'Thank you.'
I felt his aggression again. He struck a pose: wounded, incredulous, like someone who'd been ripped off.
'Do you want money?' I wondered what it would be like to hit him. Satisfying — for the split-second before he smashed your head in. His forearms bulged with muscle.
He hesitated. He looked cunning, then high-minded. 'She ought to be stopped,' he said.
I rubbed my eyes. It hit me again, what we were discussing. How surreal it was. Should I be afraid? I almost laughed. Something made me say, 'Have you got a card?'
He produced a rectangle of cheap white paper.
'She ought to be stopped,' I repeated. I took the card. We stood up. Weirdly, we shook hands.
'Mind how you go,' he said.
'Goodbye.'
I sat down. Then I jumped up and went after him.
'Duane? Would you know how to find her again?'
He turned, nodded. 'She give me her phone number.'
He went out. I heard him talking to Sharon, and Sharon's high laugh. I threw myself down in my chair.
We'd been fighting — for how long? — over custody of our son. I'd endured countless sessions in the Family Court, a gruelling year of her accusations. She claimed I was unfit to look after Lars even part time, that I shouldn't have any access at all. She cited my recent car accident, a fight I'd had with my neighbour. These things were trivial, but she'd tried to paint a picture of permanent chaos. She told the court I was a binge drinker. She said I had an unhealthy lifestyle (but to her, eating a burger was 'suicide'). She got people to spy on me, my neighbour for instance, which is why I'd had an argument with him — he knew Carita from the tennis club, and told her once when I'd had a woman to stay the night.
I'd been baffle d by her vitriol at first. I'd responded calmly to each new salvo, and so far I'd managed to convince the court I should go on seeing Lars. But she was persuasive, tireless, inventive. It hung over me that she might succeed in taking my boy away from me. She had engaged Andrea Sykes as her lawyer — and Andrea was effective. Bland, humourless and relentless, she was a bureaucratic automaton. I had to keep myself very calm around her. It was my money paying for this steel-spectacled robot, my money that funded Carita's spectacularly defamatory affidavits. After court sessions I sometimes hid stinging tears — how had we got to this? We used to love each other. It was only after the latest session (when there'd been something so heightened and hysterical in Carita's performance that even Andrea had looked slightly perturbed) that it had dawned on me: my ex-wife had changed, changed utterly. My terrible little Finnish beauty: she had gone completely mad.
If Duane Mitchell wasn't lying, then she was very mad indeed. She'd realised she couldn't malign me or trick me or defame me in court. And she'd flipped her lid. Suddenly I believed it. A weird, stunned laugh rose in me, as if I'd seen something marvellous and freakish, too crazy to be real. Then I thought of Lars. He was little and trusting and round-eyed. He was only five. I loved him more than anything in the world. He was living with a lunatic.
She ought to be stopped. Little Carita. She was pretty and blonde. She was tiny. When I first met her she was wearing a furry pink jumper and tight white jeans. We were in a student café. She turned to me in the queue, with her kohl-rimmed eyes and her Finnish accent and her giggling; she was holding something up for me to see — a sandwich in a plastic packet. She just couldn't. Would I? Manful, grinning like an idiot, I wrenched the staples apart. How she applauded and fell about, how charmingly she mocked her own ineptitude. Later I performed other feats. I opened jam jars, pickle jars, doors, stuck windows. I reached up to high shelves. I jump-started her car, and taught her how to do the self-serve at petrol stations. She had round eyes, long hair, slightly buck teeth. Her figure was perfect. When I walked with her in the street, men followed her with their eyes. She'd been in the country for a year. She was studying to be a dietician. She was sexy, comical. Once when she was angry she followed me down the hall in her see-through nightie, beating me with her toothbrush. We used to sleep with our arms around each other. How had we come to this?
She beat me with a toothbrush, and one night she threw three carrot sticks at me. She had been offering them to Lars. Before she left I grabbed her wrist in anger, and left red finger-marks on her tender skin. That was the extent of the violence between us.
It was after Lars's birth that things went wrong. She was obsessive about his schedules, about the whole domestic scene. She decided I was a slob. I thought I was about averagely messy, but she said I was an unsanitary pig. Worse, I wasn't interested in healthy eating. This started to bother her out of all proportion — the fact that after one of her salads or nut cutlets I'd be likely to sneak off for a burger and fries.
There was another kind of progression: as her English improved, I began to understand what she was really like, and she got a better idea of me, too. The language barrier had shielded us from certain subtleties, problematic nuances. Meanwhile she'd started to scream at me every time I left a curtain crooked or a ballpoint pen on the floor. I used to think it was atavistic, the sudden post-natal fixation with scouring and sterilising and vitamins. Some Scandinavian spirit had risen in her; she was panicking, in a strange land, half frantic with disgust.
When she left for good, taking Lars with her, I'd expected to 'let myself go'. I thought it would be burgers in front of the TV, old pizza boxes strewn over the bed. Instead I found myself in a constant state of vigilance. Coming home, I cleaned and tidied and sat by the window eating some rudimentary scrap. I was waiting — not for her, but for Lars. It took me some time, numb and dazed as I was, to understand that I needed my boy to come home. When I realised, I succumbed to the kind of hysterical tears I hadn't shed since I was a child. I cried all night; the next day I set about making sure I would be raising Lars too. From then on I asserted my rights. Carita put up only minimal resistance at first, but there began to be incidents. She said I fed him the wrong food, showed him the wrong films, read the wrong books. She started throwing tantrums every time she had to drop him at my house. Then she hired Andrea Sykes.
I turned Duane Mitchell's card over in my hand. Carita could well succeed in limiting my access to Lars. Andrea Sykes was very good at her job. Another possibility lay at the back of my mind: what if Carita decided to take him back to Finland? I didn't think she'd be able to, but what if my case were weakened by some new lie, some fresh calumny? What if she took him for a visit and never came back? Such things happened all the time.
This was what she was threatening. When Lars was a baby I loved him so much my eyes sometimes ached and prickled when I held him. Now, when I took him for a walk, the grave five-year-old with his too-short flared trousers, his frown, his big sandals, I would turn and wait and watch with such tender pride. He was thoughtful, charming, comical, terrified of blood, confident in shops and cafés, fierce, interested in all kinds of insects, given to collecting, so that when we arrived home from a walk around the block I (the faithful Sherpa) would be carrying (say) a coil of wire, some interesting leaves and a paint tin, while he would be toting some stick or nailstudded plank, which he would then 'work on' in the garden all afternoon.
Then he would bring a book and I would read to him for an hour while we lay on my bed, Lars curled against my side and fiddling dreamily with my hair. He loved stories. He was clever at school. Sometimes he woke in the night and was afraid of the dark. He and I played verbal games, where I was Spiderman and he was Batman. These games could go on, exhaustingly, for hours. 'Make Spiderman talk,' he'd say. 'Now make the baddie talk.' Each time Carita came to fetch him I wanted to kill her. I could see how she'd got the idea. But to act upon it? Even if it was just drunken ranting in a bar, she'd definitely crossed a line. And where was Lars while she was cavorting with Duane Mitchell? Not alone, I assumed. Surely not alone.
But was it just drunken ranting? I sat up straight. This needed to be ascertained. I was justified, obviously, in wanting to know exactly
what Carita was planning. (What she was planning — my mouth twisted into another incredulous smirk.) One thing I was sure of: if I told anyone about this, she would deny it. No one would believe Carita capable of even thinking about violence. If I accused her now, Andrea Sykes would convince the court I was mad.
The card said, tersely: Duane Mitchell — Personal Trainer. There was a mobile number. I started to ring it, then hung up. I got up, maddened by the cheeping of the birds.
I couldn't do nothing. I couldn't wait for her to hire some thug. But I couldn't make any kind of accusation while I only had Duane Mitchell to back me up. (Accused, Carita would bat her eyelashes, she would look 'stunned' and 'bewildered'. She would ring Andrea 'in tears'.)
I picked up the phone. I told Duane I wanted him to meet me at the café on the corner in half an hour. I told Sharon I was going to see a client. Then I went downstairs, crossed the little square and sat in the window drinking a double-shot coffee.
Duane arrived twenty minutes late, looking uneasy. He fidgeted and scratched. He refused my offer of a coffee. He burped and there was a bad smell. He barged up out of his seat and said he'd get himself a muffin. I waited.
He said in my ear, 'Mate, you'll probably find she's forgotten all about it. Just the piss talking.' He sat heavily down.
I stared at the square outside. 'She has to be stopped.'
'Yeah, but like I said, she's probably woken up with a hangover and thought what the hell was I on about last night, and forgotten.'
'We need to know how far she'll go.'
'How far?'
'I want you to tell her you're on for it.'
He spread out his hands, laughed. 'Me? No way. I'm not killing anyone.'
'No,' I said patiently. 'I want you to tell her you know someone who will.'
He stared. 'Pardon?'
'It's a test,' I explained. 'If she wants to go ahead, then we'll know she's for real. If she backs off and says, "Ooh no, I wasn't serious", then we'll know where we stand.'
'Why should I do this?' He picked fussily at his muffin.
'You came to me.'
'That was a public service,' he said promptly. 'Done you a favour. Thought you might help me with some problems I've got and that, maybe. In court.'
'I can help you. I can make it worthwhile for you.'
'But she's probably forgotten all about . . .'
'We need to know how far she'll go,' I repeated. 'This is a way of containing her. If she thinks she's got you she won't go to anyone else.'
'And will you help me?'
'I will.'
'But who do I say I've got? Some killer? How do I know any killer?'
'You tell her you've thought about what she's said. You've asked around. You've been recommended a guy. Through the gangs. Make up some Hell's Angels connection. I'll worry about the rest. You've just got to let her think it's possible. Then we'll know what we're dealing with.'
'But what if she says she wasn't serious?'
'You told me she was serious, Duane.' My face was hot. I felt like grabbing him by the neck.
'Yeah.' He hesitated. 'She seemed to be. But she mightn't . . .' He put his head on one side. His expression was sly, cunning, filthy — and baffle d. He couldn't quite see where we were going. He grinned and tapped his temple. 'You want her to kill you?'
'No, Duane. I want you to remind her of your previous conversation, and then tell her you've got the man for her.'
I gave him my phone numbers. I left him sitting there. I walked over to the courthouse in a state of frigid calm, made a success of a highly unlikely bail application, exchanged banter afterwards with some colleagues, and then, since I didn't have Lars the next day, accepted an invitation to go out for a Friday night drink. Much later I staggered home, slept, and woke with a hangover. I hadn't eaten anything the night before and I'd drunk myself stupid. My stomach was in ruins. I went to the bathroom and threw up. Then I lay in bed thinking about Carita and Duane Mitchell. I spent a fevered morning going over it in my mind.
Later, gingerly, I went to the shops for supplies: fizzy water, icecream, painkillers, antacids. The walk took a long time — I was as hunched as an old man. I watched a video, then read a book while the rain streamed down the windows. I ate a sandwich in bed, listening to the downpour drumming on the iron roof. I watched the TV news. I was lonely. I longed for Lars. I wished I had a woman in bed with me. I went to sleep, a tub of icecream melting on the bedside table.
The next morning, Sunday, I went out for a walk. When I came home the phone was ringing. It was Duane. 'She's not into it,' he said.
'What?'
'I rung her. She got all shitty and that. Said it was a bad time. She didn't know what I was on about. Looks like you're okay, mate. She's not going to top ya.'
I sat down. I looked straight ahead. I said quietly, 'I don't know why you think that means I'm okay.'
'She's not on for it.'
'I can't rely on that. She said it was a bad time. She's telling you to call later. She probably had someone there. We don't know what she's up to.'
I could hear him scratching his chin. 'Nothing. Far as I know.'
'Perhaps you'll have to remind her what a good idea it was.'
'What?'
I said, 'You're a salesman, Duane. Make her remember how much she wanted it.'
Then I told him all the things I could do for him if he helped me.
I spent the afternoon painting Lars's bedroom. He kept a lot of his toys here, but the room still didn't seem properly his. He was always a little visitor, with his overnight bag. I ached and burned for him. A red point of rage glowed inside me. That she could threaten to take him away, that she had threatened us for months. And now she'd gone really crazy, and still I couldn't fight her, because no one would believe me if I told.
I tossed and turned all night and went to work white-faced. I dealt with my clients efficiently, but I was in a bad state of nerves. Duane Mitchell didn't call.
The next day I had a defended hearing set down for the whole day. When the court closed at five I went back to the office. Sharon said, 'That Mitchell person's here again.'
I hurried in. We shook hands. He said, 'I don't know what I'm getting into here.'
I waited. He seemed jovial, over-excited. He smelled of alcohol. 'I've only spun her the biggest line of shit. You should of heard it. About the Highway 61s and the Hell's Angels and how I'd met a guy who met a guy in jail. Anyway, you were right: she is on for it. I didn't even have to get her drunk. She just accepted it all. We were in the car down on the waterfront. I told her I could introduce her to a "friend" — my supposed killer mate. She didn't argue. I said he'd charge about five grand. She said, "Oh yes." I go, "You got five grand, darling?" and she goes, "Yes." Just like that. "Yes." I told her the guy'll break in and kill you, probably strangle you or smack you one over the head, right, and then fuck off to Australia. People think it's just a burglary turned nasty. No problem. I told her it happens all the time. She was quite interested in that. She said, "Oh does it really?" She's all pretty and polite and that, but it's creepy when you think about it. It's like she's not all there.'
'You seem to have found it all quite invigorating,' I said. I was pacing and rubbing my hands together. I felt — odd. Sick, odd and triumphant. There was going to be a contract out on me. Now we were getting somewhere.
'I think she's a pill-popper, mate,' Duane said. 'When I've been with her she takes these pills. She reckons they're herbal but they look like painkillers. That might be why she's gone a bit drifty.'
'You think she's a drug user,' I said, pacing.
'Well, yeah. Could be.'
'Duane, you've saved my life.'
'Yeah. Done meself out of five grand.' He did a big laugh. There was a short silence. We looked at each other.
'It'll be worth your while,' I said.
He coughed. 'Yeah, good,' he muttered.
'All you have to do now is ring her and arrange for her to meet the "killer".'<
br />
'Your guy . . . And who's he going to be?'
'Don't you worry. I'll tell you the time and place and you get her there, okay? Then it's done. Thank you, Duane.'
'No worries,' he said.
After he'd gone I closed my office door and rang the Central Police Station. I spoke to a policeman I knew, Detective Sergeant Damon Lee. I arranged to meet him the next day. I said I'd received some disturbing information. I'd been threatened. A certain criminal transaction was going to take place. The situation would call for the use of an undercover detective.
I went home. I sat out on my deck drinking beer. I thought about ringing Carita. I decided it would be too hard to act natural. I wanted to talk to Lars. But it was dark now; it was late. He would be tucked in with his teddies, his Tintin comics. I would confuse him.
She would have read to him. He would be wearing his blue pyjama suit. Beside his bed the drink and sandwich. The dim light on his small, dreamy face. Carita was a good mother. She loved him. She never shouted at him, never hit him. When he had nightmares she let him crawl into the big bed. She played games with him. She was never late to pick him up from school. The only thing she did wrong was to try to take him away from me. What had she told Duane Mitchell — that I would ruin Lars, corrupt him? What did she mean?
When we first went out together she overlooked certain things. I told crass jokes at the dinner table. When drunk in restaurants, my fellow lawyers and I sometimes burst into song, and quaffed and guffawed, and clashed our tankards, while she sat to one side, her face creased with dismay. Some of the things she said to me: 'Do you never talk about anything serious? What about politics? Don't your friends have any ideas, any views?' No, we were a joke a minute, a barrel of laughs, we had nothing to say about anything unless it was sport, and she put up with it because she loved me. But when she was pregnant she started to panic — she couldn't tolerate it any more. She was in a serious state — of culture shock, of recoil. She was even repelled by what I ate.
I made sausage sandwiches and washed them down with beer. I went to bed drunk, and fell asleep straight away. I started having a dream. I was at the mouth of a railway tunnel. There was snow outside and it was freezing cold. There was a small boy pulling himself through the snow. He was dirty and neglected. He came into the tunnel. He said, 'I'm cold.' I picked him up and held him, and I was filled with terrible grief. Great, deep, rhythmic sobs came out of me. The boy wasn't Lars, then he was. I wept in regular gasps, woke dry-eyed, then started crying properly. I was struck by the sensation, the lingering power of the dream-sobs. The emotion was deeper than any I'd felt while awake.
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