Free Praise by Andrew McGahan

still have nightmares about it.’
    We all went into Dave and Helen’s room and made the preparations. The amounts were the same. So was the order — Dave first. Helen got him ready. ‘So what did you guys get up to yesterday?’ she asked.
    â€˜We sat in the bath all night,’ said Cynthia, ‘then we went to bed. How about you?’
    â€˜Yeah, we tried fucking. Tried it for hours. I couldn’t come. Neither could Dave.’
    â€˜Never can,’ said Dave.
    Helen shoved the plunger in and Dave studied his arm.
    My turn came around.
    I knew what to expect now, and I was ready, I was turned on. There was something deeply sexual about the syringes and the blood and the rush, about having someone else
stick it in
. Cynthia wrapped the belt around my arm. I looked at her eyes. They were all colour. Pinheads for pupils. She put the needle up against the skin. I wondered what this would be like if we were naked and in bed and fucking. If I was already inside her. If it wasn’t just Cynthia doing it to me, if we were both doing it, injecting each other, in unison. If we were right on the point of coming as we sank the needles in. Not into our arms, but into our hips, our thighs ...
    It pricked. She pulled up the blood and it swirled around the syringe. She was a succubus. I was doomed. She injected the heroin. It came flooding up my arm — who would’ve thought blood moved so fast — into my chest, streaming into my brain like molten gold. I lay back and let it go.
    Later we went out onto the verandah. Dave got us all beers. I was dizzy and nauseous again, but it was better than the first time.
    We sat there for an hour or so, mostly quiet.
    Cynthia was holding my hand, playing with my hair. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘What’ll we do? Another bath?’
    â€˜I guess so ... we could try the tub at my place. It’s not as big, but it’d be something different at least.’
    â€˜Okay.’
    We got in the Kingswood. Cynthia was driving. The roads were quiet. Sunday afternoon.
    â€˜We should get some lubricant,’ she said. ‘My cunt hurts enough as it is.’
    â€˜Where do you get lubricant from?’
    She looked at me. Shook her head. ‘You get it from a chemist.’
    We found a chemist. I went in. Cynthia didn’t want to deal with the counter staff. She was embarrassed about her skin. Her face. It was bad, all that contact the night before. Sex was lethal to her.
    The brand she wanted was called K-Y Personal Lubricant. I went in and wandered around the shelves. I was feeling good. I looked at all the colours, all the boxes. I moved smoothly down the aisles. It was all going well. Eventually I found the stuff amongst the tampons and pads. It came in a blue and white tube, in a blue and white box. I took one up to the counter. The woman looked at me.
    I said, ‘I’ll just take this, thanks.’
    I flicked up my hand to show her the box. I was moving faster than I realised. The tube flew out, up into the air. I watched it spin there. It floated. The woman reached out and caught it.
    We looked at each other.
    â€˜Fine,’ she said.
    I paid up. I saw that the shelves behind the counter were lined with boxes of condoms. Cynthia and I were not using condoms. She was on the pill. She admitted she wasn’t all that regular with the doses. I thought, because of that, condoms might’ve been a practical idea. But Cynthia said she hated them, and practicality was such an odious thing to labour under ...
    I got back to the car and gave her the K-Y.
    â€˜They’ve got a million condoms in there,’ I said. ‘You sure I shouldn’t get some?’
    â€˜No! You just can’t do it with those things. I’m not going to get pregnant anyway. I’ve been fucking for years without condoms. I’m infertile, I must be. All those drugs I’ve been on, the cortisone and the smack and the speed ... they’ve