Eventually, worn out, I collapsed against the door. Through the metal, I heard the grind of a bolt being drawn. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ a woman’s voice was saying, irritably. ‘Take it easy.’
The door swung backwards to reveal Salina Fleet.
But not the Sal I’d been fumbling in the forget-me-nots. Nor the freaked-out Salina lit by the ambulance light at the moat. This Salina was very sober and very proper. A woman who had made up her mind about something. Gidget was gone. This Salina wore calf-length culottes, a fawn blouse and black button earrings, not a hair out of place. This Salina was so composed she could have read the Channel 10 news.
She took a step backwards. In my panting, dishevelled state, I must have been quite a sight. And not a welcome one. ‘What are you doing here?’
Snooping through your deceased boyfriend’s personal effects did not, somehow, seem like the appropriate answer. Already it was clear that what had occurred between us last night was ancient history, a dead letter. The fire was well and truly out. Our little nocturnal nature ramble was a temporary lapse to which neither of us would again refer. Nothing had happened. Nothing ever would.
‘The minister wants a report,’ I said, self-importantly. ‘On under-utilised Arts Ministry facilities.’ Hand pressed to ear, I must have looked like a harmonising Bee Gee. ‘I was sent on a tour of inspection. A tenant got hostile and locked me in. You didn’t see him, did you? A guy with an armful of violins.’
Salina shook her head, and cocked it sideways in disbelief. To think, her eyes seemed to say, I nearly took this lunatic to bed.
‘What about you?’ I asked. The pretence begun, I had no option but to continue. ‘What are you doing here?’
She cast her gaze downwards and adopted a sombre tone. ‘Marcus’s studio is upstairs.’
I nodded understandingly and stepped forward, moving us onward from the doorway. ‘He was the one at the exhibition last night, on the table, wasn’t he?’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise, I mean…’
She maintained her aloof solemnity. ‘No need to apologise. You weren’t to know.’
‘I mean I’m sorry about Marcus,’ I said, gently correcting her. As far as I knew, I didn’t have anything to apologise for.
‘Thank you.’ She spoke formally, bowing her head slightly. Rehearsing, I realised, the role of the grieving widow graciously accepting condolences.
‘It was on the radio. You were mentioned, too.’
‘Ah.’ This information did not entirely displease her. ‘So soon?’
She turned and began back up the stairs, as if trying to put an interruption behind her. She was carrying a folio case, the sort art students and advertising types use. Evidently she had just arrived at the YMCA and my banging had distracted her from her objective. When we reached the ground floor corridor, she stopped at the open door, anticipating my departure. Up in the harsher light, there was a fragility to her. She’d probably got even less sleep than me. The strain was showing. I reached over and touched her arm. ‘You okay?’
She jerked away, then softened. ‘I’m fine. Really I am.’ She squeezed out a pained little smile.
I didn’t want her thinking I was coming on to her. We stood uncomfortably in the doorway, each waiting for the other to move. I could feel her impatience growing. ‘Here to collect some personal things, are you?’ I asked.
She nodded, relieved at the explanation. At the same time, she shrugged the fact into wounded insignificance, as though I was trampling on a small private grief.
It was 10.30. That gave me just enough time to get to Parliament House to meet Agnelli. But not with a bloodied rag gripped to my auditory apparatus. I needed water and a mirror and the only place I knew for sure I’d find them was Marcus Taylor’s room. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ I said. ‘The artists’ studios are on the third floor, aren’t they?’ I started up the stairs. ‘According to the board at the front door.’
Helping myself to the dead boyfriend’s personal facilities was not, I knew, the most sensitive move possible. On the other hand, all this holier-than-thou stuff was beginning to rankle. I’d be buggered if I was going to be made to feel like the guilty party here.
‘No. Don’t.’ Salina dashed after me. ‘I’ll be okay, really,’ she protested.
The door of Marcus Taylor’s bedroom sat open to the corridor. ‘This it?’ I said. I headed directly for the small enamel basin. Drying blood caked my ear but a little water confirmed that the damage was only skin deep. My eyes were sinkholes and I had the complexion of a piece of candied pineapple.
Over my shoulder in the mirror, I saw Salina come in and glance around anxiously. As far as I could see, there was no evidence of feminine habitation in the place. For rough-and-ready accommodation, the joint had a certain masculine sufficiency. But I couldn’t imagine a woman here. A forest floor was one thing, but this was the pits.
‘Don’t mind me,’ I said. The tin cabinet behind the mirror held shaving gear, out-of-date antibiotics, Dettol, cotton-wool, a roll of adhesive bandage. Salina laid the folio case flat on the futon bed. ‘Just a few private effects, is it?’
For some reason, she resented this remark. ‘Now that Marcus is dead,’ she said, defensively, ‘people will be curious about his work. The least I can do is see that it is presented to the world in a favourable light.’
Without turning, I held my hands up in a placatory gesture. ‘Hey,’ I agreed. ‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me.’ The sharp bite of antiseptic brought tears to my eyes.
Suddenly, all of Salina’s freshly cultivated reserve was gone. She slumped down on the edge of the bed and began tearing the wrapper off a pack of cigarettes. ‘I should have seen it coming,’ she said, her voice thick with self-recrimination. ‘Marcus was so depressed and moody lately, drinking a lot, complaining that everyone was against him. I did what I could, even used my influence to get him a grant, but it didn’t make any difference. You saw what he was like last night. I told him I was sick of his self-indulgence. Now I keep thinking that’s what pushed him over the edge. It’s all my fault.’
Black smudges ringed her eyes. Exhaustion and rattiness engulfed both of us. She lit a cigarette, sucked at it hungrily, openly trawling for sympathy. Considering what had almost happened between us, I owed her that much.
Tearing the adhesive tape with my teeth, I patched my ear as best I could. Then, compelled by a weariness as irresistible as gravity, I sank down on the other side of the bed. ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it was an accident. He was pretty drunk. He could have fallen in. Perhaps he didn’t mean to kill himself.’
She tried without success to make her bottom lip quiver. ‘Oh, no,’ she said firmly. ‘It was definitely suicide. The police showed me a note he left, asked me to identify the handwriting. It was definitely his. His style, too. That litany of complaints. I told them I thought he was probably a manic depressive. He certainly had a tendency to self-dramatisation. That’s why I didn’t take any particular notice last night. More of the usual crap, I thought. Told him I’d had enough, it was over between us.’
I helped myself to one of her cigarettes, drawing sustenance from it, oblivious to the vile taste. A scarifying sunlight poured in the window, the window at which Taylor must have conceived his own death, his artistic auto- da-fe. It was a strange feeling, sitting there amid the scant domesticity of a dead man I had never really met.
‘He was illegitimate, you know,’ Salina blurted, offering the fact as if in mitigation. ‘A lot of unresolved emotional trauma bubbling away. And his work. He felt the rejection of his work deeply.’
She was veering dangerously close to the maudlin. I sensed that, now the facade was down, she’d keep talking until she got it all out. Not that I was insensitive or anything, but my time was not entirely my own. If I didn’t start disengaging, I’d be there all day.
‘Forget the souvenirs.’ A few scraps of paper weren’t worth the aggravation. What she needed was to go home and sleep. ‘Come back another time.’ Grinding my fag underfoot, I hauled myself into the vertical and held out my hand.
Salina remained where she was. She shook her head. ‘You’ve been sweet,’ she said. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’d like to be left alone.’
I’m not an entirely insensitive person. I nodded and turned to leave, stepping towards the curtain covering the hole into the studio. ‘I’ll go this way.’
Sal was on her feet in a flash, interposing herself between me and the curtain. ‘I feel so bad,’ she said. ‘About last night.’
She stood very close and put her hand on my arm. Sliding it downwards, she found my hand and squeezed it. Then her head was against my chest, looking upwards into my eyes. Her body moulded itself to mine. She sighed
