Tready's little eyes lit up, his mouth open in a big round O, teeth missing, yellow or blackened. With one hand, Tready unb.u.t.toned. He lowered the zip of his fly. He pushed the bra down into his crotch and rubbed it all around, using it to polish his p.r.i.c.k.

Seren finally heard something. A high-pitched whine in her head, which sounded a little like the conveyor belt that took the bodies of the chickens away after she had killed them. Except it sounded overloaded, like it was going to break.

Seren dropped her last shopping bag. She reached a hand forward and gripped a handful of the greasy red hair on the top of Tready's head, which was angled downwards as he pulled himself with her underwear. She swung her knee back as far as it would go within the confines of the elevator. Simultaneously, she yanked the hand holding his hair down as though ripping curtains from a window, and smacked her knee up to meet it. She visualised her knee smashing into her hand, as though nothing lay between them.

Her hearing working perfectly now, Seren heard the most pleasant wet crunch as Tready's nose was mashed back into his skull. And then the scream.

When he dropped, howling incoherently, she picked her shirt up from the floor. She retrieved her bra, leaving Tready's phallus flaccid against his leg. She stared for a beat at his groin, then lifted her sneaker and stomped.

When the door opened, Seren ensured that she had all of her purchases on her. She was going to need them. She stepped over Tready and left the lift.

24.

Monday 8 April, 1 pm.

Damien Rose shouted lunch. He sat with his three new friends in the Manning House eatery of the University of Sydney, and watched them devour hamburgers, hot chips and beer. Damien enjoyed his apple juice and a vegan falafel burger. They made them great in here.

There was a time when Damien would pa.s.s through here quickly, starving, while his cla.s.smates purchased lunch in this dining hall. For a student centre, the place was b.l.o.o.d.y expensive. He'd been surprised when he'd had to dip back into his wallet for another note, when the fifty wasn't enough for today's lunch.

Not that that mattered anymore. Damien sometimes couldn't fit his wallet into the pocket of his jeans. s.h.i.t, it was only this year that he'd even owned a wallet well, not counting the Velcro surfie wallet he'd been given by a teacher as his only Christmas present one year.

Damien's family didn't do Christmas, or birthdays. That, and the Witnessing he'd had to do every Sunday until he'd turned fourteen and flat-out refused, had made him the local reject. Muslims, Catholics, Presbyterians, d.a.m.n, even Buddhists, were all normal in Merrylands when he grew up. But Jehovah's Witness? That s.h.i.t was just strange, man. At least that's what everyone thought.

And the suit. That was the worst of all. As far as he could tell, not one kid in their entire suburb, and probably the next five surrounding them, even owned a suit, let alone wore it to go knock on their neighbours' doors each week. How his mother could not figure out that this behaviour would cop him at least a weekly bashing, he would never understand.

Damien smiled and chewed, brushed his blonde fringe back from his eyes. Erin laughed at something Jacob was saying. Erin is so hot, he thought. Whitey had told him that he should have asked her out ages ago, but he'd never asked a girl out. Sure, there was Helen Chin from physics cla.s.s at the Year 12 formal, but she'd asked him, so that didn't really count.

Whitey told him that by third year of uni, especially this year, he should have been getting laid at least every weekend. Whitey told him that he got p.u.s.s.y pretty much every day, and Damien now had no excuse.

'Ask her out tomorrow, man,' Whitey had said to him last night, 'or I'm gonna come out there on Tuesday and ask her myself. And I'll spoil her for life, man. She's not going to be able to come back to you after she's had Whitey.'

Whitey didn't hang around here much. He hadn't re-enrolled this semester. Damien had been scandalised.

'What are you doing, Whitey? Think of your future! Are you crazy?'

'Who needs that s.h.i.t, Damien? We don't anymore. Anyway, no one's stopping you. You go and be a good boy and finish your degree. s.h.i.t, get your Masters if you want. You've got our perfect customer channel, and you might just learn some new tricks to really give our s.h.i.t the edge.'

Erin and the others were getting close to finishing their food and he hadn't said anything yet.

'Where would I take her?' he'd asked Whitey. 'She's into clubbing and you know I can't dance.'

'Ask her round to our place.'

Five years ago, when Damien's mother had moved overseas to live in a Jehovah's Witness commune, Damien had taken over the rent of their three-bedroom fibro home. His night job at the servo hadn't been enough to make the repayments, so he'd asked Whitey to move in. He was the perfect roomie, really Whitey never tidied his own room, but he'd help out with other stuff when asked. And he ate nothing p.r.i.c.k was thin enough to slip through fence palings.

'Oh, yeah, sure, Whitey,' Damien had scoffed. 'Like she'd want to come out to Merrylands from Newtown. Anyway, that would have been okay when we were just making the E, but now you've started cooking ice, the place smells like s.h.i.t. That would be a great first date. h.e.l.l, I don't even want to be there.'

'There you go, then,' Whitey had said. 'Where do we go when we want to sleep somewhere that smells nice?'

'A hotel.'

'Exactly.'

'Exactly what? Seriously, Whitey. You've got to stop testing the product! I'm gonna ask Erin on a date to a hotel room? You've lost it, bro.'

'Listen, d.i.c.khead,' Whitey had said. 'We'll get a suite. On the harbour. Have a little private party. I'll take care of the music and the visuals. You won't have to dance. Your little Erin will be all over you.'

'What about you, Damien?' Jacob asked. Damien's attention snapped back to the university cafe.

Jacob and Brent were standing. They all stared at him expectantly.

'What? Sorry?' he said. d.a.m.n, he could never concentrate when he was nervous.

'What's your next cla.s.s?' Jacob asked.

'Organic Synthesis and Reactivity,' said Damien.

'Have fun with that,' said Jacob and laughed as he and Brent headed off.

Damien knew that Jacob had enrolled in Medicine in his first year, swapped to Sports Science at the beginning of last year, and by July had moved to Arts, hoping to major in Philosophy. When Damien had asked why he'd dropped Sports Science, Jacob had told him he that he didn't like the campus he'd had to move to.

'Too many fat chicks,' he'd declared.

Erin hadn't left with Jacob and Brent, thank G.o.d. Damien got up and walked around to where she stood.

'Where are you off to now?' he asked her.

'Linguistics,' she said.

He grimaced. She smiled. He cleared his throat. She shuffled her feet. Oh for f.u.c.k's sake! Damien felt like any minute now a tumbleweed would roll through the dining hall between them.

'Um,' they both said, at the same time.

'You go,' he said.

'Well, it's about this weekend. I was wondering . . .'

Oh my G.o.d. It was going to be just like Helen Chin. She was going to ask him out!

'Well,' she continued. 'My friends and I we really liked those pills you got for us last week, and I wondered if you could get us some more?'

'Oh,' he said. 'Okay.'

Damien didn't usually do the selling. They had Byron for that. Damien got to know people who'd want to buy, who were already buying, and would put Byron in touch with them. Erin and her friends had come to know that Damien knew Byron, and he'd hooked them up directly a couple of times.

'That's great, Damien! You're a darling.' And Erin reached up, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him. On the mouth.

'See you tomorrow, then,' she said. 'And thanks for lunch!'

She walked away.

d.i.c.khead. Dumb. Mute. Tool. Could he do nothing right?

'Erin!' Damien called and started to jog after her. He skidded to a stop when he reached her side.

'Here, take these first.' Damien handed Erin two tablets and a bottle of water from the mini-bar.

'What are they?' She'd swallowed them before she'd even asked.

He stared. People had no idea what chemicals could do to their bodies.

She looked so gorgeous tonight. She had this stretchy white top thing on, cut real low, and, well, she was really, ah, big, up top. Damien had to look at his shoes when he answered.

'It's okay,' he said. 'It's just B6 and L-tryptophan.'

'Vitamins,' she said.

'Well, technically L-tryptophan is an amino acid,' he said.

'Are you s.h.i.tting me?' Erin started to look worried.

'No, really. It's okay. For maximum effect, and to give your brain the best protection, I should have started you on a few things a week ago. These will both help increase your serotonin levels.'

'Isn't the eccy gonna do that?' she asked. She swept her eyes around the suite, like she had been doing every couple of seconds since she walked in. He didn't blame her. The Opera House glowed like their own private moon on the inky harbour directly beyond their balcony. He reckoned he could have just about thrown a rock onto the steps. Whitey had the music pulsing, but not loud; just a rhythmic throbbing that prodded beneath the conversations of the eight people in the room.

'Actually, the ecstasy draws on your brain's own serotonin, the chemical that makes you feel so great when you take it,' he said. 'It forces your neurones to release all you've got stored, so you're flooded with feel-good for a few hours.'

'And it feels so good,' she said. 'Are you going to roll tonight too, Damien?' Erin took a step closer and peered up into Damien's eyes. From this angle, his own private view eclipsed the Opera House any time. He had to drop onto the couch and grab a cushion.

'I don't use it,' he said.

She dropped down next to him. 'Someone told me that if you crush the tablet up and snort it, you get a better rush,' she said.

'Well, you can get the dosage in your bloodstream up a little more, up to around seventy-five per cent, but when it drips down the back of your throat it tastes terrible,' he said. 'I'm told,' he added.

'Some people shoot it up.'

'Some people are f.u.c.king suicidal,' he said. 'You'd want to be pretty sure about what the pill had been cut with before you started shooting it directly into your vein.'

'Ew. I wouldn't do that anyway.'

'You probably wouldn't like the other method either.'

'Which is?'

'Shafting. Inserting it into your a.r.s.ehole. Up to ninety per cent absorption into the bloodstream.'

'Hmm. How revolting. Let's stop talking about this. It's killing the magic. Don't you think it's a beautiful night?'

Erin moved a little closer, brought her face close to his. She smelled like fairy floss. He licked his lips.

'You know a lot about ecstasy,' she said.

'Yeah, well, I guess I'm well read.'

She moved even closer. 'Anyone would think that you make it yourself,' she whispered. 'My own little chemistry boy.'

25.

Monday 8 April, 1 pm.

'Hey, chemical brothers!' said Byron when Damien opened the front door. He flopped down onto the lounge. It was back to the real world: Merrylands and the stench of their rented house. Damien moved back to the sink where Whitey was, trying to keep hold of the feeling from the hotel last night.

'Ah, we might have a problem,' said Byron.

'What?' Whitey and Damien spun around.

'Nah, man. It's all good. Nothing like that!' Byron laughed. 's.h.i.t, you guys are tense,' he said. 'It's not the law.'

'What, then?' Damien turned back to the stove. He couldn't afford for this batch to get too hot. He'd had to start again once already this week, and it had cost a lot of time. He had two essays due on Friday.

'Well, it's not really a problem. We should think of it more as an opportunity,' said Byron.

Damien and Whitey continued to work.

'A business opportunity. A chance to expand, widen our networks.'

'We don't want to expand,' said Whitey.

'We're happy with our networks,' confirmed Damien. He smiled. Erin had called him three times today. He got a hard on every time his mobile sounded.

'That's probably where the problem part comes in,' said Byron.

'What are you talking about, Byron?' asked Whitey. 'Are you on the goey? You're making no f.u.c.king sense.'