Wicked - 1. Kyle 1

I passed the empty pews of the church, back to my family after a second bathroom break. The white bread from a triangle-cut sandwich was still glued to the roof of my mouth. We'd driven two hours from Brine to make Grandad's funeral, the easiest trip undertaken in all our extended family. It was what the Thorburn's did: flourish and quickly extend new roots elsewhere. Of my three brothers one traveled from the next city over where he was studying microbiology at the best university in the state, another arrived from the rural outback where he lived as a volunteer doctor for the indigenous peoples, and the eldest had taken a flight from Sri Lanka where he'd been representing at a national level for cricket.

Me? I'd been at home with Mum and Dad in our beachside tourist trap town, we bundled into the Holden commodore and drove the two hours to get here. There was a surprising ache in my middle and I didn't know what to do with it. After hearing the news of Grandad's passing, I'd surprised myself by crying in my bedroom that night. Nothing dramatic, just a few loose tears. Still, I never cried. I wasn't a crier.

There were only a few things about me that made me cool. Never being a crier was one of them. Still I suppose I must admit to myself, Grandad was my favourite and closest family member. And I didn't even see him much. But we'd played countless games of checkers and chess on ancient wooden boards when I was little. I'd never been big on talking, so I listened to his tales of evading Nazi soldiers in Holland during World War Two instead. There'd not once been comparisons made between me and my boisterous, sporty and genius older brothers. No mention of their glaring achievements. Grandma had passed eight years before him, and now he'd taken a sudden turn and followed her out.

I squeezed my way past knees in suit pants and formal dresses. Uncles, Aunties, cousins, eccentric family members I'd only seen once or twice before. A youthful version of Grandad watched me from the projector, the pastor organized papers on his podium and they ruffled loudly under the small microphone. The jabbering folks were distracted by the amazing lives my brothers were leading, allowing me to sit beside Dad quietly and unnoticed. Blending into the background without really trying; soon the pastor called for silence. A cousin of mine was patting the back of her noisy two-year-old throughout the eulogy.

"We have gathered here today to celebrate the life of Martin Ulysses Thorburn. While he will be sorely missed, we are not here to focus on his death but rather the whole of the life he lived..."

Unexpectedly the talk tugged on my heartstrings. A few of my family members dabbed their eyes with handkerchiefs. I was thankful I stayed stoic.

Afterwards we left the chapel and strolled the grassy hills, meticulously mown with long flowerbeds of lilac and roses. Purple, white and yellow. Small black headstones made from granite with shining plaques sat in rows, a few had been left ribboned bouquets. A late Spring breeze ruffled frocks and decorative wide-brim hats as we marched out. When the shiny black coffin was lowered into the ground I no longer felt pain but the first hit of sadness. A rush of hopelessness.

My luck had never been good, but this past month had been a shocker even by my standards. I wasn't at all superstitious, I found it hard to believe Grandad's ghost was out there or anywhere, but even so I couldn't help feeling like I must have walked under a ladder, crossed a black cat, broken a mirror or something. How else could you explain a death in the family, being let go from my part-time job and having to drop down into a lower Maths class all in the space of one week?

When it rains it pours, I guess. Talk about a string of bad luck.

The funeral decompressed slowly, families heading off one-by-one while others lingered and chatted by the mealy trays of sandwiches. I bought orange juice from a vending machine and it tasted sick, I tossed it after a few sips. Sitting on the stone edge of a flower-bush enclosure, staring beyond stone cherubim spitting water in birdbath fountains, to the empty grass hills dotted with the black granite headstones. They gleamed in the midday sun, a lone Ficus tree's leaves were shimmering in the breeze.

I itched my wrist beneath the cuff of my black suit jacket, the only one I have for formal occasions like these. Thankfully Mum and Dad didn't want to stay long. I got to have one-on-one conversations with each of my brothers, then we walked back to the car park. We were the only family having a funeral today, I saw one other visitor, apart from that the cemetery was empty. It was modern, a well-tended and bright place, and at least Grandad got to be buried beside Grandma. The woman he'd been married to for over fifty years.

The drive back to Brine was silent. This past month alone tensions had been high in the household. There was pressure, but there'd always been pressure. Because of my parents and my brothers, high achievement had been expected of me. But I had no talents. It was expected of me to study hard and take advanced classes, it was expected of me to get into University as soon as I finish school. Of course I'd had to drop down to General Maths in my final year, and I was barely scraping above the average line for Advanced English as well. The signs of my mediocrity were there, but my parents were in denial. I study but have difficulty with focus. I only seemed to be good at controlling my very personal environment. My bedroom stayed clean, I alphabetized all my movies and games for ease of finding. But beyond my own space and self-discipline I don't exert any power.

Also I'm the only one I know in my family who's gay. I've not come out, even though there's a possibility they might ease off the pressure if I did. I was scared of disappointing them further.

Once off the freeways we took a multi-lane street down a few suburbs before returning to Brine. It was impossible to mistake the dramatic hilly landscape, the roads dipping steeply up and down. If you lived in one of the houses at the edge you could look out your back porch and see everyone else's rooftops in lowering bands towards the water, and if you lived within you could see distant forestry and homes level or higher than your window view. Of course there were also the panoramic ocean views, nearly three-sixty degrees, you could turn your head from one side of the far blue horizon and almost back again.

Brine is a middle-to-upper-class coastal town. It has its fair share of beachside mansions with yacht owners. My own family was fairly well-off in the sense we had a homely two-storey space with a blue peanut-shaped pool in the front bordered by spiky cordyline trees. Rough yellow granite with an outdoor umbrella and a few white recliners for sunbathing. Not at all uncommon in Brine. We went up the cobbled driveway and into the garage, Dad gave a sigh of finality after killing the engine. We got out and back into the house.

Normally on a Sunday afternoon I'd be at the Fisherman's café in the back, scrubbing the skin off my hands as the assigned dish wench. Only rarely handing out food to customers if the waiting staff was especially busy, or out getting milk or other ingredients from the grocery across the road. Business had been so slow lately that I'd been left doing chores instead of scrubbing. It was only a matter of time before Patricia was forced to let me go. I'd worked hard – scrubbed grease from the upper vents while standing on a chair until they were spotless, cleaned every wrack in the breath-misting freezer room. She'd been nice about it and we'd both seen it coming. Patricia was an islander woman in her forties, a lesbian in a relationship with my best friend's Mum. I'm quite sure she only gave me the job because she'd been told I was gay, and I had suspicions about the other employees. Still I found it a kind gesture on her part. I'd heard rumours she may be forced to sell the business soon, even with the upcoming Summer rush in sight.

Without a job I had no spending money. Couldn't go to the movies or pay for drinks. My parents were no help – allowances were for students who got high distinctions.

Once up the carpeted stairs then inside my tidy bedroom I immediately began to disrobe and change into casual clothes. The room was fairly large, a gleaming desktop in a corner alcove, indigo curtains that matched the blankets on my double-bed. Posters of classic films were blue-tacked all over: David Fincher's 1999 Fight Club; I'd be lying if I said my eyes never lingered to Brad Pitt in later night activities, watching him look determined despite the sweat and blood as I rubbed one out over him. And beside it of course, Quentin Tarantino's 1994 Pulp Fiction hanging just above my desk lamp. On the back of my door, probably my favourite movie of all time: Richard Kelly's 2001 film Donnie Darko. A fascinating literary tale of strange events occurring in the American suburbs that kept you guessing with open-ended plot devices. Plenty to discuss and debate over.

I had great respect for those directors. An odd interest of mine, as one of my school friends aptly put it I was a 'film buff who hasn't seen anything from the last decade'.

My phone went off and I raised the screen. It was my best friend Kimberly Manuel.

How wαs τhε funεrαl?

I'd confided more of myself to her than anyone else. It usually came out when we were drunk, which was something I now did every odd weekend or so. It'd become something of a coping mechanism. A few times now when Kim got drunk she'd slouch into the sofa and cry about the miscarriage she'd had earlier in the year. She'd been messing around with some dickhead from school, but she'd wanted to keep the baby because it was his and she loved him. Then she'd had a miscarriage anyway.

I never got so dramatic when drunk. My face simply went more pink, my eyes more glassy, until I got to the point of throwing up.

Surprisingly hαrdεr τhαn I τhoughτ iτ would bε. I texted back and let my arm drop, staring up at the ceiling.

I had very little friends, always the reserved person. Fading comfortably into the background. The coolest thing about me was the fact I have an abnormally high pain tolerance. I'd had just as much bad luck as a kid, my childhood was full of unfortunate accidents and ambulance trips. The product of being the youngest child with three outgoing and adventurous older brothers. Being roped into dangerous games and not having the guts or quick decision-making that seemed to keep them safe. On the plus side, I was now unblinking in the face of excessive blood or a displaced bone. I'd been through it enough times.

I got up to use the bathroom. It was beige-marble with a corner spa-bath and angular-cut shower glass. Smelling of fruit products and soap gel. Two sinks in here with gold-coloured taps. I stared at my droopy-eyed reflection in the mirror afterwards. Dull brown eyes and tousled chestnut hair. I am, I suppose, depressed.

Again I admit to myself that I handle everything extraordinarily well all things considered. I don't do drugs or party. I'm not involved in anything criminal. I had a job. I didn't start drinking until fairly recently. I'm trying, at least. It's not like I want to die. But I live near-constantly in low moods, a mild but constant depression that I just get through. Back when I had money I swam two kilometres every weekend at the public pools to stay fit, preferring it to the salty beach that every now and again had shark sightings or drowned a tourist. Even still I was so aware of my mediocrity, it was so deeply nestled in my bones that I had a very poor self-image. Honestly, I thought I was trash.

I left my face and the bathroom, checked my phone again to see several more messages from Kim. Offering again to come with me to get a psychic reading. Absolute nonsense. Sick even, when you think about it: paying someone to pretend they're speaking to your dead relative. But Kim was actually all about that psychic woowoo shit. She had about a dozen dream-catchers hanging up in her bedroom, crystals all along her dresser tables. Grandpa had never believed in the supernatural and I was the same. But perhaps it was because I felt particularly depressed and had nothing to do this Sunday evening. I thought briefly about re-watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, screen-written by Charlie Kaufman in 2004. Instead I decided I needed to leave the house, I sent Kim a response. Finally yielding to her long-time request.

In under five minutes her blue Honda Accord pulled up in the driveway. This was ridiculous, but I was too unhappy to care. When I opened the door Kim leaned over looking excited.

"This is going to be great!" Her hair was long and lank, a loose tangle of wheat-blonde. In primary school we'd not been friends and I remembered Kim as the girl who drew anime pictures with cat ears, hissing at people she didn't like. But she was a decent person. Very slim, there was a delicate, almost weak-bodied way to her. I sat in the car and pulled the door closed; she always had the aircon on freezing. Kim eyed my slouch "Are you okay? I thought you said you and your Grandad weren't close?"

"I didn't see him all that much. But still... I don't know."

"Marie can get in touch with him, you know. If you want her to..."

"Let's just go." I sighed. Kim pulled out and we drove off.

Marie Humberdross lived a few streets over in a nice house. She was a middle-aged black woman, all smiles, a family friend of Kim's and she hugged my friend after answering the door. The grass was neatly mowed, her front porch was painted white and housed a small laughing Buddha statue. She wore a black flowy shirt and a seashell bracelet. At her neck I saw a strange blue crystal, a tell-tale sign of a self-proclaimed psychic. When she faced me and we greeted each other I was probed by eyes both soft and dark. I wondered some stupid things, like whether she was reading my mind. Or more appropriately, was she cataloguing me for snippets into my personality and social class? Things she could use for her 'psychic work'.

I decided to say little before the actual reading. She invited us in, a neat living room and kitchen. Her metal fridge was absurdly large, she filled glasses with the ice-maker and turned.

"Grapefruit juice?" she offered.

"Yes, please."

I nodded. A corgi dog trotted over, its nails clicking against the floorboards. It stared at me while happily wagging its tail.

"How much is the reading?" I asked Marie when she handed me the cold drink.

"I don't charge for friends of family friends. Just like to help."

That piqued my interest. Marie led us to a glass coffee table and asked me to sit across from her on the carpet. She bunched her legs together, pointing aside. Kim watched from the leather sofa and the dog lay on its stomach at the edge of the carpet, chin on its paws and also watching. Marie closed her eyes and breathed serenely, as calm and relaxed as a pond. I waited and had no idea what to expect.

"There's been a death in the family. Recently." Her chin raised but her eyes remained shut.

"Yes. My Granddad."

"He's fine. He's watching over your brother now."

I turned to face Kim and she faced me too. Was this woman told about the funeral, did she know I had a brother? I looked across at her and her eyes were still closed and face turned, it looked like she was trying to listen to something I couldn't hear. Deep, relaxed breaths.

"Which brother?"

"Sometimes when grandparents pass over, they act as spirit guides or helpers. Especially if they have a namesake grandchild."

"My oldest brother's name is Martin!" I exclaimed and watched her lip quirk.

"He wants you to know he's proud of you."

I went quiet and Marie opened her eyes softly. Despite what she'd said I wasn't quite buying the psychic shtick. Kim looked enrapt, on the edge of her seat.

"Tell him his future! Important messages!" she pleaded.

Marie was still vaguely amused as she closed her eyes again. I watched her for several seconds as she breathed. Then, a pinch between her eyebrows. Her lip turned down, suddenly she was scowling.

"I'm feeling a lot of negative energy around you."

"Really?" I sounded dry, but in the back of my mind I wondered if she was picking up on my vague depression.

"Maybe that's why you've been feeling so unlucky lately, Kyle!" my friend pestered.

"This is dark, nasty stuff." Marie continued as if she couldn't hear us. "It's icky, like I don't want to touch it." She shook her hands across the table, as if trying to flick off filth. Still faraway. "Spiritual warfare, I can feel it in my solar plexis." She clutched her middle and grimaced. "This is curse energy, black magic. Put on you by a very evil person."

Kim and I looked at each other again. I didn't know what to say. When we both looked at her again Kim asked "Who?"

"It feels like a slighted lover."