Content Warnings (click to reveal)
Depicted: violence, blood
Discussed: drugs
A Friend in Need
I skipped uni Friday and rocked-up at Lettie’s office without phoning. If I phoned she’d only say no. And I had to talk to someone or I’d burst. Journaling wasn’t cutting it. My only option was the pop-in.
Her office is on the second floor in an art-deco building on William Street in the city. You go up this old elevator and through a green, pebble-glass door. Lettie’s my age, twenty-one, but she’s got her own talent agency and she’s co-producing the play being advertised on every bus across the city – A Friend In Need.
Her assistant was leaning with one hand on the desk in Tree Pose. Her left knee was stuck out and her bare foot was tucked against her right thigh. She had the phone to her ear and gave me that glazed look people give you when they’re on the phone.
Before the assistant was off the phone Lettie came in from her office eating a banana and stopped when she saw me – stopped walking, stopped chewing, stopped everything. Then she slowly finished chewing the chunk of banana already in her cheek and did that thing people do where they drag the skin of their cheek down so you can see the red under the eye. Not good.
She was staring at me but speaking to her assistant:
‘Any news from Graham?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What about the budget revisions?’
‘His p.a. said it was sent but there’s nothing in my inbox. I’ve checked the junk but nothing.’
‘They’ll come through with it, then tell you she sent it to the wrong email. He’s fulla tricks. Give him til 2 then call her back.’
‘Sure. O, Peter’s been trying to get you all morning.’
‘Peter Clichy or Peter Tate?’
‘Umm Peter… Green?’
‘O ffff-uck,’ she sighed, still looking at me. ‘Call him and tell him they needed someone taller. No, shorter. I couldn’t call cos I— cos I—…’
‘You were at the dentist and your mouth’s numb?’
‘Bingo!’ She turned and started back to her office. ‘Get the hell in here, kid. Let’s get this over with.’
She dropped into her seat and threw the half-eaten banana on her desk like I’d spoiled it – like I’d taken all the joy out of her banana – and she blew her cheeks out.
‘Okay, I know you hate the pop-in,’ I said. ‘But I was passing and I-’
‘Hun, siddown. It’s hurting my retinas watching you stand there.’
I pulled my bag off and sat across the desk from her. Stiffly.
‘I was just passing and I saw your office and I needed to talk to som-’
The secretary knocked.
‘There’s a revised rehearsal schedule I just forwarded you for A Friend In Need. And questions from set design. They want answers by 1.’
The door closed and Lettie dropped her head back onto her chair and blinked at the ceiling.
‘Didn’t we have a conversation about the pop-in?’ she asked like she couldn’t quite remember.
‘I know, but I was passing.’
‘So I’m not totally delulu? We did have a conversation then?’
I got it. I got her point – she didn’t like the pop-in. We’d had to have a conversation about it. I’d abused the pop-in. I’m the first to admit it.
‘Yes, but—’
‘And what did we actually say about the pop-in?’
‘You said—’
‘I said – and I remember being clear as a bell on this one, Maud – no more pop-ins.’
‘I know, but this is an actual emergency.’
‘Are you on fire?’ She gave me a long, blank stare while she waited for an answer. Then she pointed at the door. ‘Cos I can get a broom and beat you with it if that’d help.’
‘I’m not on fire. You know I’m not on fire. Look—’
She leaned her elbows on the desk and put her palms together like she was praying and dropped her forehead on her hands. ‘Look, Maud, listen, I love ya but you can’t waltz in here whenever you feel like it. We’ve spoken about this.’
‘I know, but that was before …’
‘Before what?’
I ran my finger over her white desk like it was on display in a furniture store and I was thinking of buying it, but I wanted to know how smooth it was before buying it.
‘Maud? Before what?’
‘This dream I’ve been having.’
She lifted her head. She had black rings under her eyes suddenly – like I’d aged this beautiful girl ten years.
‘A dream, huh? This –’ she picked up the banana peel from her desk and dropped it in one go, ‘is my lunch. Y’understand? I’m having my ass handed to me, hun.’
‘But it’s bigger than a dream. I’m being terrorised. It follows me.’
‘What?’
‘The frog! From the dream.’
Her eyes darted right, left, right. ‘Is it here? In this room?’
I sighed.
‘I’ll go,’ I said, picking up my bag. ‘I was just passing anyway so …’
‘Listen, kid, I’m feeling manic cos I’ve got a nicotine patch on my heart,’ she said unbuttoning her leopard print blouse and tearing a square, brown patch off her heart. ‘I put it on my leg yesterday and it did jack-all so today I stuck it on my heart and now I’m revving.’ She took a deep yoga breath with her eyes shut and started tapping her wrist. It’s this thing she picked up from her naturopath to calm her down. ‘Tell me. Hurry up, but tell me.’
I looked at her for about one second and then jumped in.
‘I keep having this dream about this gigantic frog—’
‘O crap!’
‘I know,’ I said. I couldn’t believe she really cared. ‘And I feel like it’s hounding my every st—’
Lettie snatched up her phone from the desk and while she scrolled down for a phone number she said, ‘Hold that thought, kid. I’m listening. I am. I just have to do this before I forget.’ Then into the phone, ‘Andrew! How are ya, fuckhead? Listen, I sent off that application for funding we all signed off on, but they’ve come back with a list of questions with your name on ‘em. Thanks. I’ll have Heather send it through ASAP. Yeah, you too, ya big fuckhead.’
She hung up and called Heather through the door. The door opened.
‘Send those funding application questions to Andrew, will ya? I told him it was already done.’
The door closed.
‘Okay, shoot, kid,’ she said, but suddenly I just really didn’t want to tell her. I couldn’t have if I tried. My heart floated out of my body, out the window, and it was just my heartless little husk of a body sitting there in a gorgeous, walnut, Scandinavian chair.
I didn’t want to seem annoyed though because it wasn’t her fault so I jumped up and told her I was late for something. She tried, or, like, half-tried, to keep me from going, which was nice of her, but she was already on the phone to someone before I was out of her office.
The secretary didn’t even look up as I went out. All I heard was, ‘Where’s the scripts? Not the pink scripts. They’re on blue scripts now. The most recent version’s blue. Well can you please do that because we’re still looking for the blue Friend In Need.’
I wanted to put my hand up and say ‘Here I am’ but I just closed that pebble glass door.
* * *
I killed the morning walking round the city staring into shop windows at things I couldn’t afford. At some point in the endless wandering I went through my phone for someone who might have a drink with me. I got Wendy to agree to meet me after work and then I went to the museum because it’s warm and free and it was starting to rain. Then I went to meet her at one of those new bars on St George’s Terrace on a kind of step-down – all low-ceilings and cosy low-lights and a really classy vibe.
When Wendy showed up I jumped straight in. No messing about. It would’ve taken ten minutes, that’s all. But Wendy did what she always does the second a guy shows up – her personality caught a rocket for another planet. And you’re sitting there with someone you think is Wendy, but it’s not. It’s just a cardboard cut-out. It happens every time with her. And okay, whatever, nobody’s perfect, but that day I needed to unload. I was telling her about how one of the frogs we dissected at uni came to me in a dream, but in the dream it was huge – just one gigantic frog – and it knocked at my front door. And as I’m spilling my heart out, I noticed that cardboardy look in Wendy’s eyes, and sure enough two guys are behind me at the bar.
‘O my God, Maud – it’s Friday. Don’t you have anything a little …’ she clicked her fingers. ‘Peppier?’ When she interrupted, I was expecting a question about the frog and I just looked at her. ‘I get it. It’s been a long week for all of us. Why’s it always Auschwitz and babies dying in Africa and- and dead frogs with you?’
‘Is it?’
‘Always!’ I don’t know how I looked, but she said, ‘Geez, don’t look like that. Okay, hit me. Dream, frog, door … I’m listening. But I got a bag in my purse and straight after you tell me we’re going to the toilets, you and me. That’ll pick this up.’
I definitely wasn’t doing coke with Wendy, but I launched into the dream anyway. I told her the frog knocked on the door and stood there silently, but she wasn’t listening. She’d put that sexy, misty look into her eyes and she was kind of dancing in her seat. Then she cut in to ask if I needed a drink. We both had full drinks. We were fine for drinks. No drink issue at our table. And that’s what I told her. Then I’m straight back into the dream. I was determined to get it off my chest. I was going to do it if it killed me.
‘Not this one,’ she cut in, pushing her drink away from her. ‘A fly went in there.’
There were zero flies in her rum and soda, but she went to the bar anyway while I sat there blushing with shame and tearing up my coaster. I just felt like I’d cut myself open and plopped my whole intestinal tract, the whole abdominal cavity, smack bang on the table – sorry to be disgusting – and Wendy just kind of yawned and went to see what some total strangers were doing at the bar. My cheeks were also burning because it was stuffy as hell in the bar and my jacket zipper was stuck all the way up near my throat. It was the first really cold day of autumn and I was so excited to be able to wear my Bracken tweed jacket that I forgot all about the stupid zipper that gets stuck near your throat. My claustrophobia levels were through the roof.
When Wendy came back with two more drinks I dived straight into the frog story. I was on a mission to get this thing off my chest. I got about three words out and then—
‘Don’t look, but they’re coming over!’
They were already at the table, pulling chairs in. They were both in blue suits and white shirts with no tie and they had some idea of how cool guys pull chairs over to a table. You could tell they were thinking ‘This is how we pull chairs over on Wall Street’. Maybe they weren’t that bad, I don’t know. I was just so angry. After everyone had introduced themselves all I said was:
‘Well, before you showed-up I was actually telling my friend about something.’
Wendy gave my foot a hard shove under the table that practically broke my toes.
‘Maud, it’s Friday …’ she said. ‘Ya got something … lighter?’
‘Maud?’ one of them said. ‘Your name’s Maud?’
I ignored him. I’d thrown back Wendy’s fly-free drink and I was a little drunk. ‘So this frog, it’d be four metres tall at least.’
‘A frog?’ one of them scoffed.
‘She’s just kidding,’ Wendy jumped in. ‘We weren’t really talking about a frog.’
‘Yes we were,’ I said. ‘Well, I was.’ I looked at one of them and added, ‘It knocked on my door.’
He gave me a frozen smile out the side of his face. ‘Is it, like, a joke?’
‘No, it really happened.’ I glared at him. He rubbed his mouth slowly. He had this silver watch that was only about the size of a frying pan and blinded you when the light caught it – but apart from that you’d hardly notice it.
‘Anyway, when I opened the door there’s the very same frog I’d dissected at-’
‘Maybe another subject?’ Wendy cut in shrilly. To the men, she said, ‘Guess what I’ve got in my purse?’
The guys looked at each other and within a few seconds they’d all gone to the toilets to have a look at what Wendy had in her purse while I sat at the table feeling about twelve years old. My heart was in the bin at that point and I knew that’s where it was going to stay if I hung around so I just hopped off my stool while they were gone and barged straight out onto St George’s Terrace.
It was freezing outside and still light. Pinkish-blue and the time when you just start to notice car headlights. I knew it was just this dumb, gigantic frog that knocked on my door in a dream, I know it’s ludicrous to get so worked-up over it, but sometimes that’s what it all comes down to. Your whole week comes down to that frog at your door. And it’s not like I expected us to sit around analysing it all night and going back to my childhood. I just wanted her to see it, you know? That’s all. Just to see it. She didn’t have to say anything. Maybe there’s nothing to say. But there’ll be one person on the whole planet who knows I walked around all week with this gigantic frog, and that’s enough. Then I could dust my hands of it. But here I was still lugging him down St George’s Terrace when I look up in time to see a bus come by with big neon yellow letters – A Friend In Need.
* * *
Don’t ask why I went down the alley. I don’t remember deciding to. It was more like a huge, invisible hand yanked me by my jacket and down I went. It was one of those old, red-brick laneways with empty yellow and black crates stacked high and the walls covered in graffiti and steel pipes and air ducts and an occasional fire escape.
Halfway down I see a scuffed, brown boot behind an industrial bin, then a jeans leg – not moving – and then a second lifeless boot. And I know that should be the scariest thing in the world, but I guess I was too drunk to be scared. Then I see the hem of a tan coat and then some fingers and a face. The face blew me away. It was nice – clean, like someone had just scrubbed it. And there was a kind of light about it. It glowed the way children glow. And just one eye was open and staring at the rectangle of blue-pink sky between the buildings. His hands were really casually on the stomach of his tan coat like he planned to lie there a while – on a snapped broom-handle poking out from under him beside a huge, reeking bin. A plastic bag, snagged on the broom-handle, was flapping in the breeze. His one open eye dropped down to me and he smiled.
I was blowing my nose because I’d been crying a bit along St George’s Terrace and when I saw him I slowly dropped the tissue away from my face and hid it out of view, but he said ‘Don’t be shy.’ That’s all he said but it felt like we were old friends after that. I sat down on an upturned milk crate and put my back against the big industrial bin. I thought he must’ve had a toothache because his face tightened whenever he breathed in. His far eye was squeezed shut. Then he smoothed his face out with an effort and gave me that smile again.
He asked why I was crying and I start telling him about Lettie and Wendy and the frog. It spilled out of me. All of it. It was his fault really. You just don’t expect anyone to actually listen to you. Did I say that he was glowing? And, God, he had such a nice face. When I got to the part about the two guys showing up at the bar that’s when I saw it. And he saw me see it. Seeping slowly out around his hands onto his nice tan jacket. The hair on my neck stood up. He watched me to see what I’d do. But I didn’t move. He looked so shy and embarrassed and guilty – like a little boy that had wet the bed. There was a lot too. And it sunk in – exactly what it meant. There was so much that it could only really mean one thing. And as I was trying to process all the blood, I looked back up to his beautiful, shy face.
‘It’s nothing.’ His voice was soft and weirdly reassuring. Like it definitely wasn’t nothing. It was definitely something. But when he said that I believed him.
Then I saw the wallet standing up on its edges a few meters away with cards scattered around and I flew up off the crate. ‘Let me get some help!’
‘It’s really nothing,’ he said again, calm as you like, and I believed him. It’s crazy, I know, but I believed him. I remember standing there wanting to run for help and him lying there, glowing like this angel, asking me to please, please, please just sit back down. Then he smiled at me like it was funny to him how serious I was taking it. Like I was being dramatic. That’s what did it. I sat back down.
‘Tell me about the frog,’ he said.
I was looking at his hands and the stain seeping out onto the jacket as I sat on the milk crate, but I heard my voice start to tell him about the frog. He started to relax. I told him how on Monday at uni we got these trays with cold, dead frogs on their backs for us to cut open and how the same frog I dissected had come to my door in a dream, but now it was this gigantic frog, four meters tall, and you couldn’t even see the head because the doorway only came up to its shoulders. Both his eyes were locked on me and he nodded like he knew exactly how that would feel – no, as if the same frog had been to his door the night before, you know?
Then he asked what my favourite bird was. He had to breathe three times just to croak it out. He looked horrible and pale now. I only lifted my eyes off him for a second, but he was so much whiter when I looked back that I covered my horrified expression by quickly telling him my favourite bird was the magpie and how I loved the way they sing in the evening – which I actually do.
Then I asked his favourite bird, and he really thought about it, like a lot was riding on it, like everything was riding on it, and I was trying to listen to his answer but the stain seeping out from his hands around his stomach was so big now that you couldn’t have hidden it with five hands. He saw me see it and he got that shy, embarrassed look again like maybe he was over-sharing. His eyelashes struggled open like bits of paper in the wind. You could tell he kind of wanted to crawl into his shell and hide now, but he made himself look me in the eye. Then his hands slid off his stomach and I could see it but I just kept looking in his eyes.
The sound of car horns from St George’s Terrace were coming from a different planet now. Not ours. The look he was giving me said the hole in his stomach had always been there. His entire life. Bleeding away. You just couldn’t see it before, that’s all. And now you could. Anybody could walk along and see it. He’d hid it all his life, but he couldn’t hide it anymore. And on one hand I felt like a big intruder – staring straight into him like maybe no one ever had in his entire life – but on the other hand I’m so glad I was there. I’m so glad somebody saw it. For his sake. Like in the last few minutes, when the curtains were finally pulled back, somebody looked in and saw him. And they just sat there talking about frogs and birds.
Howard McKenzie-Murray is a fiction writer and playwright from Western Australia. He is a regular contributor of fiction to The Saturday Paper and his short fiction has been anthologised. His most recent stories have appeared in Island, Berkeley Fiction Review and The Hooghly Review. His debut novel, ‘This is Where we Say Goodbye’ (Fremantle Press), is out May 2026.
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