Chapter 3
Recollections

 

 

A gentle breeze rode the water and then climbed to curl over the headland. It was caressing as it passed over the moist flesh of his body but though it felt good, it was of little help to his state of mind. The runner continued to lie still, feeling safe behind closed eyes. He also felt a sense of sanctuary within the knowledge his location was unknown.

 

It was within those initial moments, the runner felt as if his only connection to the physical world was the new sound of the waves, as well as the crisp nature of the salt insinuated, sunburnt grass beneath him. For several minutes he felt peace within his solitude. His strong and fit body had fundamentally recovered from his imperative retreat, his lungs now at ease.

 

Suddenly, memories began, flooding like the unstoppable nature of a Tsunami, trying to dump him and throw his body like flotsam and drown him within his helplessness. He saw the face again. It was the face of an attractive man with blonde hair and blue eyes. The vision of the memory retreated backwards, extending its pictures from facial to full-bodied before including the surrounding environs. There was water again. The other man was standing against a wall beside the harbour and seemed to be just staring, perhaps lost in some deep and innocuous thoughts.

 

The runner forced the memory to vanish. He did not want to think about that man. He knew that the handsome man with those blue eyes was dangerous to him and to his way of life. At that moment, as well as for a very long time, the runner had believed he had been in complete control of his life. He determined what happened by choosing it and not by allowing irrational feelings of warmth and intimacy to dominate him. He had become what his father had expected of him.

 

Initially, all those years ago, he had tried to fight it, standing up to his father one night but all it had led to was a broken jaw in three places and two broken ribs. His father’s treatment had worked though because at nineteen, the son had finally returned the favour, beating his father severely before leaving home for the last time.

 

The face came into the mind of the runner again and he knew he had to push it away. He forced himself to picture the fountain at Sydney’s infamous Kings Cross. He pictured the guys he hung out with, got drunk with, got stoned with and on occasion, recruited to help him on a difficult job. They were criminals and prostitutes and drug addicts and though they were not really friends, they were the guys he could trust, at least for the most part.

 

Consciously attempting to maintain segregation from the incessant thoughts of his predator, instead he thought of the gang, which had come into the city from the west the night before. They had actually thought they had the right to give lip outside of their territory. With his boys behind him facing off against the out of town scum, he had walked up to the pin of their wheel and decked him, knocking him on his arse. An all-in-brawl had erupted and after he had enjoyed beating the shit out of several guys, he had ended everything with a small blade, cutting the gut of the man with the smart mouth. It did not kill him and he knew it, however, with the amount of blood, it certainly changed the gang’s perspective. It was over in less than ten minutes.

 

In what seemed an incongruous reaction, the runner flinched from the memory of what he had done with the blade. He attempted to push that memory away as well. He had become extremely adept at pushing things away. He felt a deep twinge of regret for cutting the man but then he consciously pushed away that emotion also. He sighed with resignation, telling himself that what he had done was the way a real man should be, the way his father had told him he should be - strong, aggressive and fearless.

 

He inhaled deeply but to his great displeasure, those blue eyes and the handsome face flashed in his mind again. He actually called out, “No” reactively, before he pushed his mind to a place and time from earlier in the day.

 

He, the running man, the escaping man, watched as the memory of his own fist slammed with incapacitating intent, into the face of some wealthy though nameless victim. His unsuspecting mark had crumbled like a card castle onto the carpet beneath him, never knowing until later, why a strange man had been in his house or why his fist had thrust like a cannon ball into his face.

 

The runner proceeded to load his van with a sound system worth thousands of dollars, as its owner lay unconscious on the floor. He then drove away from the three-story home like a grandmother driving to church. He did not race to get somewhere or to stash his wallet-filling goods in some shed or garage or safe house. Instead he drove into the city, parked out in the open on the loop road that led down to the historical landmark of Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, with a blanket covering what lay in the back of the vehicle. He got out and walked along a footpath in an unconcerned manner, no destination in mind but rather, a desire to simply walk along the harbour’s edge. He was one cool customer.

 

The runner reached a gateway and turned, confronted by an enormous stairway. He stopped abruptly to gaze at a blood red sun sinking beneath the city skyline. It was beautiful. It would be getting dark in approximately an hour. He began to descend the stairs very slowly, pausing repetitively, looking around and taking in the sights beyond the massive trees that stood to the sides of the stairway. He looked down at the stairs beneath his feet and he wondered how long it had taken to carve the slabs of sandstone, which created this absolutely massive set of stairs, as well as the heavy sandstone balustrades framing on either side.

 

He stopped, raised his hand and slid it over the surface of the balustrade. He remembered learning at school that Sydney was built upon an ancient sandstone foundation. It had been created after sea levels fell dramatically millions of years ago and the water of a massive river system from a mountain range, flowed to the east of the continent, depositing inconceivable amounts of sand, silt and minerals, to form the stunning waterways and also the monolithic cliffs, which now stood like a fortress against the Pacific Ocean.

 

As the tips of his fingers grazed over the balustrade, his tactile senses noted the roughness and hardness and yet ironically at the same time, an awareness of the ease with which it could be broken or worn down into its fundamental state. The grains glistened like tiny, beautiful jewels in the sunlight; however, he knew its basic state was nothing like its current appearance. Sandstone was a consequence of intense and unyielding pressure. His expression changed as he associated that description with himself. He was not the person he appeared to be. He pulled his hand away angrily following that thought and then once again, he began to descend the stairs.

 

He stopped for a moment halfway down and looked around again. He wondered what it would be like to be on the million-dollar yacht that sliced through the water beneath the bridge, however, thinking the thought was pointless, he continued down. Sometime later he reach the bottom, turned left and walked to the wall that curved snake-like, as it followed the harbour’s boundary. He found a spot away from other people, leaned against the wall and stared at the city, the harbour and the bridge.

 

Over an extended period of time he felt an onslaught of feelings. They were feelings that brought thoughts that told him he did not belong. He loved this city and particularly this country but these days he felt so separated from it all. He knew it was not really about the location but indirectly, the feeling he was alone seemed to disconnect him from everything. He was feeling more alone with every passing day. He knew in a way he had chosen this life, regardless of the circumstances and events that had led him to the choice. It had felt right at the time but after five years, he could not allay the increasing arguments that silently screamed within him. He hated his past but he missed the person he had once been.

 

“It doesn’t matter. It’s too late now,” he said quietly before pushing himself away from the wall.

 

Over thirty minutes had passed as he turned away from the harbour. He glanced around and noticed that apart from one other man, there was no one around. It was odd because he had never been in this location when there were not a minimum of twenty people or well over one hundred at other times. He considered that it was getting late and that perhaps the approaching darkness was the reason this place was now devoid of people. He shrugged dismissively and then turned to the right in the direction of the other man.

 

Deciding to yet again wander down the path and look at Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, as he approached to walk by, he was staring at the blonde haired man who was gazing at the deep waters of the harbour. The man’s profile was handsome, distinctive within its subtle curves and shapely, bone structured shadowing. He was wearing a blue, short sleeve, button-up shirt and tight blue jeans. He had a nice body that looked hard and fit and the clothing defined his chest, back, arse and thighs. The runner thought the other man would probably be a hot fuck.

 

Unaware of the runner’s approach, the other man unexpectedly climbed up onto the wall above the water. He stood there, gazing at the dark water as if he could see something within it, something looking back from the depths, something that held his gaze mesmerised.

 

Rashly, the runner concluded the other man was going to jump fully clothed into the harbour. It would not kill him, it would not even hurt him but with the sandstone wall that kept the water at bay, there was no way out that he could recall, within their vicinity. It was ironic really because only a few metres behind him was an old gate where back in history boats would pickup and drop people off - not that it mattered. The runner glanced up to the profile of the man’s face and he thought that his gaze was lost and searching.

 

All of a sudden the runner believed the man had no intentions of swimming. He assumed he was going to try and let himself drown. The runner cursed silently at the thought. A very personal memory flashed into his mind, recalling attitudes he now applied to weakness. Spontaneously he sprinted, jumped, wrapped his arm around the guys hips and they fell to the ground hard.

 

Back in the present, an enormous crash occurred from out of nowhere. It scared the hell out of the runner, as he lay quietly in the darkness on the headland. He had no idea the silence-destroying noise came from Port Botany, which was situated farther along the coast of Botany Bay. A shipping container had detached from a crane and fallen to the concrete it was being lifted from. The only thing the runner knew was that the enormous crashing noise had rocked him to his core but moments later, the silence of the night returned.

 

Gathering his composure from the unexpected fright, he smiled a smile that could have evolved into an amused laugh, as he considered where the previous memory would have led. What happened later had been emotionally charged.

 

Realising he was smiling and feeling good feelings, once again he ordered his mind to stop thinking about that man. He had already thought about other things but they had led him right back to his predator. He had to put an end to all these thoughts. He closed his eyes and in the darkness of night, he settled himself once again.

 

To be continued...