Hard Yards

by J. R. Carroll

  ‘What’s it taste like?’ she murmured.

  ‘Tastes like … you and me, baby.’

  ‘You are such a cunt man,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘I am a cunt man. Do you have a problem with that?’

  ‘Oh, far be it from me …’

  ‘And you’re a dick man, right?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I am a dick man. I admit that.’ Her eyes were fixed firmly on his member, watching it come up as she spoke. ‘For me it’s the only way to fly.’

  He leaned forward again, taking her breasts in his hands and kissing her softly on the mouth and entering her with no effort at all. Then they lay facing each other, moving very slightly, almost imperceptibly, from the waist down. While they did this, she looked at him with half-opened eyes. Andrea had screwed a toy boy or three in her time – since Ivan – and some very attractive ones too, with fine, fit torsos that were pumped with testosterone – ‘young, dumb and full of come’ – but they were not truly satisfactory. They had their temporary uses, when the pickings were lean, but such young men were invariably narcissistic in the extreme. They were forever admiring themselves in mirrors. One guy she went with for a while actually positioned himself in a bar so he had an unobstructed view of his too-handsome face. For him, even the act of lovemaking was a form of posturing, as if he were working out on her. Nothing wrong with young stuff now and then, but on balance she preferred experience.

  8

  After freshening up they took the Commodore to the local beach – which was empty, except for a lone board rider – had a swim in the bracing surf, then walked hand-in-hand through the shallows for as far as they could, before hitting a bluff. There they sat on a rock and watched the sea. It was choice real estate everywhere you looked. The thought had crossed Barrett’s mind more than once lately that he ought to try to scrape up enough for a deposit on a place, not at Palm Beach, but somewhere along the Central Coast. It wouldn’t necessarily cost an arm and a leg – he could probably snap up a fibro lean-to for two hundred thousand dollars. At the half-century point he amounted to a hot car, some fat men in the bank and a modest super scheme, which wouldn’t kick in for another ten years. A divorce settlement, having to sell his hotel in a depressed rural market and relocating a few times had put him through the financial wringer. Admittedly he had a well-paid job, but there was no guarantee he would hold that down indefinitely. You were only as good as your recent history in this caper, even if you had saved Melvyn Platt’s life. His bottom line was not all that flash, but then he had never been much good at making money and possessions. He had been the wrong kind of cop for that to ever be part of the game plan.

  They returned to the house, showered again. It was four-thirty, a mellowing time of day. He put on some baggy shorts, a Star City Casino T-shirt, brushed his hair and came out into the open-plan living area. Andrea – in a sarong – was removing the cork from a bottle of Taittinger, but she was having trouble with it, so she passed the bottle to Barrett. When the two flutes were filled they went up the circular staircase to the decking, which was still trapping some warm late afternoon sun, thanks to daylight saving kicking in at the end of August, compliments of the Olympics. Lying back on the banana lounge, Barrett sipped the cold, refreshing wine and set it down. Beside him Andrea had opened her sarong, exposing herself to the sun, and was applying Piz Buin to her arms, breasts and stomach. For Barrett the seductive scent of coconut cream would always be associated with Andrea, who was a chronic sun-worshipper.

  Eventually the magazine she was flicking through slipped from Andrea’s hand and she fell asleep. Barrett laced his hands behind his head and gazed up at the sky through his shades. The sun was appearing and disappearing, and there was no hint of a breeze at all. The fig and cypress trees in front of the house were completely motionless. His thoughts turned to Karen, then the enigma of Andrea. She was fond of calling him ‘lover’ in the heat of sex, but she had never spoken the words ‘I love you’. She was a cool one – hot and cool-hearted at the same time. Perhaps calculating was a better word. Once, when he was semi-delirious with pleasure, Barrett had said it, but she had not responded, and now he regarded that slip as a regrettable lapse. He had crossed the line. Earlier she had called him ‘cowboy’, which was new, and he wondered if she had picked that one up in San Francisco. Something else new: when he had visited the bathroom mid-afternoon, he had noticed a small mirror on the sill with a faint coating of powder on it. Alarm bells had gone off in his head. He’d sniffed it, then wiped the mirror clean with a towel. Later, when he had gone there for a shower, the mirror had been moved, and there was a fresh dusting of powder on it. Fuck. If Andrea was doing Colombian marching powder, that was her affair. All the same, it bothered him, because he’d never noticed it before, and because it didn’t fit with her image – at least the image he was aware of. She knew Barrett hated all drugs, almost fanatically so, and that explained why she would keep it a secret from him, but … he thought she was against them too. She was into fitness. But then, to a true Sydney person such as Andrea, recreational drug use – or any kind – would be as normal a part of life as drinking and fucking.

  Later they drove down to a local pub and had a couple of ice-cold drinks and some lazy bets on the Harold Park trots and the greyhounds, just by picking numbers off the TAB screens. Standing behind her at the counter, he couldn’t help noticing she produced a ten-dollar bill that had been rolled tight. So … it was something he would have to put out of his mind. Another time, after she had a win, he slid an arm around her waist from behind and cupped one of her breasts: she half turned her head in mock surprise, leaned back and pressed her butt right into him. In the dining room they washed down the catch of the day, ocean perch, with a bottle of Pikes sauvignon blanc. That seemed a fitting selection. While they were finishing eating she caught him eyeing her off and said, ‘What?’

  ‘What do you mean, what?’

  She merely cocked an eyebrow as she lifted her glass. She sipped, letting the wine stay wet on her lips.

  ‘I was … getting slightly ahead of myself, that’s all. Warming to the idea of you minus your clothes.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Again. And again.’

  ‘There’s no satisfying you, is there. You’re not normal, Barrett. And anyway, just for argument’s sake … how far ahead are we talking?’

  ‘Not too far. I can see it coming. Into view, I mean.’

  ‘About ten minutes would be my guess.’ She sipped more wine. ‘Have you got a decent hard-on?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘On a scale of ten?’

  ‘… Eleven.’

  ‘Is that in … inches?’

  ‘Ha. Who do you reckon I am – Warren Beatty?’

  ‘Well, if you’re Warren Beatty, I’m Madonna. How does that sound?’

  By this time her shoeless foot was sliding up and down his shin. ‘That sounds … enticing.’

  ‘So … you want to get into bed with Madonna. Is that the plan? You want to lay one on the material girl?’

  ‘I’ll give it my best shot, if she’ll let me.’ Her toes were now doing explicit things between his legs, finding and working on him.

  ‘Are you up to it?’

  ‘I want to be.’

  ‘I see what you mean. Let’s be off then, shall we – Warren?’ The wine bottle remained unfinished.

  *

  Andrea’s ten-minute estimate was spot-on. Throughout the return drive he kept his hand firmly between her legs, even managing to work the zipper down and slip a finger or two into her satin knickers. When he turned into the driveway and onto the lawn they immediately locked into a no-holds-barred kiss.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. She was manipulating him and he didn’t want her to get too far advanced with it. When they were outside the car he sat her on the bonnet, pulled off her jeans and knickers and dropped them on the ground. She sat back and watched as he broke open his own jeans and wasted no time entering her, thrilling to her customary
high level of wetness. Sighing heavily, Andrea lay right back on the warm bonnet, lifting her legs high to draw him further in. When he was nearly there, he withdrew sharply and let fly …

  Blissed out, heart pounding, he stood in front of her while she sat up and held his face with both hands. In a little while he started to come around, and she whispered, ‘Pretty bad, huh?’

  ‘Oh … awful. Shocking. Never again.’

  They laughed soundlessly and looked at each other in the dark.

  ‘You’re such a desperado, aren’t you,’ she said softly, and with no suggestion of disapproval.

  He had a quick answer to give her, but stopped the words in time. He felt a terrible need to tell her how he felt about her, to spill it once and for all and have done with the game-playing.

  ‘Andrea …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I … I want you to know …’

  But she placed a finger against his lips and whispered: ‘Shhh.’

  All he could do then was to take her in his arms and hold her against him. When they drew apart, she looked down between her legs and said, ‘It’s all over the car. Have you got a handkerchief?’

  He passed her a crumpled but clean one. When they had cleaned themselves up they went inside, arms around each other. Andrea didn’t bother putting her jeans and knickers back on.

  Barrett did not know what woke him: he only knew that one minute he had been unconscious, deep in the abyss, then his eyes had pinged wide open. He could not remember what he was dreaming about, or even if he was dreaming. Nearly every night it was the same: some tiny switch in his brain would activate itself, as if programmed, and the lights would come on. The digital clock said 13.55. He could now look forward to several hours of staring at the ceiling, thinking and listening to the soft burr of Andrea’s peaceful breathing. Other than that, there was no noise except for the occasional car. An hour of this and he went to the en-suite toilet, tip-toeing on the cool floorboards.

  When he returned it was to find Andrea’s leg and one of her arms had been flung across his side of the bed. He lay on his back, carefully lifting her leg over his and placing his hand on her warm inner thigh, which was still damp from sex. She slept on. Barrett could see most of the shapes and objects in the room by this time. Now he was thinking how unreal this relationship was – sexually they were as hot as two people could be, and yet tomorrow evening he would go home and not see her again for a month or more. It was like going through a series of trial separations and reunions, but without the heartache and trauma. Perhaps it was the way to go. Perhaps less was more. It certainly put a spring in his step when he knew he was going to be spending quality time with her. Clearly she had built a firewall around herself, and taken from Barrett what she needed, no less and no more. That was fine for Andrea, but from Barrett’s point of view it was fast becoming an unequal relationship. Sometimes he thought he was obsessing over her, the way he had with Karen. Now he was remembering a month or so earlier, in this very bed and at about the same time. They had both half stirred from an erotic dreamscape; she’d grabbed his erect cock and they’d fucked like wild animals in the dark. In the midst of a simultaneous orgasm he had whispered, ‘Darling, darling,’ against her face, but although she’d held him tight and got at least as much from the brief encounter as he did, she’d said nothing in return.

  The clock said 15.30. No end in sight. Goddamned it – maybe he should get up and do something. The ghostly tinkle of wind chimes floated across the night air. Andrea had a set of tin chimes suspended from the Moreton Bay fig tree next to the driveway. They were at head-height: Barrett had hit them a couple of times.

  Wind chimes.

  But there was no wind.

  He listened hard – the chimes were silent. But … was that the crunch of a foot on gravel?

  Now he was sitting up. A muscle quivered in his cheek, and a tic came to his eye – both long-standing telltale signals that something was out of joint.

  He slid noiselessly out of bed and pulled on his pants.

  Down the circular stairs, barefoot, sliding his hand along the steel rail. Heart starting to accelerate. Passing the kitchen now. Turning towards the front door, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

  There: a tiny metallic sound, not wind chimes, from outside. He strained, trying to hear a voice. On the bench there was an empty champagne bottle, the Taittinger. He curled a hand around its neck and proceeded on cat feet to the door, and froze.

  Was that a whisper?

  He slid back the flimsy bolt, pushed down the door handle. There was no screen door – Andrea was not big on home security. He opened the door, just enough to see outside. Only darkness: the dead – and silent – heart of night. He eased outside, onto the verandah. Cool air burnt his face like dry ice. No breeze: not a whiff. No movement. He tightened his grip on the bottle, left the door slightly ajar behind him. Scanned the waiting nightscape.

  There was no moon. Street lighting was largely screened by a row of cypresses along the fence-line. Still, there was a glimmer, a pool of dull light in which myriad insects swarmed. Pressing against the wall that was at right angles to the door, he fixed his gaze on the rear end of the Range Rover, which was half in the garage. No-one there. The Commodore, as always, was turned onto the front lawn, so the Range Rover could get in and out.

  There: a scrape of foot. A muted whisper, then another slight foot-scrape. Pressing against the wall Barrett focused, unfocused, then focused again. Shapes emerged. A man was standing behind the Commodore, next to the gravel driveway. He seemed to be looking down. But where was the other one? Were there two – or more? What were they carrying? It was essential to have this information before choosing his best option. Patience. As a cop he had never found it hard to wait, all night if necessary, if it meant nailing his man.

  The man he could see whispered again, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. His face was still pointing down. Was the other one on the ground? As soon as the possibility crossed his mind, Barrett knew what was going on: bang. He also knew there wasn’t anytime to fuck around. Crouching, he moved around his car, on the guy’s blind side. Keeping his head down until he reached the rear wheel he stopped, drew a deep breath and sprang.

  Hood One just had time to let out a yelp before the heavy Taittinger bottle hit him flush across the bridge of the nose. It did not break, but seemed to bounce off him with a ringing echo effect. Warm fluid spurted over Barrett’s face; the man lurched, spinning backwards, groaning and grunting, flailing one of his arms while holding his face with the other. In an instant, Hood Two came out from under the car, even before Barrett had time to drag him out by the leg. An object flashed past Barrett’s face, shaving him, then the guy was on his feet, launching a kick that surprised Barrett and connected slam-bang with his thigh. Shit that stung. Barrett staggered, then came at him, throwing a right cross with the bottle, missing, then trying again. Hood Two was ducking and weaving like a fucking pro fighter: every time Barrett advanced on him he wasn’t there anymore. Then Hood One wandered back into the fray, yelling at his mate. Barrett was trying to see what Hood Two had in his hand, the heavy object that had shaved him, when it flashed past his head again, crashing onto the Commodore’s boot. Barrett grabbed it, hurled the bottle at Hood Two’s face. It seemed to glance off him, but had the desired effect, especially as Hood Two no longer had his weapon. Both men turned and ran, Hood Two helping Hood One, who was swaying around and battling to stay on his pins.

  The weapon was an iron bar, or half crow bar: much better than a fucking bottle.

  He went after them, but a spear of white-hot pain shot through his right thigh. Fuck. No way could he run – walk – on that leg. He’d only been able to stay on it and fight because fighting for your life will do that for you. It will give you that little bit extra. He dropped to his knees halfway across the lawn, leaning on the iron bar, as the hoods got into a car, fired it up and fishtailed down the street with a V8 scream that was every inch a Mustang’s.r />
  Standing again, he turned and faced the house. A light came on upstairs, then downstairs. The front door opened. ‘Barrett? Is that you?’ Andrea shouted.

  ‘Yeah, it’s me. It’s all right – they’re gone.’

  ‘Who’s gone? What’s going on?’

  ‘There were … two guys, ah … tampering with my car. Maybe they planned to knock it off.’

  ‘Shit. What’s wrong with you?’

  He was limping towards her. She had on her cut-off jeans and a floppy pullover. ‘One of ’em kicked me, the bastard. Christ almighty.’ The blow had landed dead centre of the thigh, causing maximum pain to radiate in every direction from the point of impact. It was a level of pain that forced tears from the eyes. But Barrett made it to his car, slumping over it. He was still holding the iron bar when Andrea came alongside and touched his arm.

  ‘Is it all right?’

  ‘It will be soon. Oh, Je-sus.’

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Meaning the iron bar.

  ‘Took it off one of ’em. Not before he smashed my car with it, though. Look at this.’

  There was a big dent on the Commodore’s boot. Even in the dark he could see how serious it was. The guy had swung so hard several panels were now buckled and out of alignment: it was going to be a major repair job. Pain in the fucking arse.

  ‘Can you go and get a flashlight please, love?’ He said, gingerly trying the leg again.

  ‘I think there’s one in the kitchen. Hang on.’ She went inside, switching on the outside halogen floodlight as she did so. That made a big difference.

  Barrett was thinking, What was that prick doing under my car? As if I didn’t fucking know. This is going to be a real bloody doozy.

  Andrea returned carrying a heavy-duty flashlight, which she handed to him. He lowered himself to his knees, groaning, then aimed the powerful beam under the car.