2

Although it was sudden, Wild wasn’t entirely surprised to find himself leaving the house he had shared for so long with his wife and daughter. He’d long ago lost track of the man he was supposed to be, anyway. Even leaving in the middle of the night was now in character and he consoled himself with the thought that everyone else had fled, so why shouldn’t he? But really, he knew some departures couldn’t be undone, and this was one of them.

He moved through the grey, unlit house, negotiating past furniture and around corners by memory and touch alone. Through the warm bedroom doorway and along the narrow hall with its framed black-andwhite photographs of family life: Alice as a stern toddler, the prototype for the teenager she had eventually become; Jane on a wind-blasted cliff in Greece. To the right his study emanating its comforting smell of ink and paper, with its hundreds of books brawling for shelf space: medical books, art monographs, biographies, poetry. So many books that there were tottering stacks of them on the floor, waiting to be sorted. All that learning, of so little use to him now.

He packed a bag of clothes, hoarded as many medical supplies as he was able, turned out the lights and locked the door. When he squinted into his rear-view mirror as he drove away, there was just a bruise of grey exhaust, lingering on the night air.

Wild slept in the back of his car for two nights before checking into a motel at the frayed hem of the city, where buildings are practical and low to the ground. He knew he should try to get further away but was unsure of where to go. He had never been on the run before. Besides, it would just be one night. Just enough space to allow him to think.

The crone on reception peered at him for a long time through her cloud of cigarette smoke before leading him to a room on the first and uppermost floor. There were no forms to fill out.

I’m Sylvia, she offered over her shoulder. I run this place.

Wild nodded. Where’s the park?

What?

The park? Isn’t this place called Parkview Motel?

Sylvia ignored him. She coughed into her fist and listed the attractions in a flat drawl. You’ve got most stations on the TV, even though it’s black-and-white. Fiddle with the antenna if it plays up. Hot water, 10.00 a.m. checkout and all the peace and quiet you can stomach. Forty bucks a night, she said as Wild put his bag on the sagging bed. Cash only. Payable in advance.

He handed over two nights’ rent. Sylvia counted the money, grunted and left without closing the door. The sound and rhythm of her slippers as she shuffled away along the concrete walkway was like sandpaper.

He scratched at his thin beard and looked around the tiny motel room. It smelled of old people. A few desiccated moths and flies lay curled on the aluminium windowsill. He opened the wardrobe and considered the jangling wire coathangers. The shower dripped onto the tiled shower recess in the bathroom, making some sort of mysterious, monotonous point.

Wild had stayed in plenty of motels in his life. Usually, the first few moments offered an erotic charge of being somewhere new and private, where you could bounce on the bed and burp without reproach, jerk off over the big-haired, daytime soap actresses and take half-hour showers. Not this place. Normally, he would switch on the television for the reassurance of some ambient technological murmur, but he was sure it wouldn’t even work here. It was better, he reasoned, to save some disappointments for later.

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water over his face and flushed the toilet just for something to do. The pipes groaned as the cistern refilled, as if some massive, distressed creature were embedded in the foundations. His black medical bag sat on the bed. He didn’t really remember packing and wondered if he’d brought enough clothes or toiletries. Enough for what? It was cold.

He stepped out onto the walkway overlooking the car park and rested with his hands on the wet railing. Stretching into the distance was a relentless urban grammar of rooftops, antennae, wires and flickering lights. A flock of birds rose and arced against the clouds like a slow throw of pepper. A horseracing call whined from a nearby room.

The world is full of these kinds of places, he thought. The suburbs that fringe every city of a certain size look pretty much the same. Sites of halfway use. Places of failure and suspicion and neglect. Car parks humming in their fluorescent silences, all angles and dark solids. Ribbons of highway unravelling through neighbourhoods. The bus shelter with a scuffle of soft-drink cans beneath wire seats and the stink of domestic misfortune. There’s always an abandoned rail yard with rusted segments of track lying in the long, damp grass. The rotunda of a local park where, once upon a time, a kid was raped by a bunch of other kids. Airports with their undersound of TVs and language that one becomes aware of through senses other than hearing, a process of bodily absorption, like a photograph developing in a tray. Shopping centres, churches. Hostels with their congregations of wandering men. It isn’t that things don’t happen here, it’s just that different sorts of things happen, and to different sorts of people. And now perhaps I’m one of those people, he thought as he gnawed at a thumbnail.

Wild was able to afford a more salubrious place, but the Parkview suited him in ways he was only dimly able to articulate. He went back inside and shut the door. Nobody would think to look for him here. He could stay out of sight. Besides, if he was going to escape one punishment, then perhaps he deserved another?

He sat in his underwear on the only chair in the room and devoured a chocolate bar. So many types of hunger, he thought. It was a manyheaded thing.

He sensed the organic precision of thousands of hairs rising in unison all over his body. Horripilation, or cutis anserina. From the Latin for skin and goose. The arrector pili muscles beneath his skin kicking into action due to intense fear or cold, his body carrying on without his direction, doing what it thought best. He scratched at his generous belly and wondered which it was. Cold or fear. Both, most likely. He idly tried to think how long it had been since he’d had sex. Could he even remember? God, it must be more than a year. He sniffed at his underarm. I need a shower.

Like all people in free fall, Wild had been the last person to realise. Those around him nodded sympathetically, hid their wallets and lost his phone number. He had relinquished initiative, become someone to whom things just happened. He tallied all he’d lost. It seemed a mountain. He wondered about his wife and daughter, how they would roll their eyes at each other when they heard of this, his latest stunt. I’ve done it now, he thought with morbid satisfaction. If I wasn’t in trouble before, I really am now.

A day or two later, Wild was sitting on the bed when there was a rapping at his door. Beside him on the side table were food wrappers, a toothbrush, empty glass ampoules and a handful of spare change. He’d been sitting like that for some time, sort of ruminating. Some writer he’d read in his undergraduate days had mentioned the stoned pleasure of staring at one’s toe for hours on end. Back then it seemed funny and bohemian. It didn’t seem anything in particular anymore.

He sat upright and stared at the closed door. He slid his tongue across his front teeth, which jostled in his mouth like a row of beggars. He hardly dared breathe. He clutched his bag to his chest and stood behind the door, in preparation for what exactly he was unsure. Did he think he was going to make a run for it, for God’s sake?

He put his ear against the chipped door. The smell of cigarette smoke. Surely if it was the police, they’d have to announce themselves? Would they be allowed to smoke? He tried to recall how it had happened last time—the only other time—when the police had come to his door. Did they do the whole Open up, this is the police routine, or was it actually more discreet? So much for his great escape. Brought to a dramatic conclusion after just two days.

Again the knock, this time followed by a woman’s voice.

Mr. Wild? Are you in there?

It was Sylvia. Didn’t she have a motel to run?

He sighed, relieved. Yes.

Slippers shuffled on the concrete outside. Wild put his eye to the gap between the door and the jamb but could only make out the lean wobble of the day outside. At least she seemed to be alone. Finally he opened the door partway and peered out, blinking in the morning light.

Sylvia propped against the metal railing with a cigarette jammed between her fingers beside her mouth. In daylight, he saw that her eye shadow was aquamarine.

She looked Wild up and down and smiled, revealing a haphazard collection of teeth. How you settling in?

There was nobody else in sight. Fine. Thanks. He waited. Is there a problem?

Sylvia scratched her neck with long fingernails and coughed. Not exactly. Although you do owe me some rent. It’s in advance, remember? But listen, I need to ask you a sort of favour?

Wild ran a hand through his straggling hair and down across his face, attempting to smooth his collected wrinkles. Unwilling to offer too much, he shrugged, but said nothing. How many days had he been here? Could it really be a few days since he’d first arrived?

Sylvia considered him. Got a bloke, she said, tossing her head to indicate a nearby room. Needs a bit of help.

What kind of help?

Sort of . . . medical help. And she dropped her butt and ground it out before flicking it over the edge of the walkway with the toe of her slipper.

Wild looked around. The door was still only open wide enough to allow for his head to protrude, tortoise-like, into the cold morning air. A vague panic buzzed within him, the intimation of some sort of chaos. He didn’t like the sound of this at all. Medical help?

Yeah. Got a small—

Sorry, but what makes you think I can help you? Help him?

Well. You’re a doctor, aren’t you?

He wondered what he might have said to give this woman that impression. His memory of checking in was rather hazy. Perhaps he’d announced something or other about his qualifications? Signed in as Dr. Wild? Anything was possible. He rubbed the end of his nose and began to close the door, inch by tiny inch, in the vain hope that this woman wouldn’t even realise. I really don’t think I’m the right person to be asking about this. You might be better off asking someone else. Someone better.

But you are a doctor.

Wild held up a palm. Well . . . yes. No. Not really. I’m sort of . . . finished with that part of my life. Sorry but I think I have to keep out of this.

Sylvia put out a bony hand to stop the door from closing. Wild felt curiously helpless, could almost see the way things would turn out even as they were just beginning to unravel.

Thing is, she said in a low voice, I don’t want to call the police or anything. This guy’s hurt bad and I’m not sure how he got here and it looks kind of . . . Well, it would just be kind of unfortunate if that happened and, no skin off my nose if the cops snoop around here, I run a pretty decent place, but you know—and here she fixed both stony eyes on Wild—some people might not be so keen on the idea, know what I mean?

A cold breeze trembled across his face. He wondered for a second, just a second, about this woman in front of him. Finally, he nodded slowly and followed Sylvia to a room several along from his own.

The room was murky. On the bed was a shape like luggage. Sylvia waited by the door, cutting off any escape. Wild edged inside and, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, realised that the form on the bed was that of a young man, perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four years old. The man wore a leather coat over a blue t-shirt, the lower part of which was dark and glistening with blood. He panted for breath.

Sylvia brushed past Wild and hovered over the man on the bed. She listened to his breathing and turned to face Wild, who remained near the door. Well? What are you waiting for? Here he is. You waiting for a written invitation or something?

Wild approached the bed as Sylvia closed the door and turned on the overhead light. The entire scene frightened him: this supine man with his feet together like a saint; the thick and brackish air. Sylvia bristled behind him, waiting and watching. He feared she knew more than he was comfortable with. Again she told him to hurry and eventually Wild shambled across the room to the bedside.

The patient with fluttering eyelids. Just a boy, really. With thumb and forefinger, Wild lifted the blood-heavy t-shirt and inspected the area where it seemed he was hurt. Wild grimaced. There was a lot of blood, smeared greasily across the boy’s stomach, but mainly over his left side. In the midst of it, beneath his ribs, a black puncture slightly larger than a thumbtack.

Jesus. Has he . . . ?

Sylvia nodded.

With what exactly?

Gun’s a gun to me, mate.

Wild pursed his lips with distaste and peered at the boy’s stomach before allowing the t-shirt to drop with a muddy sound. He wiped his hands on his trousers. Well, there’s nothing I can do if he’s been shot.

Sylvia picked something from her tongue and folded her arms across her chest. Come on, mate. You can do more than bloody look at him. I don’t think he’s going to hurt you in his condition. Her voice had the mild lisp of a mistuned radio.

Wild sighed. Insects made dainty sounds as they collided with the bare globe above his head. Ignoring the boy’s moans of pain, he did as he was told. Again he lifted the t-shirt, then turned the boy as gently as possible onto his side to inspect his lower back before returning him to his original position. He was strangely relieved that his inability to be of any use was not a matter of reluctance or incompetence, but was of a rather more practical nature.

I can’t do anything about it. There’s no exit wound, as far as I can tell, which means the bullet is still inside him. It needs to be taken out. This is not really my thing. You need to get him somewhere where they can operate. Was he shot here? In the . . . luxury suite?

She shrugged. No. Don’t know where. Someone dumped him here last night.

Dumped him?

Yeah. It happens.

You know him?

Not really. Just from around the traps. Lee’s his name. She produced a packet of cigarettes from a fold in her clothing and lit up. Can’t you do something?

Wild regarded Sylvia’s chicken neck and parchment cheeks. She could be aged anywhere between fifty and one hundred. One of those people who, having no use for youth, emerge straight into midlife. Born on the kitchen sink, smoked from age five, run this motel forever. He recalled the Greek myth of the oracle granted eternal life, but who was subject to mortal ageing and shrivelled over time until small enough to fit into a jar suspended from a tree.

Where’s your bag? she asked.

What?

Your. Bag.

He held up his hands in a final attempt to dissuade this hag from involving him. Look. I’m not a doctor. I mean, I am, but . . . There is nothing I can do here for this kid. You’re going to have to call someone. Call an ambulance or something.

No. You got to do something.

In an effort to keep the panic from it, Wild lowered his voice. Look, lady. I don’t know where you got your information from, but while it might be true that I have some medical training, I’m not really equipped in any way, shape or form to deal with something like this. I was a GP, for God’s sake. If the kid had a broken arm or needed a tetanus shot or even if he had an ingrown toenail, I might be able to do something, but this? No. Even if it wasn’t out of my league, it would still be out of my league.

What about that oath you all got to take?

Wild sighed. She was obviously not to be underestimated, even if she was a thousand years old. And how on earth was it that every man and his dog had heard of the Hippocratic Oath? This woman was really irritating him. He should never have opened the door. He should never have come to this crappy motel. He should only have stayed one night. There were a lot of things he shouldn’t have done. He could go some way into the past with this line of thought, but it wouldn’t help him return to the place where it all went wrong, if there were such a place.

It’s a long story.

Yeah. It always is, sweetheart. Isn’t there somewhere you could take him? Someone you know?

Gee. How about a hospital? Wild wiped his hands on his trousers and moved towards the door, shaking his head, hoping to convey the impression that he’d love to stay and help but would have to leave her to it. He brushed past her.

Sylvia crossed her arms. Come on, mate. No use being all high and mighty anymore. Look around you. You two got more in common than you might like to think. I been around a while. I reckon you can smell crime on a man and you boys both need a good scrubbing.

Wild hesitated with his hand on the door handle. What are you getting at exactly?

I’ve heard of you. The Junkie Doctor, they’re calling you.

He turned to face her. You’ve heard of me? The what?

I read the papers. Yeah. You’re in a spot of trouble, I reckon. Man like you must know somewhere a man like Lee can get some help. Look, just get him the hell out of here and stop fucking me around. I tried to be nice about this, but let’s be clear: you owe me money, I need a favour. You’re on the run, big fella. You don’t have any cards to play. This kid isn’t going to die in one of my rooms. He’s just not. And I’m not someone to mess with.

So I see.

Don’t get smart.

He scratched at his throat with bitten fingernails. The kid on the bed arched his back and muttered. There is somewhere I could take him. Out on the plains. An old doctor friend of mine. Fellow called Sherman. I used to go there a lot to . . . I used to go out there but I haven’t been in a few years. Not sure if it’s still safe out that way.

Nowhere is safe these days.

No. I suppose not.

Where’s your bag?

What?

Your bag. You want to maybe put some dressing on him or something before you go.

Wild sighed. It’s back in my room. I’ll go get it.

I’ll get it.

No, it’s OK, I’ll—

I’m not being polite, mister. I’ll get it. Don’t move.

Wild remained where he was. He averted his gaze from the kid on the bed and instead watched the progress of a cockroach as it clambered along the skirting board, stopping here and there to measure the air or whatever with its antennae. Survive the Bomb, they say of cockroaches. The poor bastards.

Sylvia returned a minute later with his bag and handed it to him before closing the door. Wild squatted by the bed and prepared an injection of morphine. He drew the liquid from an ampoule into the syringe and tapped the chamber to clear it of air bubbles. Saliva flooded his mouth, the expectant prick of bile.

You giving him all that? Seems a lot.

Wild laughed as he looped a tie tightly above his elbow and set about hunting down a vein. Nope. This is for me. Doctor’s orders.

He had his hit, absorbed its pillowy impact and began cleaning Lee’s wound with shaking hands. It always amazed him how much blood a person carried inside them. Gallons of the stuff. The bullet appeared to be lodged under the skin just below the kid’s left ribcage. The area was swollen and badly bruised. Most likely there were a couple of broken ribs but he might have avoided any serious tissue damage. There was almost certainly some sort of internal bleeding. He daubed the area with disinfectant but decided to apply a dressing after the wound had dried out slightly.

Will he be alright?

He shrugged. Depends what you mean by alright. Infection is maybe the danger at this stage. Hard to tell if any organs were damaged, but I guess we’ll find that out. What do you care, anyway?

Sylvia smoothed the front of her dress and made a sound in her throat. I don’t like to see anyone die. Specially not a kid like this. How far is this place you’re heading?

A day’s drive, more or less.

When you leaving?

He hadn’t thought about it. I might wait an hour or two. When it’s starting to get dark. That OK?

Sylvia nodded, her eyes fixed on the kid on the bed. She looked depleted. Yeah. But no longer. I got to get rid of these sheets and scrub the place.

Wild indicated a suitcase on the floor beside the door. Is that his?

Yeah.

What’s in it?

Sylvia shrugged. Don’t know.

His nose and face itched. Trouble breeds trouble, he thought. Like those bloody organisms that divide and divide again until there’s a billion of them before you know it. Still. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of Sherman before. It would be the perfect place to stay for a while until things blew over, if they ever did. He was almost cheered at the thought of Sherman’s crinkling half-smile, the way he rubbed his eyes without even removing his round glasses.

He wondered about Lee. It seemed unlikely he would be able to get him to Sherman’s before he died. Inside the tiny bathroom he washed blood from his hands and considered himself in the mirror. Am I the kind of person, he thought, who could dump a man beside the road and keep on driving, or is that yet to come?

When Wild returned to the room, Lee murmured, stiffened slightly and sagged once again onto the bed. In the ghastly afternoon light, the kid appeared insubstantial, as if about to dissolve into the bloodied bedclothes. Wild detected a strange sensation within his chest, like a small animal turning in its sleep. It was, he was surprised to realise, pity.

He drew a chair up to the bed and lowered himself into it with a great sigh. Lee, now apparently conscious, raised a hand to his face as if checking on his existence. Dried moons of blood had hardened under his fingernails.

The kid’s eyelids flicked open and he looked first at Wild and then Sylvia, his gaze sliding from one to the other. His brow furrowed and he gasped for air. I don’t think I’m meant to be here, he said at last, in a slender voice.

Wild wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Despite the cold, his skin was damp with perspiration. Believe me. I know exactly how you feel.