pleasure. A minute later she came back with the small glass of tar-black liquid. Looking out of the window at the life in the street, I sipped the dark bullet, felt the small surge of optimism kick in.
Time to go. A man in a good suit, judgment impaired by sex and red wine. I went to the counter, nodded to Bruno the Silent, paid Carmel, caught a glimpse of the cook, his hair, peaked and golden-tipped, his plump mouth. Outside, in the awakening street, standing beside the Stud, I switched on the small telephone. It rang immediately.
‘Jack?’
Sarah. I felt a little tightness in the throat. ‘Yes.’
‘Sarah. I tried you at home, left a message. I’ve had a call from someone, a man.’
‘Television jackal?’
She laughed. ‘No. He says he can help us. Help me. He’s coming at 9.30. He wants you here. Can you make it?’
‘You’re at work already?’
‘Couldn’t sleep when I got home. I should have stayed. It was all too brief.’
‘Passed in a flash. Telling this person about your place of work, I don’t know about the wisdom of that.’
‘He knew. Will you come?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ll be there. Did he give a name?’
‘No. He said it was dangerous for him to talk to us but he would.’
‘I’ll see you in half an hour.’
‘Good,’ she said. A few seconds. ‘Jack.’
‘Yes?’
‘Regrets?’
‘No,’ I said, no trouble lying. ‘You?’
‘Not a single one.’
I said goodbye, got into the Lark, sat and thought about why I was in the beginning-of-the-affair state, thought about Linda in London, watched a woman in overalls washing a window. A small brown dog sat behind her, head up, inspecting her work. Then I drove to Kensington.
Sarah’s old yellow ute was alone in the parking area, right-angled to the patchwork building. I considered waiting for the visitor to arrive. No, it might spook him. I got out. The wind was keen here, coming off the bay not far away, carrying the sounds of the railyards and docklands, clanking, roaring, groaning. Underfoot, the damp gravel made a squealing noise.
I slid open the door. The big space was gloomy, as before, the human-like metal forms somehow even more menacing at second meeting. I walked past the witches, paused to look again at what I’d at first thought to be two boxers, touched the stainless steel. It was icy, like having local anaesthetic on the fingertips. I went across to the pack of humanoid dogs attacking something, mounting each other in their fever, walked around it. These creations were all saying something about humans, about the world they made. I needed to know their titles.
I would ask the creator. I walked down the shed, around the scrapmetal pile, the car bodies, car doors, the assorted steel junk.
Sarah was where she had been the first time, in the open space. She was on one knee, wearing a full black mask, welding something onto the metal figure. A stream of sparks was erupting from the seam she was creating.
I stopped and watched her, her deftness. She must have felt my presence, she could see nothing but the glow of the weld through the helmet window. She stood up, raised the torch, turned her back on me, doing something, I saw the flame diminish, die. She put the torch on the stand, turned.
Sarah pushed up the helmet and looked at me, took off a glove, ran fingers through her hair, smiled the half- furtive smile.
She was lovely. My throat felt dry.
The world behind her went white, then bright orange.
The floor between us erupted.
In the air, backwards. A knife of pain. Darkness, I couldn’t see, pain in my side, something inside me.
I could see flames, hear a terrible roaring sound. Get to the door. I crawled. More explosions. A blow to my back.
The door, open, blown off, I felt a wind on my face.
Get there, just get there.
Black.
Nothing.
20
They let me out on a Friday in early May, round 6 of the football, damp, a wind shaking the bare trees. Drew carried my bag to his car. It wasn’t necessary, but I didn’t want to argue about it.
We drove in silence. He was going the wrong way.
‘What route is this?’ I said. ‘Have they reconfigured the city while I wasn’t looking?’
‘My place,’ said Drew.
‘Mine, I think,’ I said. ‘I have a need for home.’
‘You can’t come out of hospital after umpteen weeks and go back to an empty house,’ he said.
‘Bullshit. Anyway, what do you mean empty? Furniture gone? Haven’t you noticed it’s been empty for fucking years? No one there except me. Take me home.’
I heard the harsh tone of my voice.
We stopped at lights. Drew turned his long face. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘don’t spoil my plans. Tonight, we have a beer or two. Then we eat these steaks from the main man. With them, a red I’ve been saving for fifteen years. Then we sit in front of the fire with a drop of Rutherglen nectar and watch the footy.’
He coughed. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘we then see the Saints get their scrawny arses kicked to buggery.’
I looked away, willed myself to be a normal person.
‘Steak?’ I said. ‘Just steak? Is that all?’
‘Good boy,’ said Drew.
I saw relief on his face.
‘With home-cooked thick-cut chips,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘Well. Heated at home in the home oven. Defrosted. That’s close, isn’t it?’
‘And the wine? What’s that?’
We pulled away, he jerked his head at me. ‘I can just as easily drop you off at home,’ he said. ‘You appear to me to be fully recovered.’
‘Drive,’ I said. ‘Just drive. It’s what you’re not good at.’
Peter Temple
White Dog (Jack Irish Thriller 4)
Taken home on a Saturday of fleeting sunshine. At the boot factory, at my downstairs door, I said thank you to Drew.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll come up and see if you’ve got everything you need.’
‘If I need anything, I’ll go out and get it,’ I said.
I set off up the stairs, stopped after the first few, shocked by my weakness, the heaviness of my legs. I looked down. Drew was rubbing his unshaven jaw. I thought I could hear the sawing sound.
‘What?’ I said.
‘You know what,’ he said.
‘Fuck off,’ I said. ‘That’s not going to happen again.’
‘You’re too quiet for my liking.’
