pain.
He kicked me in the chest, I felt my head hit the desk behind me, bounce forward, I was on my knees, I was fainting, the light was dim, a terrible pain in my chest.
He gripped my head by my hair, held my head up by my hair in one hand.
He slapped my face. Over and over again. His palm and his knuckles. ‘Smart boy,’ he said. ‘Clever fucken boy.’
He let me go and I fell forward, lay in my pain and tears, my face on the old rug. I felt something warm on my head, in my ear, running down my face. The smell came to me, feral, salty.
He was pissing on me.
‘Don’t mess with this business anymore,’ he said. ‘Hear me, Irish? Next time I’ll bring someone round, and, when I’m finished, he’ll fuck you, okay?’
I heard his zip and I heard the door open and close. I heard a car rev and pull away. After a while, I got up and went home, stood under the shower for a long time, washed my hair three times. I dressed, found a plastic bag and put the clothes I had been wearing into it, tied the top, took it down to the big bin.
Upstairs, I poured a neat single malt, took the near-full bottle and sat in my chair. My hands were shaking, just a tremor, barely detectable. My face hurt, I could feel the puffiness, but I didn’t want to look in the mirror. I drank steadily, it grew dark. I didn’t put on the lights, sat in the dark drinking, and, at some point near the bottom of the bottle, I fell asleep.
I woke in my bed, clothed, shoes on, face stiff, hurting everywhere, dehydrated, the shame undiminished, the soiled feeling still upon me.
I showered until the hot water ran out, dressed, stood in the kitchen. It was past 10 am. I wasn’t hungry, I was still more than a quarter drunk.
A drink would take away the pains. Medicinal drink. Vodka. Linda liked vodka and orange juice sometimes. Vodka and vitamin C. The old VC, did more good than harm, a health drink.
I touched the tabletop, steadied myself, closed my eyes and said the mantra, not said even after the hospital. Then I drank a glass of milk, put on the heating, lay on the couch, arms folded across my chest. Hugging myself. Weak sunlight crossed the floor and lay upon me. We had often shared our couch, Isabel and I, lying as if in a bath, facing each other, feet in socks, legs enclosing legs, legs passing between legs, reading the papers, reading books, tweaking toes, tickling insteps, one thing leading to another, hands invading pants.
I drifted off and when I woke it was afternoon, the light thin, the day sliding away, most of a day gone, a day subtracted from the total, the wounded creature’s cave would soon be darkening again.
No.
I got up, unsteady, almost fell over, went to the bathroom. Now I looked in the mirror. There were welts on the bridge of my nose, on my cheekbones, down my face, dried blood in places.
He didn’t mind that I saw his face. He didn’t care or he wanted me to see his face.
Next time I’ll bring someone round, and, when I’m finished, he’ll fuck you, okay?
No.
No. No next time.
I took the toilet disinfectant, the chlorine, drove to the office, took the carpet by a corner, his piss was in it, my tears of humiliation. I dragged it across the street and threw it into McCoy’s skip, came back, sprayed the floor with chlorine, threw buckets of water over it, brushed it, brushed the water out of the front door. I was standing with the broom in my hand, feeling weak, eyes down, the door open.
‘I pay for that fucking skip,’ said McCoy. ‘Not a public facility for anybody to dump their junk.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Send me the bill.’ I turned my back on him but I wasn’t quick enough.
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Accident,’ I said.
McCoy blocked the door, the light. ‘Bullshit,’ he said, offended. ‘I know fucking fighting. You’re supposed to be a lawyer, what are you doing fighting?’
‘It wasn’t exactly a fight,’ I said. ‘I got king hit and the rest followed.’
‘Client?’
‘No. A bloke who knocked on the door. Never seen him before. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’
McCoy gave me a good staring. ‘For Christ’s sake, check who’s outside before you open the door,’ he said. ‘Give me a buzz, I’ll give them a fucking checking over.’
He left. From the window, I saw him remove my rug from the skip and take it inside. No doubt he would be wearing it when next I saw him.
Action. No more moping. I took Sophie’s photographs and the negatives to Vizionbanc in South Melbourne, parked the Stud outside in the loading zone. The woman looked at my face in a clinical way, not disguising her interest.
‘I’m hoping your magic will help with these,’ I said.
She looked at them. ‘Fucking awful.
In a hurry?’ ‘I cannot begin to tell you,’ I said.
Her plastic surgeon’s gaze played over my face. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Have a seat, Jack.’
She went into the back. They didn’t keep office hours, these picture people.
I flipped a few photography magazines, including a big one full of nudes, women and men, some bound, some oiled, many cut off at the head. There was a picture of a man in a suit with what looked like a sea creature hanging out of his fly, the sort of blind pointed thing I imagined to be found at great depths, living off sulphur bubbles in the eternal dark.
I was at the window, hangover not abating, watching well-dressed people go into the pub across the street. It had been a bloodhouse in recent memory, scene of a famous fight between factions of the Painters amp; Dockers Union. I’d appeared for one of the accused, a near-homicidal man called Tully with fists the size of small cauliflowers. Thinking about his hands brought other hands into my mind, the rings on his fingers, seen through blood as he backhanded me, the…
No.
I thought about photographs, the number of photographs I’d peered at since I started taking assignments from Wootton, pictures of missing people, their wives, lovers, friends and relatives, their dogs, their cars, photographs taken outside courts, in clubs, on the beach, barbecuing meat, in pools, at weddings and twenty-first birthday parties, kissing people, even a homemade porn video featuring a man and two women, one dressed as an Ansett air hostess, complete with little hat and name tag. It occurred to me for the first time that she might have been a real Ansett hostess.
‘He says it’s the best he can do,’ said the woman.
I turned. She was holding up an A3 envelope.
‘The neg’s a bit better than the print,’ she said. ‘Want a look?’
I shook my head, gave her my business credit card, said my thanks for the service.
It was the wrong time to be on the streets, drizzle, evening peak hour, drive time. The woman with the Italian name was on the radio. She had a way with her, clever, bursting with cheek, a naughty laugh that could blow away the rain. I went up Lygon Street to King amp; Godfree. Thirsty, I needed two bottles of beer. Carlsberg, no other beer would do. I bought six bottles.
Behind the stripped oaks lay a warm dwelling. I’d forgotten to switch off the heating and I was glad of the oversight. I drew curtains, put on lights, put on music, didn’t agonise over the choice, put on Elvis, the greatest hits, he always made me feel better. In the kitchen, I removed the cap from a Carlsberg and drank three-quarters of the bottle straight off, flooded myself with Danish hangover medication, tears coming to my eyes.
To the sitting room with the bottle and another one.
I sat in my chair and took the four big laser prints out of the envelope. In the top two, the woman’s face was much clearer, a snub nose, but the angle was bad. I turned to the third picture.
The woman standing at the car. The car’s number plate was readable now.
You could also see the lower half of the face of the woman in the passenger seat. You could see the crucifix in the hollow of her throat.
I knew that crucifix.
