The Last Conversation

By Robert Neville

Christine Goldstrom has never tried to bring someone to God before and she cannot understand why her minister sent her to Gary Burton. Rude, insulting and highly intelligent, he makes every visit painful. She refuses to give up; she has too many reasons for coming to stop.
Gary Burton, a former prisoner dying of AIDS, looks forward to death. Weighed down by his past, he has only one friend and that is with the woman who runs the hostel he stays in. When Christine starts visiting, he does everything to push her away but can't bring himself to tell her not to come. Christine is dangerous, bringing up things from his past he spent too long trying to bury. Bringing up feelings he has not had for a decade.
Soon Christine's entire world is centred on Gary. Warned by friends and family about her obsession, she ignores them and keeps delving into his past. What she uncovers will cause her to challenge everything she has ever known and how she sees herself, her faith and even death itself.
There is only one possible ending to this story and before the last conversation, Christine and Gary will learn the two most important lessons of all. Without love, life has no meaning and dying is all about living as much as you can until you can’t.
The Last Conversation is a novel told almost entirely in dialogue; two people meeting and over time, finding solace in each other before the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Neville
• Release date: Feb 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370219346

Robert Neville

Robert Neville has been practising as a psychologist for more than a decade and has a passion for exploring emotion and how people process life events. He brings his clinical knowledge into his writing. Robert lives with his wife and family in southern New South Wales, Australia.

Book preview

1 February 1998

Good morning and welcome, I would like to thank you all for coming.

So why the fuck are you here?

Christine Goldstrom did not answer right away. She sat in a chair opposite him. The front door was closed, as was the room’s only window, and the cigarette smoke hung thick in the air between them.

A ceiling fan turned slowly, bringing some relief from the heat in the room. Ash rode the currents of air, a small piece dancing, floating in smaller and smaller circles before landing on her stockinged knee.

Frustrated, she flicked the ash away, still not answering.

She realised this was a bad idea; she should never have come. She had known it since pulling up in the small parking lot, leaving her Peugeot in front of a faded sign. ‘River Gardens – a supported community of the Salvation Army’.

She had no idea what a supported community was; it sounded like a nursing home or a place to help disabled people, only she had never seen one so shabby before. Cracks spidered through the brickwork of the buildings and graffiti covered the leaning wooden fence that marked the property’s border.

She had gotten out of her car and walked through the small gate. A row of small flats marched off to her right, a common veranda joining them to the large building on her left. A signpost indicated that the large building housed the meeting room and cafeteria. A smaller sign on the first flat said ‘office’.

She had knocked on the office door and waited. A noticeboard next to the door had a list of Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous meeting times, indicating that this clearly was not a nursing home.

The door to the office had opened and a large woman had looked out at her. Can I help you?

Yes, hello, I’m looking for Gary Burton, she had said in her most polite voice.

The woman had looked Christine up and down, shaking her head. What would someone like you want with him?

I have a meeting with him. What room is he in?

The woman had shrugged, leaning out of the office door and pointing down the veranda with her thick finger. Number eleven, last one on the right. Can’t miss it.

Thank you.

She’d harrumphed and watched Christine walk down the veranda.

Christine had walked to the end and knocked on the door with the tarnished numerals ‘11’ screwed into the flaking wood. After a few moments, the door had opened, and Gary Burton had stared at her, his eyes squinting against the sunlight.

Hi, I’m Christine Goldstrom; we spoke on the phone.

He’d swayed a little, seeming to look past her at the empty space behind her. A glass of amber liquid had swirled around in his left hand and a cigarette dangled off his lower lip. Nodding, he’d ushered her in, pointing to an armchair before sitting down.

The first words he’d uttered was that question. So why the fuck are you here?

She felt like she could barely breathe with all the smoke. She had asked if they could talk outside, but he had shaken his head and repeated the question.

Could we maybe talk outside? she asked hopefully.

No. I’m not allowed to drink outside where the other residents can see me. Now answer the question; why are you here?

He continued to watch her from his chair in the corner. It was hard to make him out; the curtains were closed and the light from the single bulb in the fan struggled to penetrate through the gloom and the smoke.

From where he was sitting, his cigarette ignited at the tip, a circle of glowing embers amidst the shadows. She heard him breathe in and the circle grew brighter.

Lowering the cigarette, he started to breathe out and then he began coughing loudly. He exhaled in short, stunted gasps, the smoke punching its way out of his mouth, breath after breath until there was nothing left. Having escaped, the smoke drifted upwards to merge with the cloud already there, further blocking out the feeble glow of the light bulb.

Flicking the excess ash from his cigarette into an ashtray, she heard him take a drink from his almost empty glass.

Well I’ve asked you twice why came to see me, three times if you count the other day on the phone. Is it too hard a question to answer?

She went to speak, but there were no words.

Pursing her lips, she flicked another piece of ash from her skirt, watching as it drifted down to join the rest on the stained carpet. Her eyes stung from the smoke as she watched him and waited. In the ten minutes she had been here, she had begun to understand why patience was a virtue. It was taking all she had not to rush over to open the window or the door and just bask in the sunlight and fresh air.

He barely seemed to notice.

You don’t look like a slut, so I doubt you’re here for a bit of my cock. Or are you? Maybe you’re one of those rich bitches who find fucking a degenerate ‘exciting’.

Brushing a stray hair from her fringe away from her face, she continued to wait, silent. She felt it best not to respond to such a vulgar comment.

He took a final drag of his cigarette and crammed it into the ashtray. His leaned forward as he spoke, his face coming into the gloomy light, his thin bloodless lips pulling back into a grin.

Is that it? Would you get ‘excited’ fucking me?

She hadn’t been expecting that. Coughing, she drew herself up straighter. I…um…no, that is not why I’m here, Mr Burton.

Then tell me why the fuck you are here or I’ll just keep on thinking it’s this one. You want to be on top or bottom? I’m easy either way. Although with my condition, you’ll probably have to do most of the work.

She felt her face redden, partly from embarrassment and partly from annoyance. This was not going as she’d expected. He was nothing like she’d expected. In his chair, Gary shook his head. Well maybe you’ve come to—

I…I have not come to do anything with you. I was sent here…to try and help you.

Who sent you?

My church did. I wanted to do some evangelical work, and my minister suggested that I come here and see you.

Gary sat there, silent for a moment, thinking. Why would you think I’d need help?

I…I’ve been told of your situation.

He smiled, but there was no humour in it. My situation? What exactly is my situation?

Christine swallowed. I…I was told that you were…you were dying?

Yeah, been doing that for years now. So, what? It don’t bother me none. Besides, what could you do to help me? You got a cure for AIDs?

No, I do not have a cure.

So how the fuck are you meant to help?

I…I can be here if you’d like to talk. Maybe offer some support?

Gary took another sip of his drink, not responding, dragging the silence out. Christine breathed deeply before sitting back, unable to speak again.

Putting his drink down, he made as if to stand up. Well, thanks for the offer but I don’t need any bloody help. I could use a fuck though. You wanna help me out there?

Mr Burton, if you could please—

The name is Gary. Call me Gary.

OK then…Gary. I’ve come to help you in any way that I can emotionally and spiritually. If you want…physical comfort, then I suggest you look elsewhere.

He laughed, setting off another coughing fit. She reached into her bag and took out a handkerchief, handing it to him.

He waved her away, coughing into his hand and then wiping his palm on his shorts. Breathing deeply to stop himself from coughing again, he leant back and resumed his leering, scratching at the stubble on his chin.

Like I said, I don’t need any help. I got all the help I want. Too bloody much of it, if you ask me. Everyone wants to help the fucking dying. Where was everyone when I didn’t have a terminal illness? That’s my question. As soon as everyone knows you don’t have long to live, they’re all there to try and help. Got it completely fucking backwards.

Christine stood up, preparing to leave. Well, I am sorry to have bothered you.

Well you did.

And I am sorry.

Bullshit.

I am. I didn’t mean to upset you.

Like I said, I don’t need some bitch trying to help me out just so she can stand up in church and pretend to be the new fucking saint of Australia.

Excuse me, but I am not trying to be the new…

She halted, just catching herself before she swore. As she stood frozen, mid-sentence, he laughed.

Cursing beneath her breath, she regretted the outburst and tried to regain her composure. She moved to the door and opened it, flooding the interior of his room with daylight.

It was petty, but she enjoyed seeing him cringe from the brightness, bringing one hand up to shadow his eyes. In the daylight, she could see that next to his glass sat a half-empty bottle of scotch.

I must go, Mr Bur…Gary. I only came by today to introduce myself. I am sorry if I upset you. I…I won’t come back if you don’t want me to.

He stopped laughing. Scratching his chin again, he blinked to adjust to the sunlight and watched her.

Christine tried to meet his gaze but couldn’t. There was something there, some emotion that she couldn’t place, something that made her uncomfortable.

Reaching into his pocket, Gary took out his cigarette packet and removed another cigarette. After pulling out his lighter, he lit the cigarette and stuck it between his teeth.

Grinning, he smiled at her, the cigarette dangling between his lips.

Yeah, why not have some company? Come round any time you like. I don’t really go anywhere.

Her brow furrowed. She paused, processing his statement. He took a drag on his cigarette, watching her.

Was there something else? he asked.

Ah, no, nothing. I might come by next week, if that’s all right?

Whatever. I’ll be here.

He leaned across to the dresser next to his armchair and turned on a radio. Sitting back comfortably, he took another drag of his cigarette and closed his eyes.

He didn’t say anything, but the dismissal was plain.

She left the room, closing the door behind her, not sure if she’d wanted to slam it. She leaned against it, her eyes closed, breathing deeply. The air felt clean, not just from the smoke but also from him.

From inside the room, she heard him coughing again. It was the only sign she could see that he was dying.

She needed a coffee – a strong one. As she walked back to her car, all she could think to herself was that it had begun, and there was no going back now.

15 February 1998

Good morning and welcome, I would like to thank you all for coming.

Coming here today to say farewell to someone we all cared about

It was a hot day, one of the hottest days they’d had all February, and Christine was sweating profusely. Running her hand across her brow, she watched Gary. It was her third visit and she was determined that this time, he would not get the upper hand.

They weren’t in his room, and she was thankful for that at least. In this heat, even he had had to admit that his room was like an oven.

Instead, they were in the hostel’s garden, a small square of lawn surrounded by a few straggly trees in weed-filled beds. They sat on white plastic lawn chairs, the type you found at a discount store and always felt like one of the legs was just about to give way.

Gary had of course chosen the chairs that were not in the shade, forcing her to sit in direct sunlight, the sun beating down relentlessly. Still, it was better than being in his room, both for the heat and air quality.

Christine was sweating. She hated sweating, but she was determined. She longed to take off the light knitted cardigan she wore. Instead she kept it wrapped tight around her. She wore a modest blouse underneath, but before when she’d started to take off the cardigan, she had felt Gary’s eyes on her and quickly buttoned it up again.

When he looked at her, she felt naked.

Gary seemed quite relaxed. He sat in the lawn chair opposite her, one leg extended before him. The cotton khaki shorts that he wore ruffled as the occasional breeze passed them by, and his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a small spattering of black wiry hair across his pale, bony chest.

A thin gold chain hung around his neck. She hadn’t noticed it in her previous visits due to the gloominess of his room. A ring was threaded onto the chain.

That’s a nice ring. Where did you get it?

What, you think I fucking stole it?

What? No…I didn’t mean that. I was wondering if someone had given it to you or whether it was a family heirloom.

He pulled the chain outwards, holding the ring between his fingers. It was a thick band of gold with some small scrollwork along the edges; from its size she could see it was cut for a man’s finger. Someone gave it to me.

How come you don’t wear it on your hand?

Cause I like it around my neck. You the fucking fashion police?

No…I…never mind. She fell into silence again, unsure of what to say or how to respond. She was determined…but it was slipping.

He took another drag on the cigarette in his hand. It didn’t bother her as much out here, but the look of him blowing smoke through his nose still made her feel uncomfortable. His eyes regarded her, like they always did. Even though this was the third time she’d visited him, she still couldn’t determine what emotion lay behind those dark brown irises.

So, Mother Teresa, what shall we talk about today?

Christine shrugged. We can talk about whatever you like. Maybe you could tell me about yourself.

Like what?

I don’t know; tell me about where you grew up?

In a house, like most people.

Very funny, Gary; tell me about your childhood, your family.

His face grew still, smoke curling out between his teeth. Oh, I don’t think you’d like that story.

Christine leant forward, smiling. I’m sure I can handle whatever you tell me. She waited, determined that this time she wouldn’t back away first.

I’m warning you, it’s pretty fucking rough. Not everyone has had an easy life like you.

Images of hospital wards, needles, vomiting for hours and crying into a clogged drain flickered through her mind, but she quickly dismissed them; she was good at that. She could also see this as a deflection, but she couldn’t avoid biting. What makes you think I’ve had an easy life?

Let me guess. Parents are still together; your dad had a good job while your mother stayed home and looked after the house, which they own. In fact, they probably own more than one, isn’t that right?

Actually, my mother works as well. She volunteers at…

People with money volunteer and call it work. People without money call it community service. Did you go to a private school? Church every Sunday?

I went to a good school and yes, we attended church, but that does not—

She stopped as she saw Gary shake his head dismissively. Rich parents, good school, such a hard life, he said sarcastically.

Christine stiffened. Just because my parents worked hard and were successful does not mean my life was easy.

And what did you do with all their hard work?

What do you mean?

Did you go to uni? Have you got a job?

Yes, I went to university. I did a Bachelor of Accounting and I work in the finance department of my local diocese.

Your local disease?

Die-oh-sees, she pronounced phonetically. They govern the local network of churches.

Fuckin’ hell. You work for a church; you got sent here to do churchy work. You are a regular fucking nun, aren’t you?

Nuns are Catholic. I’m an Anglican.

And you work for a church, whoop-de-fucking-do.

I don’t ‘work for a church’. I run the entire eastern region’s finances. I may be wasting my time right now talking to you, but do NOT say that I have wasted my life.

Well if you’re wasting your time coming to see me, why the hell do you keep coming back? Gary said, looking up at her, smiling.

She was standing almost on top of him, not that she could remember moving forward. She felt her nails digging into her palms and the dizziness felt worse. Squeezing her eyes shut to try and push him out of her mind, she picked up her handbag. I…I need to take a walk, she said as she started to move away from him.

You really don’t like that question, do you? he called out to her as she left their square patch of lawn.

She was angry. She’d been so determined that today, at least, he wouldn’t get under her skin. She had failed. Again.

She saw a small dirt path at the back of the hostel that led into more gardens, a ‘rainforest’ setting of palms and wildflowers. Ahead, she could hear water and soon after the path opened out near a park alongside the Parramatta River.

Here, the plants were better maintained, by council workers and not the hostel’s residents. Usually, the plants would have soothed her. She had always enjoyed gardening and tended the plants she kept on the balcony of her apartment with care. Even a garden filled with weeds and rubbish like the hostel’s would lighten her mood.

Behind her though, she could hear the crunch of dirt beneath feet and the flip-flop noise of a pair of thongs. He was whistling as well, just to make sure she knew he was following.

Ahead, she saw a small jetty poking its way into the river and she made her way onto it. Staring out at the Parramatta River, she prayed that he would have turned around by now. That he would return to his room and leave her alone.

Stopping his whistling, she heard him climb up to sit on the jetty’s railing.

She was sweating again, from the walk. She opened her cardigan and let the breeze off the water cool her.

She knew he was waiting for her to say something, waiting for her response, but she was no longer in the mood.

Instead, she looked out over the water, watching what she assumed was a father and son sailing a small catamaran. Above her, a lone seagull called out, asking if she was there to throw scraps of food.

She continued to grip the railing. The wood was rough beneath her palms, the once pristine paint stripped off by countless hands and the briny air, leaving only small flecks of white that clung to the recesses.

Chicken wire had been strung between the railings, but it was rusted. Here and there the holes had stretched out where it looked like someone had kicked it.

Yet the condition of the pier did not bother her, nor did the lone seagull that continued to circle above, pleading in false starvation. A ferry pushed its way through the chop, heading towards Sydney, making the small catamaran bob in its wake, but she paid it no mind. Looking down, she could see her reflection in the water. And a little to the left of it, she could see his as well.

She could hear the soft rattle of his breathing, the brisk walk making him want to cough. Though she knew that it was probably the salt off the water and the barnacles that clung to the jetty, she was sure she could smell him.

She heard him move, and he was right behind her. Closing her eyes, she listened for what he would do next.

She heard a small click as he spun the wheel of his lighter. The sound of the flame flickered in the breeze, like tearing paper.

She heard him inhale, then exhale. Smoke curled around her head before being whipped away by the wind. Closing her eyes, she wondered again why Reverend Thomas had sent her here. Of all the places, of all the people he could have sent her to talk to, why the hell did he choose Gary Burton?

Opening her eyes, she turned around quickly, forcing him to step back or risk being struck. Do you enjoy insulting me, Mr Burton?

She was proud of herself; her voice had been pleasant during the entire sentence.

I told you to call me Ga—

I call my friends by their first name and my acquaintances by their last. And you didn’t answer my question.

He grinned, stepping back and hopping up onto the railing. Very well, miss etiquette, the answer is yes. Why shouldn’t I get some enjoyment out of this? I may as well get just as much out of this as you are.

Get as much out of this as I am! What could you possibly think I’m getting out of listening to you insult me? All I’m trying to do is offer a little comfort in your…

Her face blanched, her voice trailing away. He watched her, unperturbed.

Last days. I can say it, so why can’t you? You’re not the one who’s going to die; I am. It’s the reason you’re here, isn’t it?

I’m here to…

If I got better right now, there’s no way you’d still hang around. You’re only here to be charitable, to feel good about yourself for comforting a dying man.

That is not true.

Bullshit it isn’t. These meetings aren’t about me. They’re about you feeling good about yourself.

No, they are not.

OK then, tell me. Why are you here?

Christine stood there, silent. She turned around, looking back out across the water. The catamaran had disappeared; the water was getting rougher and they must have stopped for the day. The seagull was still there, crying out, joined now by two of its friends.

I think the more important question is why you ask me to keep coming back, she said, looking over her shoulder. It’s obvious you doubt my intentions and you do your best to make these encounters uncomfortable.

So, this is an ‘encounter’, is it? I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.

Don’t play with my words, Mr Burton. I do not appreciate it.

He raised his arms in mock-submission, the grin still on his face. She stood there, waiting. Turning his face, he took another drag on his cigarette, looking out across the river.

Bloody hot, isn’t it?

At the mention of the heat, she remembered how hot she was. Her blouse was sticking to her back, and her fringe was slicked against her forehead.

She grabbed the edge of her cardigan to take it off just as he turned back around. His eyes flitted to her breasts and she hesitated, buttoning the cardigan back up instead. His grin deepened.

She leant back against the railing. Eyes closed, she wished she was back in her apartment, the air conditioning on full, an iced tea on the table and a good book in her lap. She wished she was in a prisoner-of-war camp, being tortured and starved. She wished she was in hospital, hooked up to machines and needles and horrible treatments. She wished she were anywhere but here.

Opening her eyes, she saw him still sitting there. The heat got hotter.

He turned again, to look out across the water.

It’s like buying a car, he said as he watched the water. "When you buy a car, you take it for a test drive. Not the bullshit one at the dealership where you check everything is working and drive for about ten minutes.

"I’m talking about the real test drive, after you’ve bought it. You find some old country road and open her up from a standing start, revving through the gears and flicking gravel out the back. You take the corners sharp, feeling where she starts to slide. You check her top speed and how long it takes her to get there.

You do it so you know how far you can push it before it gives. Because you need to know what it can and can’t do, what its limits are.

She did her best to keep the venom out of her voice. So, I am the second-hand car in your little story?

Gary smiled, flicking his cigarette butt into the water and turning towards her. That all depends. You could be a new car. Ever driven anyone’s stick?

She returned his look, trying to keep the polite smile on her face. That’s none of your business. Either way, this car is not for sale.

Oh, every car is for sale, Chris; it’s just that some are more expensive than others.

The name is Christine, or Miss Goldstrom, and even if I was for sale, I’d be out of your price range.

I knew a car like you, once. It was an ’83 Ford Meteor, a rusted-out heap of shit. The passenger-side door didn’t open, and the engine only had a few hundred kays left in it before it died. The guy wanted four grand for it.

What is your point, Mr Burton?

He lowered his head, so she could just see the bottoms of his eyes. My point is some people just don’t realise that they ain’t worth the asking price.

Her face was aflame, anger, shame, indignation and pure hatred igniting the skin in her cheeks as she stood there.

He leant back, arms wide to bask in the glow of her fury, laughing.

I do not deserve this, and you know it.

His laughter faltered, and he looked at her. For a moment, she thought she’d almost seen guilt on his face.

Well, what do you want then? he asked defensively.

You know what I want. I want to help you. But I’m not able to do that if you keep mocking me.

He looked out over the water, staring at the waves. Christine stood there waiting.

I don’t want any help.

Then why do you ask me to come back?

He didn’t answer, just continued staring straight ahead. Rolling her eyes, realising that he wasn’t going to talk, she straightened her cardigan and began walking away.

Unless you’re willing to talk, really talk, there’s no point in my coming. I’d like to get to know you, but I’m tired of playing games.

As she reached the end of the jetty, he spoke. I like to come here at sunset, when the tide is coming in.

She paused – not sure what was happening. Slowly turning, she made her way back to where he was standing. He watched her as she came back, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it while waiting.

She resumed her place at the railing. He took another drag of his cigarette. He ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head.

"You see, when the tide comes in, all of the shit and garbage from the harbour comes with it. It comes down the river and collects in places like this little cove here, with the pier jutting out into the middle of it.

"You can’t see the water. All you can see are plastic bags and old chip packets, broken tree branches and cigarette butts. The oil and petrol from the boats mixes with the dirty foam from the sewer run-off so everything’s covered in a frothy shit-stained rainbow.

"It reminds me of the garbage bay in Star Wars, you know the one where the little eye pops up through all of the filth and something tries to drown Luke Skywalker and then the walls start closing in?

Sitting here on the jetty, I sometimes feel like I’m the eye, with the garbage all around me, half expecting the fucking sandstone walls to move closer.

He paused for a moment before continuing, And then, less than half an hour later, the tide changes and it all slowly gets pulled back towards Sydney, to be sucked out to Botany Bay and ride the Pacific Ocean. And the waters clear until the tide starts to come in again.

He fell silent, sucking on his cigarette. Christine stood there, not sure what to say.

He turned to her, taking another drag of the cigarette and blowing it out through his nose. You said you wanted to know something about me, and now you fucking do.

Christine paused, hesitant. Gary, I’m not sure what that means. Why do you like coming here at high tide? Why do you like the cove being filled with rubbish?

He stared at her for a long time, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. Sniffing, he coughed and spat over the edge. Because that’s my life, Miss Goldstrom; that’s my fucking life. Only for me, the tide never goes out. Not yet anyway. And when it does, I won’t be there to see it all drift away.

She stood there, silent.

Shaking his head, he finished the cigarette and flicked it into the water to join the last one. I need a drink. I’ll see you next week.

And he walked off, leaving Christine on the jetty, waiting for the tide to come in.

22 February 1998

Good morning and welcome, I would like to thank you all for coming.

Coming here today to say farewell to someone we all cared about

I did not expect there would be so many here

They were in his room again. She had asked to sit outside but he’d refused. As a small concession, Gary agreed to keep the curtains and window open. It barely made a difference to the late summer heat though.

Christine sat on one of the only two chairs in the room, a wicker sofa with one leg propped up by an old edition of the Yellow Pages. There were four pieces of furniture in the room: a bed; the chair she was sitting in; the overstuffed armchair Gary sat on across from her; and the dresser Gary used as a liquor cabinet. None of the pieces of furniture matched and all were owned by the hostel. In the corner was a pile of clothes Christine assumed was his ‘wardrobe'.

Christine leaned back in the chair, turning her head to the side to look out the window. She had moved the sofa as close as she could