37

Ryan Scullen, on the other hand, was focused on finding a job. He was young and he came cheap. You’ll piss a job in, I assured him. He carried my chair to my car boot. My vintage files. Family photos. I agreed to be his referee. Help in any way I could. Call me anytime. You’re a gun journo. After all, soon enough I might work for him. I did not say that but it was bound to be true. I was once him and he would soon be me. Him on the up. Me on the down slide.

Poor Mr Oxford, trudging behind us—‘Please stop and speak.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, impatient. ‘Can’t help you. Don’t pester us.’

‘What is happening, Mr Smith?’

‘What is happening is it’s over—pry and for the meantime me. Ryan and his colleagues will go and get shitfaced at Intercourse. I will go home and get shitfaced in private. Shitfaced in public is for the younger generation.’

I shook Ryan’s hand and wished him good luck.

‘I’m in the same boat as you, Mr Oxford. Farewell and keep your chin up. And stop trotting behind me like a lost dog.’

He did stop. I looked over my shoulder and I’d never seen such despondency manifest. I quickened stride to escape in case despondency was catching. I eased my maimed body into my vehicle but it was too late, it had got me. Despondency. An unmanly impulse to curl up and die. I rested my head on the steering wheel.

Wanting to die is ineffective, it does not bring death on. You close your eyes but your eyes still reopen and you have to make plans for the next few seconds, the next hour, next day, next week. On and on. It’s interminable. Please, God, let there be no afterlife. Sweet nothingness of the grave, a black void the true heaven.

Up came my head. Off the steering wheel, eyes open and operating. Windscreen dusty with sun and Mr Oxford over the road sitting on a tram-stop bench the way defeated deros do, wringing their hands and letting the trams pass without getting on.

My first plan was to lie about my age from that moment. Not forty-eight anymore. Forty sounded employable. I’d dye my hair to brown the grey out. Get my tooth in, of course, but also my teeth bleached. I still wore my wedding ring but not from now on: I’d sell it. Gold was four hundred an ounce when I married Emma. It’s a thousand five hundred now—the price of a new suit.

I started the car, eased out into traffic, and beeped Mr Oxford and pulled over. I opened the passenger window and reached across.

‘Oi! How much did you tell Ryan?’

Mr Oxford looked at me, eyes baggy from his blubbering.

‘Did you tell him all the details or just skim the surface?’

His flaccid jowls dragged his chin into folds.

‘I like that Kokoda yarn. Did you give Ryan the details? You know, dates, names?’

He shook his head, which shook his jowls.

‘And the rigged-exams story?’

He shook his head again.

‘I’d have them exclusive, then. Beautiful.’

I opened the passenger door.

‘Push those files out of the way and hop in. Might even get you your job back. Come on, we can’t waste time. I want all your records, all the particulars. The minutiae, that’s what people like. I’ll write them freelance and shop around for the best price. Get in, Mr Oxford. Come on. Get in. I won’t bite. That’s the way. We’re both men of language. We’re going to get along fine.’