It seemed like Hell Week had started early so Bruce changed the name to Hell Fortnight. He was flat out preparing everything for next week’s final production run. Assistance on the ground was thin, Sofia’s funeral having deflated the cast and crew. He knew he should pump up morale but his tank was running on empty with no hope of a refill. Before Gabriel, the work itself had been enough. Keep busy: his mantra. Things should have gone back to normal. He hadn’t seen Gabriel since the funeral on Monday when he’d hidden at the back. Gabriel had looked distressed enough without Bruce’s presence and he’d retreated when the service was over. Gone back to work, though not back home.
He’d avoided it since discovering Rachel’s destruction and calling the cops to file a report for the insurance. She’d made the place unliveable and so he’d taken to sleeping in the props room now that Dylan had left town. Kenzie had offered him a bed at her place, but he was too ashamed about the literal and figurative mess he’d found himself in. They compromised and he was bedding down beneath the stage. He was at the theatre so much, he may as well sleep there.
Not that he got much sleep.
His feet hung over the edge of the cot and during the sleepless hours he was forced to look at the underside of the stage, a continual reminder of making love with Gabe up above. The sooner he got out of there, the better, but the demands of work and the theatre meant his house was put on hold. He welcomed the distractions but he was forced to return home to collect a chainsaw for the job at Petra’s. It was one of the few tools that hadn’t been in his ute while Rachel trashed his house. So he was on his way back to the property to find out if it had been taken.
He used to enjoy the drive out of town to his place, passing through the shadowy arch of gum trees but that day their spindly branches formed a bony tunnel to Hades. He drove slowly, fearful of another unwelcome surprise.
He wouldn’t stay long. Find the chainsaw, chuck it in the back of the ute and get the hell out of there. But as he came up the long driveway and crested the hill, he slammed on the brakes. Cars were everywhere, and people entered and exited his house like worker ants dismantling a cricket’s carcass.
What the …?
He jumped out of the car, blood hammering through his arteries as he thundered towards the house. His tongue thickened, ready to shout. He wanted everyone gone. They had no—
‘Bruce!’
He spun at the sound of Kenzie’s voice behind him.
His friend’s diminutive form appeared from behind one of the cars.
‘What the hell is going on here, Kenzie?’
She tucked a strand of dyed pink hair behind her ear. ‘Please don’t be angry, Bruce.’ She took his fist in her hand. ‘Come on, come with me for a second.’ She led him away from the house, but he craned his neck to see what was going on.
Malcolm and Paul carried out a roll of carpet, while Niamh pushed a wheelbarrow full of broken tackless strips. Through the open windows, more people moved around inside. Assessing. Prying. Judging.
She took him behind one of the big trees and positioned him with his back to its trunk, blocking his view of the house. He crossed his arms and scowled. Kenzie was meant to be his friend and she’d done this to him?
‘I’m waiting for an explanation, Kenzie.’
‘I promise you, Bruce, it just kind of happened.’
Why did people feel the need to lie to him all the time?
‘And then all these people decided to come and empty my house?’ he said.
‘We’re only trying to help you, Bruce.’
‘I don’t need anyone’s help.’
She raised an eyebrow and copied his hostile stance. Though he suspected she did it out of mockery. ‘Do you really believe that? Because from where I’m standing you’re close to falling apart.’
Kenzie delivered her assessment with the bluntness of a sledgehammer knocking out a termite-infested wall. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other to compensate for the lurching in his stomach. ‘That’s not true.’
‘Oh really? So you weren’t in danger of losing your house?’
‘Well …’
‘And you think you would have been able to handle all this by yourself?’
‘I would have got to it in my own time.’
‘When?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘When would you have done it? We’ve all seen you running around town. We’ve got Hell Week next week and then opening night. So you were just going to sleep in the props room forever?’
‘It was mine to handle.’
‘Well, now we’re handling it.’ She unfolded her arms and placed her hands on his. Tension drained, along with the adrenaline. He wanted to hold on to it or else he’d not have the energy to continue. Exhaustion had dogged him for days, ever since he’d …
He didn’t want to think of Gabriel. Not now. It was bad enough seeing the mess Rachel had made of his house; the mess he’d made of his life was squarely on his fatigued shoulders.
‘Why don’t you come see what everyone’s done?’
He nodded dumbly, shame stiffening his legs. They pretended not to have noticed he’d been preparing to shout everyone out of his house. Smiles and warm hellos all round. A few of them, like Paul and Violet, pressed envelopes into his hand and apologised for being late with their payments. They wouldn’t hear his protests. Trudy Farrah brought him a cheque too, though he hadn’t given her an invoice. She also offered him a scone with blackberry jam from a platter she was carrying around and wouldn’t leave until he’d stuffed one in his mouth. She hadn’t had to tell him twice—her scones were legendary and he’d skipped lunch—but he barely tasted anything. It was like his tastebuds had packed up.
Meanwhile, the damage Rachel had wrought was being
