Off the Record

by Craig Sherborne

  If not for my impotence condition I might have walked into Miss Kisses brothel on Louvre Street. If I’m considered no better than an animal by Emma then I’d fuck like an animal in an orgiastic binge. I’ve heard men say it’s like medicine, a cure for everything—grief, lust, boredom. I’ve heard men say they only go to be held, a rude form of psychiatry where you slip your dick in.

  Imagine if someone saw me, Callum Smith, the pious scribe. I’d be the very lowlife I write about. Pathetic and lecherous, having to pay for sex. A man of reputation fallen from his station in life.

  So I walked past Miss Kisses on the other side of street. Didn’t even glance at the purple signage. I looked straight ahead as if on that street by accident, a shortcut on my way home. A man who wouldn’t know a brothel door from a banjo.

  My bantering habit was enough to make any onlooker think he’s mad. I was animated in my discussions. I pointed at myself, slapped my palms together in recrimination.

  ‘Harden up,’ I said to me. ‘And I don’t mean in the groin sense. Harden your heart. Pick yourself up and stop being so needy. You don’t need Emma. You don’t need love. You need a big story. That’s the real you. That is you. Not some victim husband. But a journo, for Christ’s sake. And a wordsmith to boot.’

  ‘I am hardening up,’ I replied. ‘The hardest hardening you can imagine. You know what I need? I need to get arrested. I have to think of my future and get arrested. I have to become the news.’

  ‘Arrested. I like your train of thought.’

  ‘Not drug-dealer arrested, I’m talking arrested with glamour attached. Arrested for being a revolutionary reporter. A martyr to the profession.’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘I’d go from Words the Obscure to Callum Smith the Untamed. If I could think of something pure original. A taboo story that broke the law but in a hero way.’

  It was too dark to view myself in house windows but I didn’t need windows to know I had my dead-glitter stare.

  That word I’d used—hero—it enchanted me. This was not the usual dead glitter. The usual dead glitter meant I was up to no good. This was more complicated. The no-good had to have some good in it. The appearance of being a martyr to a worthy cause.

  ‘Think, Words. Think. A martyr to a cause.’

  ‘That would impress Emma.’

  ‘To hell with Emma. Fuck Emma. Don’t talk about Emma.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I have no ideas. Nothing to get me arrested.’

  ‘What would get you arrested?’

  ‘Maybe publishing state secrets. I have none of those. I’m really struggling here.’

  ‘What else would do it?’

  ‘Contempt of court, perhaps. Breaking a suppression order. Even then there’s no guarantee of jail time. And it’s not very original. It’s like a speeding fine.’

  ‘I can’t help you.’

  ‘When trying to make history the impossibilities are endless. If it were easy, Words, then it wouldn’t be called making history.’

  I reached my flat muttering making history, making history. Kicked my shoes off, threw my sweaty socks on the washing pile. My shirt, my trousers, my undies. I dried my feet on the scratchy lounge carpet, my belly sticking out in the moonlight on the wall. My saggy arse, my saggy balls. I’ll say this about living alone: you can walk about naked, spared your beloved’s eyes. Don’t need to find somewhere private to fart. Do it in the kitchen as you pour your vodka, half a glass, neat, no soda.

  ‘I’ll get myself arrested,’ I said to keep my spirits up. ‘I do not know how but there must be a way.’

  I took my drink to bed, leant back against the cool pillow naked and started to bawl. Couldn’t stop it. I wanted to ring Emma the more the vodka made me sad. I wanted to text Sorry to her but I wasn’t the one who hit me. The more the vodka made me sad, the more I knew it wasn’t the vodka. Was everybody so empty inside as me? Or was the curse just my curse? I’d been born this way for a reason, my ugly muse.

  22

  Next morning I bantered Pull yourself together. I went back to the alleyway. Into surrounding shops to copy their CCTV vision. It was for research, I said, as I produced my USB drive. A crime story, an incident happened near here last night. Co-operate, please. You mustn’t aid the violent by not co-operating—a pry investigation would have to make mention of you in a far from positive light.

  The footage was blurry but still obvious: Emma, her sudden left hook. Me defending myself, or so you’d think, my hand held over my eyebrow.

  ‘Insurance,’ I said to me.

  I made two copies and buried them. By buried I mean I hid them, each in their own place. An old shoe in my wardrobe. My satchel’s zipped space for coins.

  That afternoon Peeko phoned.

  ‘Still looking for pure original?’

  ‘You got something?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Nothing pure original but she did have news of St George’s. Eight years ago a teacher ran off with a student lover. The boy’s father hired an acquaintance of Peeko’s. He tracked them to a motel on the outskirts of Darwin. It was hushed up because the teacher got ‘dealt with’—legs and face broken, genitals kicked to blood and pulp.

  Ryan, the Not So Innocent by now, rang Mr Oxford: ‘Yes or no, did this happen? The worst part is it was covered up! Your school is complicit by your silence.’

  Ryan no sooner hung up than Mr Oxford was phoning me, his voice quivering so much he could barely say Good afternoon. I sat at my desk and budged my family photos a touch straighter.

  When you’re fearful and vulnerable you take it out on others. That is the way the middle-class shed blood. No daggers or pistols or bombs. Mr Oxford was the perfect victim for me—his plum-mouth diction, his good manners, his respectable life as an educator of fools such as my son.

  ‘I don’t understand your attitude,’ I said. ‘Are you asking for one more favour? Ryan Scullen is only doing his job. I can’t go interfering. It destroys my credibility.’

  ‘Mr Smith.’

  ‘Don’t Mr Smith me, if you don’t mind my tone.’

  ‘I know what’s going on here.’

  ‘Sorry, you’re speaking in riddles.’

  ‘I’d rather quiet discretion than speaking more plainly.’

  ‘You’ve got me stumped. You’re asking too much of me if you’re asking my help again. But since I’ve got you on the line I think we should discuss something.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘I had a brainwave. It’s something you might advise me on, you being the teaching expert.’

  There was no response. I was hoping for more quivering.

  ‘Never mind. I’m busy,’ I said, irritably. ‘I have work to do.’

  ‘No, please continue. I’ll advise where I can.’

  ‘Just hold on a minute.’

  I pretended to be losing my temper with staff, called ‘I want copy on deadline’ to the air-conditioner.

  ‘News rooms are like classrooms, I expect, Mr Oxford—you always need to yell at someone.’

  A two-syllable chuckle from him.

  I used my whisper-voice, the threat-dark one, cold-friendly: ‘I’m sure it would encourage Ollie if he got a good grade or two. Massage them up a bit to give him confidence.’

  ‘We don’t do that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Confidence is everything in life. What does a boy have in this world if he doesn’t have confidence?’

  ‘No, no, no. Out of the question.’

  ‘You’re asking me to go against everything I believe in, yet you won’t do the same for me.’

  ‘I, ah. Mr Smith, I…’

  He stopped, went silent. A breathing, thinking silence.

  ‘Mr Smith, the incident your Ryan Scullen has raised, that was eight years ago. I wasn’t here at St George’s eight years ago. The headmaster wasn’t here eight years ago. It’s the past.’

  ‘These things can be brought back as if they happened y
esterday. Eight years is like the present in the hands of a wordsmith.’

  Another thinking silence.

  Now I finished him off.

  ‘I’ll see,’ I said. ‘Ryan’s young, full of ambition. But I’ll have a word and do my best. This is something that will cause me great anxiety.’

  ‘I’d be obliged.’

  The perfect note to end on. A goodbye from me, then the hanging up. No time for him to retract ‘obliged’.

  This was more, of course, than the shedding of blood. I am not a good father, I admit. But I have my pride—no father wants a C-minus student when they can expedite something higher. And if that should give Ollie a leg up in life I was happy to do it, however unsavoury the means might appear to others. By others, of course, I had in mind Emma. Not that I’d let her know what I was doing. No more honesty from me to her. My views on honesty were wise and validated.

  23

  You hear of authors flogging their manuscripts for fortunes. National libraries and collectors buying up notebooks and drafts. ‘Proper’ wordsmiths, I expect the academics call them. Christ knows what will become of my vintage files. Who’d pay thousands for my twenty-five-year efforts? They’d be valuable archives if I ever made history, but otherwise nothing. And too stiff to wipe an arse.

  I was kneeling down, sad for them, sad for me, touching them like dead pets I’d have to dig a hole for or burn.

  ‘Hello, Words,’ came a voice from behind. Not a tone warm in the greeting. Jenny Angelou’s voice, a resentful delivery, as with old friends you’ve fallen in loathe with.

  ‘Jenny. Good to see you.’

  I climbed to my feet so fast I wobbled and saw watery stars.

  Jenny flicked her handbag from her shoulder onto my—her—desk. It was unzipped and her lipstick rolled out. Her red wallet flopped open across the arm strap, credit cards forced out of their slittings.

  ‘You don’t waste much time,’ she said. ‘I had a miscarriage, not cancer.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it.’

  Pockets bounded in from his office. He clapped his hands in worried welcome. ‘Didn’t expect you.’

  ‘I felt possessive. My office is mine.’

  ‘Words, I happened to mention to Jenny you’d moved in.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’m moving out. I don’t want to be editor. I’ve got bigger things in mind.’

  ‘Doing stonings? That’s low, Words.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was doing it, Jen. I said no-no-no, you can’t do that.’

  That was Pockets all over.

  ‘It must take twice as long for you to shave in the morning,’ I said. ‘You having two faces.’

  A jibe that, yes, could also apply to me. He was too busy placating Jenny to be insulted.

  ‘Words has a big story. I’ve been peeping around curtains expecting trouble.’

  ‘What story?’ Jenny asked, her knuckles to her hips.

  I crouched among my vintage files, scooped up an armful to move upstairs.

  ‘Let’s not be like this, Jen. He might take the story elsewhere.’

  ‘I’m the editor. I should be told.’

  When you’re questioned in this way it’s best to say nothing. I could get away with ‘I can’t tell you’ with Pockets, but Jenny was used to the likes of me.

  I carried my spilling armful up the stairs and flopped them by my old desk.

  Follow me, I signalled to The Cat and to Ryan and they helped move the rest. Not my family photos—only my hands were allowed to touch them. I wasn’t giving up photo rights. There’s something suspicious about men who don’t display family. Something desolate and wrong. An unsettling impression.

  It was then, as I settled the photos in place, polished the glass with my handkerchief, I remembered a story Mai Tran had mentioned not long ago. Hadn’t I scorned it for being illegal to write? A Children’s Court matter concerning infanticide?

  I sent the two boys away and wiggled my finger to summon Mai.

  ‘I’m doing my best, Words, I promise,’ she said. She was fretful I’d sack her. ‘It’s too hard to do first-person in a court story. I’ve got illegal drag racing and that’s about it. How about I go to a race, get involved, be a spectator? Smell of the rubber, tyres screeching, cops chasing?’

  ‘Good, Mai. I like it. Fine. That’s not why you’re in here. I want you to think for a minute.’

  Oh yes, she said. That’s right. The infanticide mother. Had a baby then bashed it so the little thing died. Postnatal depression, the psychiatrists said. No murder charge. No jail time. Twist was, the mother wanted access to her older child, a daughter. To visit her, hold her, re-establish a bond. The courts had not allowed any contact since the killing but she was now of sound mind in the experts’ opinions. The Children’s Court was deciding the matter, the forbidden court for our kind.

  ‘I’m going to ask you for some details. Just between you and me. Am I able to trust you? I’ll make sure we go big with your drag racing.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  ‘You see, it’s my belief that reporting on Children’s Court cases should be permitted. It’s the court that goes to the heart of who we are. Our relationships. Our children. We shouldn’t tolerate a veil being drawn across it. I want to change that, Mai. I know the risks but risks are worth it if you’re taking them to do what’s right.’

  I told her she was young, too young to contemplate prison and upend her life. But me, at my age, I was seasoned to danger. I could bear the law’s wrath, survive its punishments. I would take on this infanticide story as a campaign for freedom. Demand rights for journalists to report on ‘the court of hearts’. How can we understand what makes us tick as people if we’re prevented from telling the stories of how love goes wrong? Help me, Mai, I said. I want the poor mum’s name and address. Her kids’ names, the dead one and the living.

  ‘It’s close enough to pure original,’ I said to me. ‘No one’s done a thing like it.’

  I left work early. I was so excited and wanted to boast to someone. My boasting partner would usually be Emma. A good story produces sexual hormones. I’d go home early and put my hands on her body. Go to bed and have ‘boasting sex’ before Ollie got home from school. Pure original would give those hormones a hyper-hormone zing.

  ‘This Jenny’s a problem,’ I would say to her as we rested afterwards. ‘Jenny would veto the yarn, very first whiff of it.’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ I said to me as I walked into Intercourse for a private snifter. One of the backyard booths where you’re screened from someone seeing you. The train doesn’t run to the backyard so I had to stifle my bantering until Ned Kelly-boy departed. He’d poured too much Vermouth in my vodka martini but I wanted him gone and sipped it regardless.

  I’ll give Pockets’ wife a call, I mumbled. The bastard’s meant to be ditching Jenny and he’s doing the opposite.

  ‘That’s it,’ I said, a little too loudly. My drink went down the wrong way on the subsequent in-breath. I coughed until my windpipe cleared enough to splutter: ‘Get Peeko Mellich, Words.’

  ‘What was Pockets’ wife’s name? Tiffany.’

  ‘Peeko would do that for me. The public-phone-box thing. Anonymous.’

  I rang her for a meeting at the Pub on Pier. Said I had a sensitive favour to ask.

  We met an hour later and I was worried about the timing. I didn’t want asking a favour to turn into dinner. Dinner can lead to complications. She ordered sparkling wine not her usual lemon drink. She drank it quickly and ordered another and was reddening in the face, in the mood for more wine. She’d had her hair done. Fluffed up to look thicker so you couldn’t see through to the scalp.

  When finessing someone to do favours you have to string them along. I couldn’t say Please do this for me and dump her and run. I was slow in my consumption of liquor. A few drinks in my belly and I’m too prone to flirting. Even with Peeko. You wouldn’t put it past me.

  ‘You want to know something, Peeko? I have never b
een so humiliated in my life. Imagine yourself in my shoes. Up you go, up the food chain to editor. Down you go again because of a sleazy proprietor. Can’t keep his hands off this Jenny. Who loses out? Me. I’d give anything to have Jenny out of the picture.’

  Peeko liked that word I’d used—anything. Her nostrils widened as if to enjoy an aroma of possibilities. She was edging her pink-spotty hand across the table. She had false nails on, unless they’d grown an inch since last we met and become shiny orange. She was edging them closer to my finger. I quickly developed an itchy scalp. I scratched and turned sideways in my chair. Just until she withdrew her touching. Which she did. I had to be careful not to offend her, though. I had to treat her in a manner that said friend-to-friend. A friend does you favours. An offended flirter does none.

  ‘It’s so…so freeing to be able to confide in someone. Thank you for listening, Peeko. I value it. I really do. Christ, I’d love Mrs Pockets to find out about Jenny. If my wife and I were on speaking terms, you know what I think I’d do? I’d ask her to make a phone call. “Tiffany,” I’d ask her to say. “Do I have news about your so-called husband!”

  ‘But we’re not on speaking terms at the moment, unfortunately. Just temporary.’

  ‘She’s a lucky woman to have you. It’s a waste for her, not being on speaking terms.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That’s kind.’

  I turned and faced her. I had to if I was going to ask this and get anywhere. ‘I don’t suppose you can suggest anyone, can you, Peeko? Maybe someone, some woman—has to be a woman. Man rings up and dobs on Pockets, he might presume it was me. A woman, he couldn’t prove it. I don’t know why I’m saying this to you. I’m rambling off the top of my head. I’m taking such a leap of faith in our friendship.’

  Her hand came forward again. I let her rest it across my fingers.

  ‘Don’t fuss, Words. You don’t have to look further than me. I’ll make the call. I’d do that for you.’

  ‘I couldn’t ask that. That’s too generous.’

  ‘If I do it it’ll get done properly. You don’t want amateurs doing those jobs.’