slaps a sheet of typed paper down in front of him.

‘You’re in the eight-bed dorm.’ She points behind him. ‘Down the corridor, second on the left.’ The same nail-bitten finger lands on the she. . .