Refuge

by Andrew Brown

  He looked down between their bodies, greedy to witness his moment of vanquishment. His belly hung slackly, pink and thick, while her own body lay opened and still beneath his hovering mass. He looked up at her. Abayomi’s eyes were shut tight, her lips pressed together, as if he had killed her. Richard was appalled. It was all wrong. There was no lustful satisfaction, no unrestrained intercourse. The sight was repulsive.

  Anger welled up in him. He pushed down against her, seeking out her warmth. Now he only wanted to enter her and be finished. But he was captive again, unable to stop, unable to find his way. He felt his erection lose its potency, his penis slacker and slightly bent. He frantically tried to recapture his strength, recalling his lust for her, their playful romps and tender touching. The mirror lurked to his right, like a lascivious streaker whispering his name to look. His thrusting became desperate, his half-flaccid member thumping hopelessly against her inner thigh. He pulled away from her, sweaty, his heart pounding. He stood up, defeated.

  ‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ he mumbled, distraught. At the basin, he could not bring himself to look at his face in the mirror. Instead he looked at her reflection beyond the open door. She lay motionless, her eyes still closed. Her only movement was to drag her thighs together. He concentrated on the water rushing over his palms, curling between his fingers like a handful of warm lizards. He stood stooped at the basin for a long while, miserable but unable to focus. His head pounded.

  After a while he heard a noise in the bedroom. Abayomi was whispering into her cellphone. He stood up and dried his hands, one finger at a time. Then he wrapped the towel around his waist and went back into the bedroom. She was dressed now, sitting on the edge of the bed. She did not look at him as he came in.

  ‘I have called Sunday to come and fetch me. He is close by. He will be here now. I will wait downstairs.’ She made no move to stand up and he realised, with horror, that she was frightened of him.

  ‘Please wait here.’ He could not bring himself to say anything more. He thought how ugly he must look to her, standing in a hotel room with only a towel wrapped around him. He shuddered with disgust and picked up his clothes, taking them into the bathroom to get changed. But instead of dressing he sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and put his face in his hands. He wanted to cry, but he could not find the centre of his misery; it was if he needed to concentrate on something concrete in order to find his emotion. How had he come to this point, he wondered bleakly. How would he ever leave here?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a muffled knock at the door to the room, followed by hushed voices. He remained where he was, hoping that she would simply leave and at the same time terrified of her departure.

  Sunday’s figure appeared in the doorway to the bathroom. ‘The spider that knows what it will gain never tires of sitting in its web. But the one that springs forward early will catch nothing.’

  Richard did not look up but he could hear from his tone that Sunday was not smiling.

  ‘Haba? Gerrout of here, you dundi. You think this is ashewo for you, you think—?’

  ‘Please leave me alone, Sunday. Just take her away. Look after her. I don’t know – I am too miserable to make this better right now. Maybe it will never be better.’

  ‘You are right, my friend.’ Sunday put his hand on Richard’s shoulder. ‘But my friend, you should not forget your place. I got no home training, oyinbo, but I know some tings. I know you must not forget your place, o!’

  Sunday fiddled with something in his pocket before continuing: ‘Things do not get better, my friend. All we hope for is sometimes to forget them.’ Nestled in his open palm were two small pink pills, diamond-shaped with a delicate pair of wings engraved into the surface. ‘It will help you think. It will help you forget. It will make you feel better. But it will change nothing.’

  Richard picked up the pills. The tiny carving of the wings was fascinating, neatly pressed into the surface. The thought of flying, of stretching out and stepping off into a space where he could be without weight, was so appealing. Perhaps he would forget and then wake up as if from a dream. Or perhaps he would die. Did it matter now, he thought. His misery made him reckless.

  ‘Will it help me fly?’ The surreal question seemed appropriate in the confines of the seedy hotel bathroom. My Nigerian dealer comforting me while my whore sits brooding in the next room, he thought darkly. He was free-falling and the progression seemed obvious to him.

  ‘You will fly like de bird himself. No nonsense, oyinbo. Like de bird himself. True to God.’

  Without thinking further, Richard threw the pills into his open mouth and stood up, gulping water directly out of the tap.

  He was surprised to see that the bedroom was empty when he returned. Sunday steered him like an invalid towards the bed, pulling the top cover off with one deft movement. Richard liked the cool feeling of the clean sheet on his back. His legs felt leaden and slow, from the alcohol more than anything else, and he was relieved to lie down. Thank you, Sunday, he thought he said, but did not feel his dry mouth open. He started to feel light-headed, little rushes and sparks flicking in his stomach. Was this the pills, he wondered. His eyelids were sweaty and heavy, his head deep in the soft pillow. He closed his eyes to sleep.

  Minutes later, he heard Abayomi’s voice shouting as if from some great distance. ‘What did you give him?’ He tried to sit up, but he could not lift his own weight. ‘What have you done, Sunday? You’ve made such a mess of everything.’

  Sunday’s reply was indistinct. Richard heard him protest: ‘Nothing … he be happy …’ Abayomi shouted something back. Then Sunday: ‘Don’t you be worrying …’ The words drifted away; a door slammed. He opened his eyes. Abayomi was leaning over him, her expression tender with concern. Her breasts pushed against the fabric of her blouse. He tried to lean up to rub his dry lips against the cotton, but he could not raise his head. He felt vaguely anxious about it. His body felt heavy and weightless at the same time. He saw that his arm had curled up like a snake and wrapped across her back, but he had no control and could not feel the touch of her body. It wrapped around and started to slide around her belly, little fingers flicking like a tongue. He blinked and looked again: his arm was lying like a dead animal at his side. Abayomi seemed very close, almost suffocating him. He wished she would give him more space; it seemed hard to breathe. She had something in her hands: Sunday’s music player and a set of earphones. She bent over him and separated the two earpieces. He wanted to tell her to be careful, that the cord was thin and could break. He tried to say something, but his mouth was too dry.

  She pushed the small earpieces into his ears. A bright-green line of laser light, absolutely defined, straight and fiercely bright, seared through his head from the one earpiece to the other, bisecting his brain. The pain of the light and its cold heat was unbearably exhilarating. It screamed with a high-pitched, almost inaudible whine, not moving or pulsing, just burning right through his head. The rest of his mind was thrown into abject blackness by the intensity of the line of light. He wanted to cry out, but his lips were pulled back in a macabre grin. All he could see was the line of light. So he closed his eyes.

  The line burst into a wave, thudding and weaving now with the bass note of the music, hurling great loops of oscillating laser light towards the roof of his skull. It thundered like a nearby train, making his whole body tremble. He could see his brain, pink and grey like coral, lit up by illuminating flares, overhead explosions that displaced the ground until the wave bounced and weaved away. Coral curls flickered, gently washed by clear fluids, and then darkened and disappeared from sight again. He swam with bold strokes, pulling himself downwards into the cracks, letting the slimy exterior brush against him. Under the lip of one coral ledge he saw bright angelfish, yellow and blue, lit up by a passing strobe and then lost. Again the lights came, and this time the fish were a deep orange, grouping together as they pecked at the rough undersurface of his brain. Again the strobe swept past and he sw
am deeper into the darkened crevice. Pink jellyfish with round, pulsing mouths surrounded him, not stinging him but caressing his stomach with minute tentacles. Still deeper, and the light wave pierced the darkness less often, leaving him floating amid tiny pinpricks of light, cast by transparent creatures suspended around him.

  Then, as a burst of light flung itself like a fireball into the pit, he saw a beautiful moray eel extruding from its lair in the rocks. Its massive muscles rippled and its skin pulled taut as it approached. It swam towards him, not menacingly but with a luxurious slowness, curving its almost black body through the water. Its snout touched his bare feet, and his body reacted with a sensuous ripple. The creature was warm and smooth, gliding effortlessly as it twisted around his outstretched leg. His skin goose-fleshed with excitement as the beast passed just above his crotch, pressing the full weight of its body onto his thigh. He could see its eyes looking keenly at him as it advanced up his abdomen, its fronded mane waving in the water. The touch of its belly was electric and he arched his back to increase the pleasure. Then it started to curl away, moving below his nipple and curving under his armpit. He felt it glide across his back, just below his shoulder blades, holding him firmly now in its grip. He thought he heard it sigh behind him as it let the weight of its body slip down from his hip and push between his thighs. He pulled his legs far apart and wrapped them over the monster.

  The moray’s giant head appeared again just below his ear, nuzzling his chin and pushing his face backwards. His muscles clenched, his whole body aching and hard. The sliding of the animal’s skin against his erection was unrelenting, making the blood thud in his ears. Still the thing moved around him, pulling into him tighter and tighter, allowing him no relief. His head filled with pressure and his eyes felt as if they were being pushed from behind. He opened his mouth to scream but the sound was absorbed by the water and he heard nothing. The silky belly pushed once more around him. When he felt he must surely succumb and burst bleeding into the water, a blessed release flowed over him. But even as he felt the pressure give and the muscles in his thighs and rectum clench, he was aware that the creature had not relaxed its grip. With every pumping release, a deflation and a tightening from the beast, gripping across his legs and chest a little more. His momentary pleasure fled, replaced by panic and resistance. The sliding body passed across his throat and curled around the back of his head. Tighter and tighter. The breath left him completely and his chest surged with pain as he scrambled at the rushing water. The monster intended to constrict him to death.

  Richard sat up with a start, the light hurting his reddened eyes. He was soaked in sweat. His tongue felt thick, like a toad pushing up against his teeth and palate. The towel was scrunched at the bottom of the bed, still damp. There were no sounds. The music player lay under his shoulder, jutting into his flesh, and the earphones dangled off the edge of the bed. He was unable to get his bearings: he remembered, with a sinking feeling, that he had been with Abayomi. And that Sunday had come. He had taken some pills. He had lain on the bed and had a brief, terrifying dream. It could only be the middle of the night at the latest. But the obvious glare of sunlight from the window destroyed his sense of time. He drew up his arm with difficulty and squinted at his watch: half past eight. He stared at the dial for a while, trying to make sense of it. He could not see his clothes, and then remembered that they must still be in the bathroom. He heard his cellphone beep.

  There were three messages from Amanda: one SMS and two voice messages. Richard felt ill as he sat listening to her voice; it was both strident and distraught. He did not have the energy to call her so he sent her an SMS instead: ‘I lost my way. I tripped and fell down. I am so, so sorry.’

  Her reply was surprisingly resolute: ‘You should come home. We are here waiting for you.’

  As he read her message, another SMS arrived, announced by a vibrating beep on the handset: ‘Ifasen released this morning. A.’

  TWENTY - ONE

  THE FIRST THING Richard noticed was the tattoo of the snake and naked woman. Svritsky sat drawing on a cigarette, deliberately positioned below a ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall, clouds of thick smoke enveloping his corner of the passageway. Richard sat down next to him, nauseated by the smell of smoke and body odour. Svritsky said nothing to him. There was an undefined tension between them that unsettled Richard. The tattoo bulged on Svritsky’s arm as he lifted the cigarette to his waiting lips.

  ‘You look bad,’ Svritsky said through the smoke. ‘And why the fuck you look at me like that?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Richard mumbled. ‘Your tattoo reminds me of something.’ Svritsky grunted and pushed his fisted arm obscenely out from his crotch. Richard did not try to correct him and looked away. Riedwaan Faizal was pacing up and down at the other end of the passageway, talking on his phone. He saw Richard looking at him and gave a leering half-bow. Svritsky noticed the gesture; normally he would have exploded into expletives, but he sat impassively and said nothing. Richard frowned. Things were not as they should be.

  His head hurt and his muscles were stiff from sleeping on the couch in the television room at home. He had not tried to explain everything to Amanda. He needed to work out the events in his own mind before he could articulate them. To his surprise, she seemed to accept this, and did not push him beyond a summary explanation. I expect you to tell me everything, she had told him, but it does not have to be right now. He had nodded in acknowledgement. But he felt so far from understanding the turmoil that raged within him, he wondered whether he would ever reach a position where he could explain it to his wife. For the time being, an uncertain state of ceasefire existed between them, where they moved about dealing with their shared lives with pleasantries and over-polite superficialities. Richard had stopped throwing up, but was still hounded by nausea and dry retching. His bloodshot eyes had regained their colour, but the pain from his head seemed to sink down into the sockets themselves, making his eyes feel swollen and bulging.

  He tried now to gain control of his heaving stomach. Svritsky’s cigarette smoke and the confident grin from the investigating officer did not help. He smoothed out some of the creases in his suit trousers while he concentrated. Then, with a deep breath, he started to summarise the plan for the first day of trial. ‘Okay, Stefan, it seems—’

  His client held up his hand to stop him. ‘Today is going to be like no other day, my friend. Save your words for when you need them.’

  Richard looked at him, trying to discern whether it was just fighting talk or whether he had correctly detected an underlying threat in the Russian’s tone. Svritsky’s face was blank and gave no indication of his meaning. Richard shrugged his shoulders and stood up to find the prosecutor. He was disconcerted to see that Faizal had cornered Dumbela as he was opening his office and the two of them had disappeared inside, deep in discussion. Richard turned back to Svritsky. He spotted the bustling figure of his colleague, Max Bernberg, advancing down the passage towards him and groaned quietly to himself. Oh Christ, he thought, that’s all I need. This little prick tormenting me first thing in the morning.

  ‘Richard!’ Bernberg called out while he was still some way away. Richard thought of slinking away, but he couldn’t pretend not to have heard him in the quiet corridor. He sighed and waited for his competitor to reach him. They shook hands without warmth, already squaring off like boys on the playground. Richard had no stomach for the contest and turned as if to find his seat.

  ‘Stefan, you better join us.’ Bernberg spoke directly to Svritsky, almost a barking command. Richard was amazed both at the tone and at the fact that Bernberg knew his client’s first name. Even more surprisingly, Svritsky obliged by crushing out his cigarette in a cement bucket next to the bench. He stood up and walked over to them, coming to a standstill next to the two lawyers. Richard cocked his head to one side in surprise. He could feel his heart rate increasing. He knew something was coming, but he just could not work out what he was missing.

  Bernberg cleared his t
hroat theatrically. ‘Mr Calloway, I am Mr Svritsky’s new attorney. You are released from your instruction. Fired, as it were.’ He tittered slightly, his fat lips pressing together.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Richard was too shocked to care about using an expletive. He looked uncomprehendingly from Svritsky to the overweight Bernberg and back again. Svritsky was expressionless, staring back at him without emotion. Bernberg seemed to be enjoying himself, pompously drawing in breath and smiling as if at some private joke. Richard wiped his hand slowly over his mouth, taking his time to assess the situation.

  ‘Now, Calloway,’ Bernberg continued, trying to take Richard’s arm, ‘it’s going to be important for all of us that you keep your cool.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows meaningfully. Richard pulled his arm away. ‘There are some things I need to tell you. And you may not like them.’

  A glint of amusement seemed now to pass over Svritsky, like the brief reflection of a knife blade.

  Richard exploded. ‘Jesus Christ, Bernberg! What the hell are you on about? You’re telling me that you’ve stolen my client. Since when? How long has this been going on?’ He turned on Svritsky in outrage. ‘Stefan, what is this? What the hell is he on about?’

  Svritsky did not answer him. Bernberg was holding his hands up and making shushing noises as if to quieten a hysterical baby. ‘Richard, Richard, it’s an unsavoury and complicated state of affairs. Let’s just say that I think you should do more listening than talking right now.’