I Don't Believe In Sundays

By Stephen Kirkaldy

Confronted by his own mortality, Ben Richards must decide how he will spend his time before he shuffles off this mortal coil. He must deal with the big questions of faith and the afterlife, as well as the less important questions of 'Call of Duty' versus 'Halo'. All the while trying to tick things off from his Bucket List.
They say it's not the destination, but the journey that is important - this is his journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Kirkaldy
• Release date: Jul 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9780992558505

Stephen Kirkaldy

Teacher. Author. World Famous Race Car.

Book preview

Prologue

Closing Time

It was Australia Day, 2010.

Maria handed me a stack of pages wedged into a tattered manila folder. She also gave me a clear plastic sleeve that contained five CDs, a DVD and an IPod Nano.

Do your best, please. She was tearing up.

The pages held an assortment of writings, letters addressed to different people, ramblings, diary type entries, creative writing and random words. The CDs were copies of Counting Crows albums; I think the entire back catalogue: ‘August and Everything After’, 'Films About Ghosts', 'Hard Candy' ‘Recovering the Satellites’ and ‘Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings’. The DVD was ‘Herbie Reloaded’...

The IPod, emerald green, named ‘Morrigan’ had a selection of songs, but more importantly a selection of videos. Some of which, I probably should not have watched.

It took me a while, but I think this is a fair representation...

Part One:

Chapter 1

A Long December

You should let your father know.

My father.

He’s probably the main reason for my loss of faith.

Fine, there are those that would argue that one cannot, strictly speaking, ‘lose’ faith, as it were – some believe that it’s not something one can lose, per se, if you lose it, you never really had it. Or something like that.

But my father, he was a good man, and well, he probably still is, but he is gone from me, in a way that is like he is dead to me. Maybe worse.

Yeah, worse.

And... It’s not a way to start a story. I will come back to it. I know you Elizabeth, you won’t let it rest.

Instead, let’s talk about the night we first met. That reception for a mutual friend. It’s funny that you remember meeting, but I don’t.

Why don’t I remember meeting you? Well, no offense, but it wasn’t the highlight of my evening.

No, that honour belongs to the lady in red.

Maria. If I could write a sigh, I would. Sorry.

She was wearing a red dress, red is imprecise; it was burgundy, or deep carmine. Kind of sale red, but more svelte, more luscious, velvety, like petals, like, ah, a rose.

Damn.

It was, it had the strap that wraps around the back of the neck, a halter neck? Backless, knee length, with a plunging neckline. Not that she was particularly well endowed, not that that is a real measure of worth, but they don’t need to be crying out ‘look at me’ in a neon sign to get attention. In fact, it was better; it was enticing in a way that is hard to explain. She had a tattoo on her right side, at first it looked like a tribal pattern, but seemed to be a stylised bird that disappeared under the material at the front.

It begged the question.

You frown upon me for describing her looks first, but that’s what I noticed first. It’s what humans do. Yes, I found it agreeable, and I have kept that image in my mind, not solely from a sense of nostalgia. She had a simple, an elegant beauty, makeup that complimented her natural tones. She reminded me of those pinups that they painted on WWII fighter planes. 1940’s not quite innocence.

She had a friend with her: bleached blonde hair, her roots were showing, extra makeup that didn’t quite go with her outfit, a shiny necklace that plunged into the cleavage of her strapless sky blue dress. They were on show. Prominent on a sort of shelf with no visible means of support. How do they do that anyway? I thought gravity was one of those rules, the inviolate ones.

You know, if they ever do invent anti gravity devices, someone will put them into a bra. Probably the French. Or the Japanese.

Her dress was tight enough to show the outline of the G string she was wearing, and short to the point that she was in danger of revealing it if she bent too much. In hindsight, perhaps that was the idea. Her voice was injected with a surplus of high pitched enthusiasm. I sound critical, and I am, but later, after the speeches, when people braved the dance floor, I watched her assess and discard the males in the room with incredible, if predatory, efficiency.

At these reception things, there’s always that table of leftover people - the cousins, the primary school friends, the work people, and in this case, two of us from the groom’s Honours class. We’d said polite ‘hello’s at the table, introductions and necessary small talk and then promptly found our way to the bar. We, being Isaac and I. You’ve met him.

The groom, Hamish, ‘Soap’, came up and put his arms around our shoulders.

I still hope to be a good influence on you two. He smiled as he said it.

And I still hope to be a bad one on you. Isaac twisted from under the arm, grabbed a beer and handed it to Soap, who promptly returned it to the counter. Can you introduce me to that girl? Isaac pointed to a strawberry blonde by the window.

No. Soap had a way of being friendly and reprimanding at the same time. So, he turned his attention on me, How was it to be back in a church? I appreciate it, by the way.

It’s your wedding day, and you’re worried about my immortal soul?

Yeah. He shrugged.

Go and mingle.

I just...

Will you get going, you old pirate. I gently pushed him towards the throng of people. He turned back to me.

We’ll talk again, when I get back.

Fine. Don’t think too much about it. He moved away.

I’m going to introduce myself to that girl. Isaac walked away, and I turned back to the bar and picked up the beer that Soap had passed up on.

Maria came up to the bar, close by, despite the space available.

Two white wines, thanks.

I looked at her, took in the details afforded by closer proximity – the kitten heels that meant she was my height, the scar behind her left ear that disappeared behind her hair, the cubic zirconia earrings, the faint smell of a subtle perfume. The tattoo, a tangled pattern, I watched it as it disappeared along her ribs.

This is forward of me, I began, and perhaps a little odd, and for that, I apologise. I don’t know that I was ever that great at talking to women. She turned her head, brows furrowed, eyes tight. Never mind – it seems that I have already annoyed you. I bowed my head slightly.

Fine, yes, I can introduce you.

What? To whom?

My friend, she nodded vaguely at the room and sounded exasperated, in blue.

Why would I want you to do that?

It tends to happen that way. There was a small bite in her tone.

Then you’re hanging out in the wrong places. I drank some of my beer. You need to go places where the people are more discerning.

I think, that is one of the nicest things anyone has said to me. The barkeep put her drinks down in front of her.

And now you’re just lying to me. I turned to walk away.

Please take your seats, came the voice of the MC. Dinner is about to be served. I didn’t look back.

I saw the strawberry blonde look relieved as Isaac moved away from her. We got to our table at the same time.

Christians. He said as we took our seats.

You can’t hate a religion, just because you can’t score.

Yes I can.

Okay, yes you can, but it’s not a very good reason.

He shrugged. You’ve heard worse.

True.

It’s funny to think that you were in that room too. You sat through the same meal, well, I had the chicken, heard the same speeches. Did you get up and dance the ‘Macarena’? Did Isaac hit on you?

Dinner, speeches, and then the dances. They started with the bridal waltz, followed quickly by the standard dance fare, the epic workout of ‘Nutbush’, the ‘Macarena’, did they play ‘Y.M.C.A’? I don’t think so. Do dancing songs ever become clichéd? Or is that where their charm lies?

Isaac was up on the dance floor, trying to talk to women. Some that he had already tried to talk to. I could see he wasn’t having a great deal of luck. I think he was meant to be getting me a beer. I was nursing a port and watching people on the dance floor - there’s something primal about dancing. Perhaps there is some rationale behind those that frown upon it. Someone sat at the table beside me. I turned and saw the woman in the red dress.

What were you going to ask me? She poured herself some water from the jug on the table.

It doesn’t seem appropriate now.

Then I’m just going to assume that you really did want me to introduce you to my friend.

That would be doing us both a disservice.

Well then? There was a smile on her face.

Your tattoo, I smiled back.

Yes. It’s a bird.

It’s a phoenix, no? And it ends here? I put a hand to my own lower ribcage.

That’s about right. Why?

I like to think of myself as an artist, I was curious. The phoenix, the bird that rises from its own ashes. An unusual choice.

Unless you grew up on ‘Battle of the Planets’.

So very true. I laughed. She smiled. I’m surprised you know about that show, you don’t seem old enough.

I’m not. She shook her head. I discovered it when I was searching for images for the tattoo. Did you want to see it?

I... That’s not a fair question.

Why not?

Because there’s no safe answer. If I say yes, I sound sleazy, regardless of my intentions, and if I say no, you could take it as an insult – you might think that I think that the art isn’t worthy.

So, we’re just talking about the art?

And now you’re mocking me.

Yes I am.

I should warn you, that’s only going to make me like you more.

Oh? She smiled at me. That sounds like trouble.

Nothing says ‘I love you’ quite like an AVO.

Perhaps. She lifted her glass to her lips, she didn’t drink, lowered it. I think she was hiding a smile. So, yes or no? And you can’t not answer. She turned completely and looked me in the eye. She put a hand on mine.

The honest answer? The honest answer is yes. I am curious about the art, yes, and really, it’s not every day a beautiful woman asks if I want to see her chest. I took a drink. But the answer that I am going to give you is no.

Why? She leant forward. You don’t like?

And now you’re just teasing me.

Yes I am. She leant back, smiling. So how do you know them? She gestured at the front table.

I did Honours with Soap – Hamish.

Didn’t Hamish do English Honours?

Yeah.

And didn’t you say you were an artist?

I, well...

Don’t let him tell you otherwise, this guy can draw. Isaac planted a beer in front of me and sat down on the other side of Maria.

Isaac, this is, I paused, I’m sorry, we seem to have missed introducing ourselves. I’m Ben.

I’m Maria.

They call him ‘The Butcher’.

Thank you, Isaac.

Welcome. Word is, this place is winding down. Some of us were going to hit the clubs. You in?

No, I don’t think so. You know me and clubs.

Yeah. How did you get that baby elephant past the bouncers?

What I need is a good pot of tea.

Tea? Maria seemed bemused.

Yeah. I made a decision. You’re welcome to join me.

For tea? She raised an eyebrow. That’s just tea, there’s no innuendo, it’s not like, come in for coffee?

Or come up and see my etchings, no. Just tea.

Part of me is disappointed.

It’s great tea.