‘Wakey-wakey, Richard.’
A hand was gently shaking my arm; a familiar woman’s voice murmuring in my ear. What was the Good Prof doing in my bedroom? Had we spent the night together?
A puzzling, impossible dream, that vanished like smoke. I was lying on a couch, not a bed. And in her room, not mine.
‘Did I doze off? Sorry. I was up all night.’
Concern in her voice: ‘You’re having trouble sleeping again?’
‘Nothing to write home about. I got a bit carried away. Working on my bike.’
Her turn to be puzzled. ‘You still have your motorbike?’
‘I’d almost forgotten about it. Or – before you say it first – tried not to remember it. It’s been sitting out in the shed since the big end went.’
‘You’re trying to repair it? Alone? Is that safe, Richard?’
A week ago I might have taken umbrage; today I just shrugged. ‘Safe enough. I’m taking it slow. Feeling my way in.’
I shifted my weight on the couch; I must have been dog-tired to fall asleep with the Glock wedged beneath me.
‘It’s a bit like field-stripping a gun,’ I said. ‘We used to do it blindfolded at the Academy.’
‘Wouldn’t it be more sensible to be in a supervised work environment? At least at first. But it’s a positive sign. I guess.’
‘Work therapy, eh Prof?’
‘I’m not diminishing it, Richard. It’s a significant milestone. In the journey of coming to terms with your condition. But I’m wondering why now? Why the sudden motivation?’
‘Maybe it was my little bungee jump the other night,’ I said, then had to spell it out when there was no response. ‘The drunk in the park. It put things in perspective.’
She reached for her pen and wrote for a time. Perhaps writing is her way of thinking; when she had finished she started in from another angle.
‘I’m also wondering why you haven’t mentioned the motorbike before. The fact that you kept it.’
‘I couldn’t see the point.’
‘Couldn’t? That seems a significant shift in tense.’
Here we go, I thought to myself. ‘You’ve lost me, Prof.’
‘You usually resist my questions by saying you can’t see the point. Couldn’t suggests it’s a thing of the past.’
I chuckled again. ‘Nice try.’
‘I haven’t finished. The damaged motorcycle is a physical manifestation of your past. Your damaged past. And you’ve finally begun repairing it. You don’t think that is a significant change?’
‘You should write novels.’
‘Think about it. Motorbikes were a central part of your life. A great source of pleasure – but also a great source of pain. Central to all you’ve been trying to forget. You were an undercover member of a bikie gang, after all.’
‘Club. And just a nominee, never a full member.’
‘Sorry. You’ve corrected me on those details before. You were also a motorcycle policeman. You had a word for it …’ She riffled her pages, searching.
‘Speedie,’ I said.
‘It always struck me that when you spoke of those early years you seemed, well, speeded up yourself. More animated. More talkative.’
Not for a moment did I buy her theory about repairing the busted bike of the past, but this part rang true.
‘I should have stayed a speedie forever. Working alone. Or just the two of us: me and the BSA. It was a great life. No bureaucratic bullshit.’
‘You’re becoming animated now. Remembering those days.’
‘I remember the freedom. And the fringe benefits,’ I paused, then added the hook: ‘But you won’t want to hear about those.’
Of course she couldn’t resist. ‘Try me.’
I put my hands behind my head, shifted my weight on the hard pebble of the gun. ‘Like all the speedies I had a couple of maddies squirrelled away.’
‘Maddies?’
‘Women on the side. Comfort stops.’
‘When you say maddies, you mean – women who were mentally disturbed?’
‘No,’ I said, and chuckled. ‘I mean women who are mad to be fucked by cops.’
The pen was uncapped for a minute or two, then calmly recapped. I wasn’t so much boasting as trying to shock her – and distract her – but it didn’t appear to be working.
‘You don’t think that’s a rather demeaning term, Richard?’
‘I didn’t invent it. We all have our own addictions, Prof. Men and women. Night shift was best. Get in a dozen traffic pinches before midnight, spend the rest of the night in a warm bed somewhere.’
‘While you were on duty? What if there was an emergency?’
‘I kept the handset under the pillow. Had to watch your mileage, though. Some blokes chocked the bikes up and ran them on low throttle all night. My thing was to roll down the freeway to Murray Bridge and back when the sun was coming up. Maybe drop in on another maddie for breakfast.’
Her pen was having trouble keeping up. ‘You don’t seem to like women very much,’ she said.
I was a little taken aback. ‘I was twenty years old. Speaking of my addiction.’
‘You’re older now. Do you think Willow would approve? You still talking about women that way.’
‘What way? I think they – you – are the best thing in the world. The only thing that makes life worth living.’
‘Another significant choice of words, Richard. Things?’
‘We’re all things, Prof. Men, women. Dogs. Motorbikes. At least women come with better accessories.’
Her pen sounded a little prim as it moved across the paper.
‘Big hearts, for instance,’ I said, to win back some brownie points.
Still she wrote on, silently.
‘What I’m trying to say – you can keep your great art, your sunsets. Even your Ducati Green Frames. There’s nothing that sucks the breath out of you like the sight of a good-looking woman.’
Her pen stopped; I played my trump card: ‘That’s what I miss most. Having the breath sucked out of me. Being able to look.’
‘At Willow?’
Of course Willow, but I was trying to keep a lid on that. Especially since she’d been threatening to burst free for the last few days. ‘Any woman,’ I lied. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘I’m wondering if that’s a part of your anger towards her. Because you can’t see her.’
‘I’d like to see you,’ I said. ‘Put a face to the voice.’
A neutral, throat-clearing sound. ‘You often seem angry with me too. Perhaps you’re angry at women in general. I’m wondering if for some reason you hold all of us responsible. We “things” that have become invisible to your, um, male gaze.’
‘Bit of a long bow, Prof. Clever theory, but how could you ever prove it?’
‘It’s a common enough psychological defence mechanism. Reaction formation.’
I snorted. ‘Put a label on it and it goes away?’
‘Not exactly. But self-knowledge is a good first step.’
‘Call it sour grapes in plain English and I might almost believe you,’ I said.
She chuckled, encouragingly. I was getting a little carried away, but couldn’t seem to stop. Bevel gazers last night, woman-gazing today – maybe she was right about things, but they were all things I wanted to see.
‘I’ve dreamt about you a few times,’ I said. ‘Shall I tell you what you look like?’
‘I don’t think that would be appropriate, Richard.’
‘Red hair. Down to your shoulders. You look a bit like the redhead on the matchbox.’
‘In other words a cartoon woman. Not to mention the fact I’m a brunette.’
Another nail in the coffin of the other Professor’s theory. ‘Your voice sounds red,’ I improvised.
This time her chuckle was more of a scoff. ‘So what do brunettes sound like? While we’re on the subject of stereotypes.’
‘If I could touch your face I’d tell you.’
‘That would cross a professional boundary, Richard.’
‘Your boundary, not mine. I’m blind, remember? Touching is looking in my world.’
Silence, including from her pen. Was she wavering?
‘I’ve got a disability exemption, Prof. Normal rules don’t apply.’
Her chair scraped back, a professional woman’s kitten heels tapped my way. She sat on the edge of the couch and took both my hands in hers, turned them this way and that, examining them.
‘I don’t think I want these anywhere near my face,’ she said.
‘Happy to wear surgical gloves,’ I told her.
A joke, but she was on her feet again, pulling open a drawer somewhere. I heard the distinct snap of rubber gloves – on her hands, not mine – then the pungent scent of alcohol and – eucalyptus? Wet wipes.
‘You haven’t been in any more fights?’ she asked as she sat down again.
‘Only with my bike.’
‘You must be more careful. When was your last tetanus shot?’
She cleaned my right hand thoroughly – palm, thumb, each finger in turn, the ticklish webbing between – then tore open another pungent pack and did the same to my left. Pinpricks of pain and cold as she worked, but afterwards only a faint, delicious glow.
Which felt even more delicious when she lifted my clean hands to her cheeks. ‘Just so you know I look nothing like a matchbox redhead.’
Absurdly high cheekbones, though. If not enough to narrow the eyes, East Asian style, by their upward pressure. I brought the fingertips of both hands together about her nose, traced each side of the straight bridge upwards, stroked her eyebrows outwards to her temples, fondled her small ears, their lobes as soft as felt. Her hair was gathered behind her head in a professional chignon, but bursting free here and there.
‘Feels red to me,’ I joked, then traced her jaw-line forwards and ran my fingers downwards over her chin and onto her slender neck.
She pulled back, abruptly. ‘Head only.’
‘What about the other exposed bits? Everyone else gets to see your hands.’
She tugged off her rubber gloves and placed her hands gently in mine. No wedding ring, I noted. A stone ring on her third finger, whatever that meant.
‘Tiny hands,’ I said. ‘How tall are you?’
‘Five six.’
‘Weight?’
‘You know better than to ask a woman that question, Richard.’
I was pushing the envelope, but couldn’t help myself. I gave her forearm a test-squeeze, then her skinny upper arm.
‘What am I? A side of lamb?’
‘61 kilos,’ I guessed.
‘Close,’ she said, and I could hear another smile in her voice. ‘Reminds me of when I was an intern. On Labour Ward rotation. The best part was weighing the babies afterwards. Like weighing butter. After a time it was fun to guess. How much butter in this one?’
‘Do you have any children yourself?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said, and the smile-sound vanished. She lifted my hand gently from her arm. ‘I think you’ve, um, seen enough for today.’
‘But I haven’t even got to first base.’
A joke too far; she slid off the couch and walked back behind her desk.
‘You can’t blame me for trying. All you nice girls have a weakness for bad boys.’
‘I’m no maddie, Richard. And you’re no bad boy. As much as you try to pretend otherwise. Oh, you might have a few tattoos. And try to shock me from time to time. But you’re good at heart.’
The desk alarm bleeped, saving me from embarrassing myself more. Or even her. Her hair might not be red, but I sensed she was a little flushed on those high cheeks. Blindsight, or just wishful thinking?
‘Let’s take your renewed libido as another good sign,’ she said. ‘Shall we?’
‘Sorry if I came on a bit strong, Prof. There’s a word for that too, isn’t there? In the jargon?’
‘Attachment transference,’ she said, safely back behind her pulpit. ‘Its a normal part of the therapeutic relationship. As long as we’re both aware of it, it can be useful.’
‘What’s its opposite? When the therapist falls for the patient?’
‘Counter-transference,’ she said, clinically. ‘I’m away next week. A conference. But we have much to work on. I have a late cancellation tomorrow. In the afternoon. Are you free?’
‘If you let me feel your feet,’ I joked again. ‘Just up to the ankles, of course. We’ll keep it Victorian.’
‘Perhaps keep to fondling your motorbike parts for the time being,’ she said. ‘But take care of your hands. Please. And try to get more regular sleep.’