they wanted to. Then I almost killed someone. I would have killed him, I didn’t care. So if I’d been offered surgery to take that night out of my brain, I would have said yes, yes, yes. Yes, please.’
Her forehead was against the door. I was looking at the nape of her neck, the clean dark hairs in the soft and pale hollow.
‘I couldn’t speak about what had happened,’ she said. ‘Not to anyone. I didn’t have the words for it. So if I said I didn’t remember, then I didn’t have to speak about it.’
A silence, the crackling of the fire, the wash of rain on the roof, the swallowings in the downpipes.
‘I was just a young girl,’ she said. ‘Can you understand, Jack?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and I did touch her. I reached out and put my right hand on her shoulder.
Sarah turned and looked up at me, a sheen on her eyes. I took my hand away but I could not take back the touch. She moved closer and I drew her to me, no urgency in the embrace, just the desire to touch.
But she raised her face and we kissed. It was just a gentle pressure of lips, I tasted beer and nicotine and salt, and I knew that could not be the end of it. I put a hand on her neck, felt the taut muscles, she put both hands behind my head, pulled me with strong hands, strong arms, our lips opened.
There was a moment when we came apart and I said, gruffly, ‘Sarah, I don’t think…’
‘Think,’ she said, as throaty, ‘Don’t think. I want to lie down. Is that possible?’
‘Possible?’ I said. ‘It’s probably compulsory.’
19
I rose in the dark, pulled on the ancient garments and set out on my route. Punishment for the body in a cold, moist dawn. I ran over surfaces glistening, slippery, treacherous for ankles. In the parade, I saw the night’s sad survivors limping towards home. I saw the pioneers of the opening day, going to some dull task with narrow eyes and thin lips.
As I shambled along, I thought about sex and remorse. I always felt regret after the first sex with anyone. Something in my history triggered a feeling of wrongdoing. Enthusiastic consent wasn’t ever enough for me to look back with pleasure. I shook my head, ran the moisture off my hair with a hand. Never mind the past, this time I had other good reasons for feeling guilty. Linda had been gone not much more than a week. Sarah was almost a client, she had been in an emotional state. There could be no excuse for having sex with her.
‘Listen, Jack,’ she’d said, standing at her car in the small hours, not the old ute, a VW, ‘I was going to make a pass the first chance I got. But I didn’t mean it to be teary. I’m sorry about that.’
She took a fistful of my old T-shirt, pulled me close and we kissed goodbye, not a short kiss. I went back to bed, tingling, her scent on the pillows, dropped in and out of sleep.
I turned right off Brunswick Street to run through the gardens, the tree trunks black, still holding the night, the lamps of the park making rough wickerwork of the bare lower branches. Just ahead was the place where a man had tried to shoot me. For months afterwards, I avoided coming this way, and then one morning, running on automatic, mind on something, I found myself approaching the near-fatal spot. The taboo was broken, it never bothered me again.
Sarah couldn’t exonerate me by saying she was primed for action. She would say whatever was needed to prevent the thought entering her mind that she had been a victim again.
But she was not my client. I was just a researcher. Doing the academic work, the oral history. Vansina, was that his name? The oral historian. Vansina. Could be a soccer player. Did they still call themselves oral historians? It could mislead.
Nonsense. I was trying to save Sarah from going to prison for murder. Drew and I stood between her and the years of nothing, the evening meal at 5 pm. She knew that, she knew how important I was to her future.
That was why it was my duty to avoid personal involvement.
Still, as personal involvement went, it had been intensely pleasurable. She was strong and erotic. Also clever and funny and self-mocking afterwards, easy to be with.
Ah, lust. Guilty of lust, it had ever been so. Lust had often overruled what passed for my common sense, my principles. And would again, given the chance.
I looked across at the tennis courts that had been the scene of the Greer-Irish marathon. No more could I play Drew Greer at tennis for three hours. Play and lose to him. He never spoke of that late summer afternoon that became a summer evening. I didn’t speak of it either but the loss still rankled with me. I should have won, I was cruising to victory and then I let him back in and my nerve went.
To win and not to gloat. Drew was good at that. Still, he’d had a lot more experience of winning. Had a lot more backbone too. Backbone. I hated the expression, my grandfather used it, he was a backbone expert, X-ray eyes for backbone, could spot backbone in toddlers. I hated it yet I thought it.
Home in sight, feeling weak in character, in body, in mind, my legs full of lead sinkers.
I had a long shower, thinking about whether to tell Drew. Of course I should, he was entitled to know. Why? It was a private matter, it wouldn’t change anything. Indeed, it was better that he didn’t know. She was his client, nothing should cloud his judgment. The prosecution could at any time offer a deal and he would have to put it to her, offer advice. Cop manslaughter, you’ll get the minimum, that’s the best we can hope for. I don’t think we want to fall for this, they know how shaky their case is, we’ve got an excellent chance of an acquittal.
Drew didn’t want to be offering advice to a client in the knowledge that his friend was her lover.
I wasn’t her lover. One night, that would be it. Yes? I didn’t like the chances if she kissed me again. She knew a bit about kissing, knew a bit about things beside kissing too…
Oh, shit.
I dressed formally, my defence on days of uncertainty, made tea, sat at the kitchen table and tried to read my book for an hour, mind wandering like a goat on a hillside. Then I put on a tie, red silk, English, hardly worn, no knot wrinkles, went downstairs and fired up the neglected Stud, listened to the animal-enclosure sound of eight cylinders for a while, aimed the beast towards breakfast.
Sex and Principle, Body and Mind, torn between. And hungry. Nothing less than a repeat of the Cholesterol DynaHit at Enzio’s would be of any use at a time like this.
Just me, an office cleaner called Vern who drank at the Prince, and a couple, women. Carmel, the waif who knew all the midnight things, took the order. ‘I advise you that there is a new first-shift cook,’ she said. ‘As owner, Enzio wants to sleep in. We are encouraging that.’
‘Properly trained, the person?’ I said. ‘Well-briefed?’
‘Smartarse little turd,’ she said.
A message. I’d read the first five pages of the Age before the food came. Eggs hard, bacon burnt, sausages charred and split, tomatoes raw, ditto the mushrooms, toast cut too thin and barely exposed to heat.
I ate what was edible, a picky affair, read the sports pages, the horse stories, thought about how much I missed Les Carlyon. Where was he? Why didn’t he write for the paper anymore? No one wrote better about the people who lived on dreams, didn’t whinge unduly about the hip-and-shoulders of disappointment, went to bed and got up with trouble and debt, carried on anyway, prisoners of love and habit and not knowing what else to do.
Nearing the end of the food, I found the eyes of Bruno the Silent, a Lygon Street legend Enzio had plucked from vegetating in outer Reservoir and rechained to the coffee wheel. Bruno was sitting on a cushioned high stool with a back, giving him some ease from the leg pains caused by forty years of standing.
I nodded, he nodded. Bruno had first exchanged nods with me deep into my second year at law school, after I’d been ordering the same thing three or four times a week for more than eighteen months. One morning, as I came through the door, he looked at me, not an inquiring look, just a look one might give a known dog entering your premises.
I’d nodded. Bruno nodded. I sat down, opened the newspaper. Soon a short black arrived.
Now Carmel picked up my half-eaten remains. ‘I have nothing to say,’ she said, eyes down. ‘I merely wait upon table.’
‘It’s not easy to get the timing right,’ I said. ‘He may get better at it and become a Brunswick Street breakfast legend.’
‘Possibly,’ she said and gave me a look that brooked no misinterpretation. I watched her go, always a
