The Devil's Pinch

By Bronwyn Clifton

The reader is introduced to Jed and Bethany as a couple living in Melbourne. They grew up in different parts of regional Victoria but are thrown together on a camping trip. Both of these central characters take turns in telling us their story.
The narrative begins when Jed hits Bethany, instantly providing a moral dilemma. Before long it becomes evident that Jed has drinking and drug issues, and is lying to Bethany and himself.
Bethany confronts Jed about his violence when he sees her bruised and battered face. It takes a great deal of strength on her part but she manages to state her mind and mean it.
The ball is in Jed's court. Can he give up the booze and drugs? Or will he become another victim? Jed thinks that if he keeps his drinking and drug use a secret, they don't exist. He compartmentalizes his life and is in denial. This provides endless frustration for Beth and his parents. Like many addicts before him it will take hitting rock bottom before Jed is able to make the necessary changes to his life.
Beth’s grandmother is in hospital and dies – but while Beth is away Jed binges. She returns to the city knowing that Jed is in hospital. Beth, along with Jed’s parents are shocked to hear the extent of his drinking and drug taking at a Case Management meeting but Beth does not give up.
Both attend the funeral and afterwards Jed takes off for a hike at the prom. While walking he hashes over all the events of his life that have shaped him along with the fact that Beth flinched as he was saying good-bye and that it is time to take stock of his life and face up to his addiction. However, it is some time before he is able to deal with his relationship problems, as he suffers a physical setback while hiking. This begins the hardest journey of his life.
At this point Jed has to make some tough decisions. If he is to change his life, should he stay with Bethany and Josh or will this make his transformation impossible? Beth, too, wonders what is best for both of them. She had dreams of marrying Jed, but were these dreams realistic?
The ending leaves the reader inspired by the power of individuals to change the course their lives are taking, despite the fact that neither character finishes up where they expected in life’s journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Sep 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781922440556

Bronwyn Clifton

The household I grew up in was often pretty chaotic, with six children under one roof in Melbourne. My family was poor but, as children, we had many adventures. I escaped the bedlam at home by reading stories. And continue to read voraciously.In the early nineties after completing a Bachelor of Education I traveled overseas with a friend, back packing through Europe and the United Kingdom. On the way home I visited Thailand on her own. This experience, then more recently, going to Vietnam, inspired the short story, ‘Confessions of a Massage Junkie,’ published in the anthology ‘Crazy Sh%^$ in Asia.’I have been writing in one form or another for many years, whether it be in a diary when younger, or for work, publishing reports for school in the local paper. Lately I have had numerous pieces published in The Paper – South Gippsland News, as Covid-19 has allowed me more time to focus on writing.I miss the days of snail mail, when I would write and receive long hand-written letters all the time. I am a secondary English teacher but have had numerous experiences over three decades living in regional Victoria – working for Life-line, working in a special school and completing a Diploma of Professional Counselling have kept me busy, along with raising 2 boys and more recently, adopting Greyhounds.In 2016 I first self-published the ‘The Devil’s Pinch.’ The story followed the death of my younger brother. I did a lot of research into Alcoholism, and can strongly recommend reading Caroline Knapp's: Drinking: A Love Story, to anyone who is dealing with addiction or trying to understand a family member or friend's behavior.Writing and sharing my story was a cathartic experience.Since then I’ve written a slightly longer manuscript inspired by William Blake’s poem, ‘Poison Tree’ about female bullying in the work-place, ‘Cat Versus the World.’ This was a lot more fun to write, even though some of the themes are still quite dark. I think there is a place for more female, Australian voices in contemporary fiction, and it raises the idea of male and female toxicity in the workplace.Recently I have been focusing on writing ‘Into Darkness’ which is historical fiction, about the lives of women on a rural property and a particular focus on the hardships for them. I worked with an Indigenous cultural sensitivity reader to explore the effects of the Aboriginal Protection Act on the Indigenous women. I am still endeavoring to obtain a traditional publishing contract for this manuscript.Since Covid-19 has hit I have also written short pieces for newspapers. I recently have had two pieces published in The Paper – South Gippsland News on-line. OCD in a Time of Mass Panic informed about those suffering mental health issues and the effects of the pandemic. Grey is the New Black was about Greyhound adoption.https://papernews.com.au/stories/grey-is-the-new-black?rq=Grey%20is%20the%20new%20black

Book preview

THE DEVIL’S PINCH

Bronwyn Clifton

This is an IndieMosh book

brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd

PO BOX 147

Hazelbrook NSW 2779

https://www.indiemosh.com.au/

Copyright 2020 © Bronwyn Clifton

All rights reserved

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Disclaimer

This story is entirely a work of fiction.

No character in this story is taken from real life. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is accidental and unintentional.

The author, their agents and publishers cannot be held responsible for any claim otherwise and take no responsibility for any such coincidence.

Prologue

Six years earlier

Furtively, the youth dragged on his cigarette as he looked down the street. Tall and sinewy, he wore black jeans and a Doors T-shirt, Jim Morrison emblazoned across his chest. The boy had no tattoos or piercings – unusual for the time and place. His hair was blond and cropped. His heart was pumping madly, as he had just managed to evade police and there was sweat building up between his jeans and back.

It was hot, a blazing, airless summer’s day and he wondered why he had worn dark colours. Boring fucking country towns the lad thought. He’d stand out like the proverbial dog’s balls. Everyone had probably gone fishing. Jogging now, he spied a small stone path that went downwards into what looked like a park of some description.

The gravel crunched under his feet as he went down and the air became cooler. A bridge crossed a small creek and he sat under a tree in the shadows, a chameleon. His heart began to slow as he looked at the water bubbling gently, dragonflies hovering. The law breaker thought he heard The White Stripes coming from a house nearby and he said to himself, good choice, as he recognized the Jack White riffs. He saw two magpies sitting on a wooden fence and noted the algae and grasses growing. It was okay. He could stay here for a while, at least.

Feeling in his sock, he located a small bag and grinned. The score had, at least, been successful.

That specific day and incident was the beginning of his disentanglement from the community that surrounded him, and family and friends. For a very long time to come.

Approximately 120 kilometres to the south, at the same time, a seventy five year old woman noted the breeze coming off Bass Strait and was thankful for it as she stood in the cemetery. Luciana Silvano had not visited her husband’s grave for some time now.

The left side of her face drooped a little and she felt like her smile was a little off-kilter. She still found it difficult to move her left arm and therefore favoured her right as she placed the Proteas carefully in the ceramic vase near the plaque. Using her right hand she deftly pulled out weeds and threw them into a nearby pile of debris. Looking up the aging woman could see the wind-farms on rolling green hills. Luciana noted the cows in paddocks nearby munching rhythmically, staring straight back at her. Probably the most interesting thing they have seen all day.

Luciana wiped her eyes with a tissue before speaking, ‘Io sarò con voi presto, la luce della mia.’

‘Light of my life, I will be here one day with you soon. This is the perfect spot for us, marito. But for the moment I care for Stephen and the girls. You have great-grand-children, now. And your youngest grand-daughter, bella! Before we know it she will be married.’

Luciana missed her husband, Giovanni, dearly but would treasure her relationships with the earthly people she loved, the country side and animals, despite the ache in her soul.

The teenage boy and the old lady had absolutely zilch in common, other than that they were caught up in the wheels of fate which were perpetually spinning. On the one hand nothing changed, on the other, everything was eternally changing. One was looking for excitement, the other peace. Both souls were connected in a transcendent way that was yet to unfold.

‘The Irish are the only ones impervious to psychoanalysis’

– Sigmund Freud from ‘The Departed’, 2006

‘Better get a lawyer son,

You better get a real good one …’

–The Cruel Sea from ‘Better Get a Lawyer’, 1995

The Devil’s Pinch

Beth

What do you do, when you suspect your partner of being seriously unhinged?

My son listened to the sounds from his bouncer. He bounced lackadaisically, waving his hands at dust motes in the air. At nine months and one week old, Josh relied heavily on sensory perception to make sense of the world around him. I was chopping something on a wooden board, the rhythmic chopping of onions or vegetables normal for this time of the evening. The air around him was warm as it was late summer and he watched the dappled sunlight coming through the curtained windows. His dad’s kelpie, Max, lay appearing to sleep on the doormat outside the back door, occasionally opening one eye and snapping like a crocodile at pesky flies. The cricket hummed on the little radio on the veranda outside where Jed was drinking beer.

What I could not possibly know or fathom, or even be expected to do so, was that my lover’s mood had changed, possibly due to the evil northerlies that had been whistling like a train in the distance for days and days and what seemed like forever. Jed’s mood was vile, as I later found out, largely due to the fact that he was coming down from an Ice binge and hadn’t slept well for several nights. Additionally, Jed had drunk too much for someone who had not eaten properly for a while. Sick of himself and his tangled world of deceit, like a fishing line stretched taut, something would inevitably snap.

Jed came in to see how long tea was away. It irritated him, the way I shut him out and just got on with it, seemingly happy and content with the drudgeries of domesticity. Most men would be happy with the scene, a coddled baby and a gorgeous young woman, willing to do pretty much anything to keep him sated. Instead, Jed felt suffocated, like he was drowning under something intangible that would suck the last breathe out of him.

‘Hey babe, how long until dinner? I’m starving!’

I said nothing and withdrew into myself. I could smell the rank odour of over indulgence despite previous arguments and pleas to stop partying.

Ignore, ignore. I repeated the mantra as I went about my duties. For survival I had a calm, safe place where Jed’s comments slid off me like rain from a freshly waxed car window. Jed tried to position himself behind me with his arms around my waist, his genitals brushing against my buttocks.

I shrugged him away. I did not say it aloud but thought to myself, its only spaghetti bolognaise, dickhead. It doesn’t take long.

I had not said a single word but as a consequence of my silence, the air changed.

I put down the knife and Jed roughly grabbed my free left arm and swung me towards him. With a sickening sound his right hand flew into my nose. Flesh smattered and a flow of blood spurted over the cutting board, chopped vegetables and onto the linoleum below.

Joshua’s scream at the sudden noises of the attack and a saucepan violently hitting the ground probably woke the old man snoozing in his armchair next door. It sounded like our baby had just been given his vaccinations.

When I awoke I was in a fresh inferno.

A noise had invaded my half comatose sleep, the early tram maybe, that rattled past our Victorian terrace ordinarily comfortingly, only stopping between the wee hours of the night. I had crashed out in Joshua’s nursery in the rocking chair. He was in his cot and I had no idea how we came to be there.

All I knew was that my face ached and I felt the sudden urge to vomit. I swallowed sour bile as the realization set in; my partner had attacked me without warning.

I crept towards the kitchen, as quietly as I was able, pondering where the supposed love of my life was. A cup of tea was needed to start to the day before the baby woke and required my attention. I was hurting and had not yet assessed the damage. To add salt to the wound the wastrel was star fished in the lounge room, head at an odd angle with half a stubby of beer in a holder next to his opened hand. In that moment, I hated him, feared him and loved Jed all at once.

I made tea as quietly as possible before making my way to the mirror to gauge the damage to my face. Swearing softly to myself I realized that my left eye was half closed and that by the end of the day, I would, no doubt, be covered in plum bruises.

Hearing the hum and giggle of Joshua welcoming the day I headed back to the nursery to feed him.

Despite being in pain and confused, like any ordinary mother, I was on auto-pilot and he came first.

Jed

I awoke with a head like a thunder cloud. In a haze I shrugged the make-shift bedding off, took a leisurely leak and began the routine of getting ready for work. Limbs leaden I was still in a fog. Coffee, that’s what I needed. I had no clue how the evening before ended but this scenario was fairly customary. My upbeat mood had evaporated like dew on a hot summer’s day.

For many years I had partied hard but had learned that the first step to keeping a job was to always, always turn up on Monday morning. Finding it hard to clear my brain I stepped out the back door for a fag. Sighting my old familiar friend, the beer fridge, I bent down and put my hand through the dust and felt underneath. Saved. I withdrew a little clear, plastic bag with enough powder to cover my index finger, which I promptly licked and sucked the substance off. It was white and bitter in taste, much finer than caster sugar. I congratulated myself on my own cunning and will power. I was clever for keeping some drugs aside and strong for not having used it all on Saturday night.

This was an achievement for anyone with an unfillable void inside them.

Knowing that with coffee and the effects of amphetamine pounding through my system once I started work any signs of a hangover would disappear, I strode off down the street to the work shop.

I had no idea that I had become unhinged. And I was clueless that Bethany knew. The world, to me, just kept turning irrespective of a small, nagging niggle that all was not well. I had no desire for introspection.

But, like many a bloke with furniture to make, a boss to keep happy and prospective clients to impress that voice was easily ignored.

As I got closer to work I started to whistle.

Beth

Sheila O’Dowd, next door, like me, also suspected the worst of Jed. But it wasn’t until years later that I discovered the extent of her knowledge.

‘By crikey, I might be nearly eighty five, but I have learned a thing or two,’ Sheila liked to remind us. She did not sleep much and bar a twitch of the curtains