The lift was packed with bodies, but a wide berth opened about me as the door slid shut. The unwashed T-shirt on my back or the vomit on my boots? I was a feral fox in a chicken-coop, which was fine by me. The chooks flapped out at the next floor, perhaps to take the stairs; I rode the rest of the way down alone. I wasn’t in the mood for company. I didn’t even miss the dog. For the first time ever she hadn’t been waiting at the door when I left; I’d run her ragged the day before.
I stepped out onto North Terrace with an angry sun beating down on my head and an angrier street-map on the tip of my tongue. Never Root Girls’ Pussies …
Thrilling words to a seventeen-year-old rookie cop, but just another kind of vomit at my age. Useful vomit? The talking cure had got me nowhere; time for more walking cure. I zigzagged south through the east side at pace – North Terrace into Rundle Street, then Grenfell, and Pirie, muttering all the way.
Rookie porn-code for Flinders Street? I couldn’t remember. Ignoring traffic lights and a helpful warning shout I crossed it anyway. There was a squeal of brakes, and more shouting, but I was unstoppable.
… When Aching Cocks Have Gonorrhoea …
Across Wakefield I tapped, then through to Angas, Carrington, Halifax, Gillies, a stinking blind man in a stinking T-shirt chanting stinking obscenities.
… or Syphilis.
If only the stink itself could go viral. I followed South Terrace westward, then turned north again. Was there a carthartic word-map for the west side-streets? Possibilities sprang to mind as I tapped from Gilbert through Sturt to Wright – Get Shitty With …
With what?
I was shitty with the world, but the world didn’t seem to be taking notice. The Prof was an exception, but I was even more shitty with her. She’d forced me to take notice of things I didn’t need to notice. Those vivid pictures began to pop back into my head as I stalked on. What use blindness if it couldn’t shut this stuff out? Or was it worse because I was blind? Because I lacked a flow of new images to compete with the old, a real-time visual feed to fill the screen? When a tune is stuck in your head all day, you can hum something else, put some loud music on, drive the buzzing insect out of your ear. No such luck for me: having allowed those pictures some screen-time it seemed I was stuck with them.
At which thought I stopped dead in my tracks. I’d forgotten something buried even deeper; it returned now with force.
I’d seen her like that before the night of the rape. Exactly like that. The log fire in the Jungle Room. The striped tiger-skin rug. And on the rug, the naked beauty.
The naked sleeping beauty, waiting to be fucked awake.
It had been my fantasy, in a way. Mine, and hers. Our fantasy, at any rate, on behalf of others. It was exactly the image for the high-class Platinum Package we’d designed together for her webpage.
And for which I’d already photographed her, weeks before, lying on the striped rug, with her face half-turned to one side, away from the camera, as still and snow-white as a porcelain geisha.
Except for the blood.
I walked on again, at speed, half trying to escape this memory, half trying to make sense of it. Had I somehow brought this on her? I turned into Gouger, tapping furiously. The usual powerful food smells forced their way into my head, as if trying to elbow the images aside, but without success. Eventually I escaped into the quiet of Grote Street, and the smell of nothing but my own sweat, and wandered aimlessly on.
‘Light Square,’ Siri announced after a few blocks, so perhaps it wasn’t so aimless.
‘Current location,’ I said. ‘To After Dark Club.’
‘No address found,’ came her answer.
Had the name been changed? More than likely. Or had it closed down altogether?
‘Current location,’ I tried again, ‘to 301 Light Square.’
‘Pussy in Boots,’ from Siri.
Not a name I’d have picked for a brothel – or even for a horse. The directions began to flow and I tapped on, if still uncertain of my intentions. What did I think I was going to find? That he was stupid enough to be hiding there, after all?
‘Pussy in Boots, ten paces,’ Siri announced.
I walked on by, still thinking it through. After twenty or thirty steps, I U-turned and walked past again. I must have looked like a first-timer trying to work up the courage. Fourth walk-by I stopped, right-turned with military determination, tapped up the three wide slate steps, and pushed through the big wooden door.
Sounds: the quiet ripples of the door-chime fading behind me; slow late-night bluesy music ahead. Nothing new in any of that.
Smell: something floral in the air, subtle, but less musky than I remembered.
I raised a mental map of the interior. The smallish entrance foyer with the big, low-wattage chandelier. The wood veneer counter to the left. The door to my office on the right, and beyond it the downstairs loo. The stairway to paradise in between: midnight-red plush carpeting, polished mahogany balustrade. I’d sanded and stained it myself: Dulux Dark Cherry. I’d also painted the walls: Regal Violet. No one – neither the clients, nor the girls – wants too much unforgiving light in a bordello. I tapped further in: shag-pile carpet underfoot, the music louder from the right, accompanied by low voices and a chink of glasses – but how was that possible? I tapped in that direction, cautiously, but where there had once been a wall, there was none.
‘Good evening, Sir. Can I help you?’
A woman’s voice, friendly enough but politely blocking my path.
‘There used to be a wall here,’ I said. ‘And a wood-veneer counter.’
‘Before my time, Sir. Although I believe the new owners redecorated the premises.’
I was clearly before her time too; she didn’t recognise me. ‘Who are the new owners?’ I asked, casually.
‘That’s commercial-in-confidence, Sir. But they have also implemented a new dress code.’ I sensed she was giving me the once-over. ‘It might not have been in place last time you visited.’
‘It’s not easy for me to keep up appearances.’
‘I understand that, given your challenges. And I don’t mean to be offensive, but there is also – how can I put this? – a personal freshness problem.’
‘I stink?’ I sniffed at my armpits, left then right. ‘Sorry. But last time I visited we always took a shower first.’
‘There also seems to be vomit on your boots. Have you been drinking, Sir?’
‘A few beers down the road. Friday Happy Hour. Do you still have the Jungle Room upstairs?’ I took a step sideways, towards the stairs. ‘I’d love to take a look. So to speak.’
Her voice was back in my face almost immediately. ‘No further, please. We’ve just had new carpets put in. It might be best if you left. If you’re looking for some place to doss down, I can direct you to the Salvation Army Shelter in Whitmore Square.’
‘I’m just looking for company,’ I told her. ‘Not a place to crash.’
‘I could give you a phone number,’ she said. ‘Someone who specialises in handicapped clients. And perhaps more in your price range.’
‘Money’s no object. And I’m very well behaved.’
‘Six hundred an hour,’ she said, straight-speaking at last, if only as a last resort to scare me off. ‘Two thousand for the night. That’s the cash-rate.’
‘Plastic money?’ I asked, stalling.
‘Ten per cent surcharge for all major credit cards.’
‘What appears on the statement? My wife does all my banking.’
‘Aardvark Entertainment Services,’ she said, which answered my question about the new owners. I knew the name well: a shell company for the Angels.
My turn for straight-talking. ‘Did the Golgothans sell up or was it an offer they couldn’t refuse?’
‘Let me help you to the door, Sir,’ she said, and her hand gripped my arm, if gently.
I did my own stubborn mule imitation. ‘You can’t refuse a paying customer,’ I said. ‘Madam.’
Her grip tightened. ‘I don’t want to have to call security, Sir.’
I twisted my arm free. ‘And I don’t want to have to ring Eyewitness News. Lonely blind bloke refused service at high-class knockshop.’
‘Please keep your voice down. You’re disturbing some of our clients.’
A quietly gruff voice from left-field. ‘You need help with this one, Candy?’
‘It’s all right, Zev. I have it under control. Don’t I, Sir?’
A stand-off, but only momentarily. All my questions had been answered, one way or another, including the only one that counted: no water-logged fugitive from justice was holed up in this posh joint. He wouldn’t have made it past the front door either, let alone met the dress code.
‘Back soon,’ I said as I tapped towards the door. ‘After I clean my boots and pull on a tuxedo.’
There was a smile in her voice for the first time, if only from relief. ‘Then you would be most welcome, Sir.’
‘I like your style, by the way,’ I added. ‘I probably would have hired you myself, eventually.’
‘I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds like a compliment.’
The bouncer already had the door open. He hadn’t seen my gun, luckily, but I pushed my luck by turning back again. ‘One last question. The decor. Indulge a blind bloke’s curiosity. What colour are the walls?’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s a kind of half purple, half darkish-grey. What do you think, Zev?’
‘Dulux Deep Violet, mate.’
‘Just as I suspected,’ I said.
I sensed their exchange of glances. ‘I’d feel more comfortable if you’d allow me to point you in the direction of the Salvos,’ the madam said.
‘Current location to home, Siri,’ I said, if only to prove I wasn’t one of the square’s resident derelicts.
‘Proceed west to Morphett Street,’ she began, ‘then turn left.’
I took off in the opposite direction as soon as the door closed behind me. I still had walking to do, thinking to work through. I avoided Hindley Street – too many distractions for concentrated thinking – heading east up Currie instead. I crossed the tramline into Grenfell, and kept going. It was past shop-closing time, but the late afternoon sun was still warm, even in the shaded concrete canyons of Girls and Pussies.
One more clockwise half-circuit of the CBD, I decided, then home. Even an unexercised dog would need feeding eventually.
Somewhere between Gonorrhoea and Syphilis Streets, second time through, the traffic thinning, the peak-hour crowds safely home, I had that creepy feeling again, the spider of alarm stealing up my back.
I stopped dead, and listened for footsteps, but there was nothing.
Unless he had stopped at the same time, as in the movies. I took two more quick steps, halted mid-third.
Still nothing.
The holstered gun reminded me of its presence; I mentally rehearsed a snap draw as I tapped on, more rapidly, wondering if it had been a mistake to leave the dog at home.
‘Home, ten paces,’ from Siri.
I stopped at the front gate, and listened again. No footsteps in either direction, but the spider on the back of my neck was dancing a tarantella now. I tapped the front porch, took a quick step up, and headed towards the safety of the door. I was already reaching for the combination when someone stuck out a leg, and I tripped, and fell forward, hands flailing, into …
Nothing.
Then nothing but a dull ache, close to what seemed to be the centre of me, like a tooth-ache or earache.
A headache. For a time there was no world beyond that headache, and the head that contained it. No body, certainly. No sensation but that G-clamp on my temples. Plus a vague, unlocalised nausea.
And the slow realisation that I was conscious at least. And therefore still alive. Although possibly – a much quicker realisation – not for much longer. Where was he? Sitting nearby, watching. Waiting for me to wake. Perhaps he thought I was dead already. Instinct told me to play dead, while I tried to figure things out.
Where was I? Still on the front porch? In a car boot? I lay dead still, but with all my senses on high alert.
Sounds, finally: a passing car. I prayed for footsteps. If I heard footsteps I could shout for help.
Smells: the faint tinny tang of blood, then the scent of frangipani, coming through loud and clear. I was still on the front porch. Half-lying, half-sitting; my head and shoulders awkwardly propped against the door.
Taste: salt. The blood trickling down my cheek, pooling between my lips.
Had I been shot again? Was he sitting there watching me bleed out? If I pretended to be dead for much longer, fiction might become fact. I needed to find the wound and stem the bleeding.
I raised a hand to my face, groaning a little theatrically as I probed about. No entry wounds at the sore spots, just a wet abrasion on my cheek and an egg on my brow.
‘What are you waiting for?’ I said.
‘Who, me?’ from Siri.
Another car purred by. A flock of sulphur-cresteds began squawking some distance off.
‘Is anyone there?’ I said, more loudly.
‘Interesting question, Richard.’
‘Is anyone fucking else there?’
A muffled bark, from inside the house. Then a whimper, and a frantic scratching at the other side of the door. Was there some way to get it open? I needed her eyes on this side. Her wolf’s teeth, even more so.
‘What are you waiting for?’ I repeated.
‘Who, me?’
‘Ring triple O,’ I almost shouted at her. Instead I faked another groan, ran my hand over my chest, pretending to check my ribs, then slipped it behind my back and wrapped my fingers around the grip of the gun.
Hidden from view, as far as I could tell. Safety’s off. Finger on the trigger.
I listened intently, still hoping for footsteps. Distant traffic only; nothing closer to my ears than the scratchings and whimperings of the dog.
Was he waiting for darkness to finish the job? Maybe it was dark already; how long had I been out cold? The cockatoos were still squawking, further off; twilight at the latest. The gloaming hour. Maybe – it occurred to me for the first time – he wasn’t there at all. A brittle straw of an idea, but once I clutched at it I didn’t want to let it go. Maybe he’d just taken off, thinking the job was done.
My right thigh intruded on my thoughts, wedged uncomfortably against some mysterious object. I sent my free hand down to investigate.
A box.
A box of spare parts, left innocently on the doorstep, in the path of a blind man in a hurry.
The relief flooded over me like a long, tumbling wave carrying a drowning man back to safety. Breathing more freely, I pushed myself upright and checked that all four limbs were in working order. A smaller, following wave of relief: no serious damage. But in its backwash came the now familiar, creeping undertow of disappointment: he hadn’t been following me after all. Memo, Prof: mystery emotion. You figure it out, I can’t. Sheer madness, it seemed to me as I lay there. A luxury I could only afford now that I was out of harm’s way.
‘Fucking idiot,’ I said aloud, but for once the sound of my voice silenced Scout instead of triggering an echo. Perhaps she was as relieved as me. Or even as weirdly disappointed; nothing like a dogfight to add meaning to a dog’s life.
I brailled the door open, picked up the heavy box and stepped through. My head throbbed so much with the effort that I dropped to my knees just inside, and set it down again. Scout was all over me, licking my damaged face, but I pushed her off and got back to my feet, needing stronger medicine. Finding no headache pills in the house anywhere, not even a fizzy aspirin – the Margarita Queen had taken those – I settled for a Scotch, and an armchair.
The phone rang; I let it run through to message-bank. A ping announced the arrival of a text a few seconds later; whoever was trying to contact me wasn’t giving up.
‘Read text message, Siri.’
‘Lucy Hotline said: “Dear Richard, I left a phone message and I don’t want to crowd you, but I’ve been very worried.’” Always an odd sensation, other people’s strong feelings expressed in Siri’s relentlessly pleasant voice. ‘“I’d appreciate a call back. Even just a text. I can fit you in tomorrow 3 pm. It’s essential we build on today’s hard work tomorrow. Sincerely, Lucy.” Would you like to reply, Richard?’
That word again: work. ‘Yes please.’
‘What do you want to say?’
‘“Dear Lucy, speaking of hard work, I’m planning a few hours of it tonight. Gearbox therapy. Should keep me out of mischief! But just so you get a good night’s sleep, see you tomorrow. Cheers, Richard.” Siri, send message.’
‘Message sent.’
The spare parts had arrived, but in truth there would be no work on the bike tonight; I was fit for nothing but pain relief, bed and sleep.
One small consolation: my latest injuries were yet another nail in the coffin of the Full Professor’s theory.
Memo, Dickhead: if my eyes worked I wouldn’t have tripped over the box, would I?
Although – a last, stray doubt as I slipped into single-malt coma – it might have been too dark to see anything anyway.