On River Road

by Chris Else

  ‘Lovely,’ she said, lifting her head.

  ‘What’s lovely?’

  ‘This. Making love on a Monday. It sets me up for the week.’

  ‘It’s Tuesday.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Rolling away from him, but hanging on so that he moved with her, reversing their positions.

  ‘Yes.’ He lifted the sheet, bent his head and nuzzled her breast, licked her nipple slowly. He did want her, didn’t he? He could feel his body wanting her, coldly, clearly, surely. Was it love, though, or hatred?

  ‘Hmmm.’ She gave a little squirm. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Maybe we should have some more.’

  ‘Not if it’s going to be a quickie. I want it slow. I don’t like it when we have to watch the clock. Wondering if the boys might come home early.’

  Little faces. Unsmiling, wary.

  ‘I should go,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ She reached out, her arm around his neck, pulling him down and lifting her head to meet him. Kissing mouth. Soft and warm.

  Stop it, he thought. Stop it now and tell her it’s over. You can’t spare her feelings and you shouldn’t. Why should you? She’s in this with her eyes open. She knows what she’s doing. Because whatever it is, she has it coming. It’s her own fault if she needs someone like you.

  He slid his hand down over her pubic bone, fingers touching damp and smooth, the silkiness that made his body come to life. The lust he felt was real and hard and far away.

  ‘Oh, nice,’ she said, a little panting breath. ‘You make me feel wicked.’

  ‘Wicked?’

  ‘Wanting you.’

  ‘That’s not wicked.’

  ‘No, the way I want you.’

  ‘How do you want me?’

  ‘I’m starting to want you very, very much.’

  ‘That’s all right. That’s good. I want you to want me.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ A heavy whisper, urgent. ‘I need to warn you. You need to be careful.’

  ‘Careful? Why?’ Nipple between his teeth. She gave a moan.

  ‘When it gets nice, when it gets really, really nice. I start to want, I start to want … You’ll think this is really mad.’

  What?’

  ‘I want to do it without a condom.’

  ‘Why?’ A little twist. Was he afraid? Don’t be afraid, a voice said.

  ‘I shouldn’t say that. I shouldn’t tell you. You’ll think I’m really stupid. You’ll want to go.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to go.’ Because he was not afraid of her words. This was an opportunity, a possibility. Stop pretending, the voice said. No more promises. Just let go. Give in. Come to her.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, looking into her face as if he wanted to understand. Her eyes, blue, pleading.

  ‘I don’t want anything to be between us. It isn’t, you know, it isn’t physical. It isn’t the way you feel inside me. It’s how I feel. How it makes me feel.’

  ‘How does it make you feel?’

  ‘Sinful, wrong, brave, lucky, open. You know, open to the possibilities. It’s the risk, I suppose. I like the risk. I like to feel I’m opening up. With the right man. With a man I … Ooh.’ She closed her eyes.

  ‘What if you get pregnant?’

  ‘I don’t know. I like being pregnant. But … No, no. I’m not trying to get pregnant. I don’t want that to happen. But … It’s just the way it makes me feel. It makes me come really big time.’

  He was hard, so hard it hurt. Like the concentration of his pain in a place that he had ceased to occupy.

  ‘You want to do it like that now?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, we shouldn’t, should we?’

  He reached down, rolled off the condom. Then he took her hand and guided it till she touched him.

  ‘Like that?’

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’

  ‘We can do it like that.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’

  No more lying. No more games. He moved over her and she opened her legs. Kneeling there, supporting himself on his arms, looking down at her from far away. Her eyes were closed. The woman on the pillow, he thought. Is this the one I want?

  24.

  HE WAS PARKED IN the lay-by by the river, looking out through the windscreen at the cross with the ragged garland, waiting with the phone to his ear.

  ‘Hello.’ A soft, small voice.

  ‘Is that Merry Gibbitson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, hi. My name’s Tom Marino. I think you knew my daughter, Carla.’

  Silence.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know my daughter, Carla?’

  ‘Yes.’ Smaller, softer than ever. Frightened.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry to bring this up. I’m sorry to call you like this but someone sent me a note, an anonymous note, which says you might know why Carla was on River Road the day she died. The note says something about bulling.’

  Silence.

  ‘Do you know anything about someone bulling someone?’

  ‘Bullying.’

  Bullying? Of course.

  ‘Was Carla being bullied?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you?’

  Silence.

  ‘Were you there the day she died?’

  ‘No.’ The voice breaking, twisting into a sob. Stop, he told himself. But he couldn’t stop.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Thank you for talking to me. I really appreciate it. I’m sure you were a good friend to Carla.’

  Another sob and the line went dead. Left him staring through the windscreen at the bright sun on the eastern hills.

  Carla wanted to help Merry Gibbitson who was being bullied. But why the river? And why should she go if Merry wasn’t there? Someone knew. Someone knew something. Ask the child who the bullies were. He could hassle them. They deserved to be hassled. Yobs who got their jollies ganging up on other kids. Had they ganged up on Carla — no, not like that. It was a car accident, a hit and run. It didn’t make sense any other way.

  But someone knew.

  He picked up the phone, pressed the redial button. It rang once, twice, three times, four.

  ‘Hello.’ A woman’s voice. Stronger than the child’s. Confused him for a moment.

  ‘Er, yes. My name’s …’

  ‘Did you call here a minute ago?’

  ‘Yes. My name’s Tom Marino. I …’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I understand Merry might know something about my daughter’s death.’

  ‘What?’

  No, he thought. This isn’t going well.

  ‘Look, I understand Merry was being bullied by someone. All I want to know is the name of the person, the child who …’

  ‘We don’t know anything. Don’t call here again. All right?’

  25.

  IT WAS A SILENT meal in the Fuchs-Wyte household. A silent evening to come, no doubt. The third in a row. All weekend, they had avoided each other. Heidi had spent the daylight hours outdoors. Colin had gone to the Club on Saturday and played bridge with people he hardly knew and cared about even less. On Sunday he had picked Imogen up from Lisa’s house and taken her to a movie in the city. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. She had not liked it much, other than the horses. Too many battles, too many animals in danger. She had gone all sulky on it and he wondered if she was disappointed in him, if he somehow could have made more effort to amuse her.

  Afterwards, over coffee, because he could not avoid it any longer, they talked about her birthday. The languid look of boredom disappeared immediately. She was all smiles and eagerness. The change gave him a sick feeling. He was caught between Heidi and his daughter and he knew he wasn’t supposed to let that happen. Be yourself. Stand up for yourself. Your destiny is in your hands. Well, yes, of course. Absolutely. Have to make it clear, have to insist on what you want. But what did he want? He didn’t know, except that he needed people to like him, especially Imogen.
And sitting there, in Stratos, seeing the question that trembled in her eyes — Was it possible? Was it really possible? — the willow man did what he so often did, he bent with the wind of the moment. Yes? He didn’t actually say yes, but he let her push him closer to it.

  — Why don’t we give it serious consideration? he said. Next weekend. Let me make some enquiries and then, if it all seems to be okay, we could go and talk to some people.

  — People? What people?

  — I don’t know. Who do you talk to about buying a horse?

  — The Pony Club. The secretary’s called Alison Mossmen and her phone number’s 535-4761.

  All figured out. And, shit, why shouldn’t it work for her? At least one person in this shitty world could get what they wanted, could have something of her own that was alive and loved her. Yes, he supposed that horses were like dogs, they could love you as much as you loved them.

  And so here he was, now, at his own unloving dinner table, supping his wine, staring deep into the bottom of the glass.

  ‘Colin?’ Heidi looking at him. The first time she’d initiated an exchange since Friday.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wish to talk.’

  Yes, he thought. It’s about time we sorted it out, came to our senses. The atmosphere had thawed a bit. He was feeling better, a bit better. He could apologise, if he had to. If she apologised, he could too. He could make some promises, like paying her more attention, cutting back on his drinking. Maybe, with a few concessions, they could kiss and make up.

  ‘Shall we talk here or in the other room?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, in there.’

  He took his wine and got up, moved away, out into the living area, turned on the lights, the soft glow, patches on the walls reflected into the room, the tan leather lounge suite, the blonded wood. He went to the sofa, thinking perhaps she would join him, but she didn’t. Took her usual chair. Sat in it straight, feet together on the floor, hands curving over the ends of the arms. Like a queen on a throne.

  ‘So you want to talk,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  He waited. She said nothing. Was he supposed to apologise first?

  ‘I meant what I said,’ she told him, at last.

  ‘When? What did you say?’

  ‘When we had the fight on Friday.’

  ‘Oh, that. That’s all right. Lovers’ quarrel.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you mean “no”?’

  ‘I meant what I said. I don’t want to fight any more. I want that we should divorce.’

  What? He didn’t take it in for a moment.

  ‘We can’t get divorced,’ he said. ‘We’re not married.’

  ‘The law says we are. Six years.’

  A cold flood of truth. Skin cold. Like it was turning inside out and exposing him, his insides bleeding in the air.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he said. ‘It’s crazy. We have a little argument and you want to leave?’

  ‘No,’ she told him. ‘I want you should leave.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We will divide the property. This place is less than half of everything, so, I think this is fair. I take this —’ she gestured about her — ‘and you keep all the rest. You go. I stay. We call it quits.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you? You’ve been plotting.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking three days.’

  She was serious. She meant it. Fuck her, his anger said. Fuck her, let her go. But he knew, somehow, that he did not want her to because this time there would not be enough bottles in the world to drown the misery. Be reasonable, he told himself, be rational. Stay calm.

  ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘there’s a way we can work this out.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you really mean that a little thing, a silly argument about a horse is worth splitting up over? If that’s all it takes, I’ll just say no to Imogen. You can have the paddock, no problems. She’ll get over it.’

  ‘It’s not the horse. You know that.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘We are not good together any more.’

  ‘You mean sex.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not sex. Why do you always think sex?’

  Because, he wanted to say. Because it matters. Because you make it matter.

  ‘What, then?’ he asked.

  ‘You think I am nothing.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Maybe you think so for all women.’ She shrugged. It was a gesture of indifference, as if she didn’t care what he thought about anything any more. He felt a punch of rage but managed to control it. Stay calm. Be reasonable. I will have calm and quiet, you understand me?

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘This takes some getting used to. Can we not make a decision right now? Can we just let it rest on the table and see how it goes over the next few days?’

  ‘Okay.’ Looking at him. Blue eyes. What was she feeling? Sad? She couldn’t even feel sad? Nothing at all.

  ‘For a week?’ he said. He heard the note of pleading in his voice and hated it. Because it was too late. He couldn’t stop it now. Did he need to be humiliated? Must that happen, too? He remembered the rifle in the hall cupboard, the box of shells in the drawer in his study. I’ll kill myself, he thought. Is that what you want? I’ll put a bullet through my head and then you’ll see.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But we don’t sleep together. I want you should sleep in the spare room.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Fine.’ Because those were the words you spoke when you were helpless, when you wanted just to delay things, not to have the final moment come.

  She picked up her book from the table beside her chair, tucked her feet up underneath her in her reading pose, opened the book at the leather bookmark. Started to read. She didn’t even glance at him. Not for a second. Water pouring, rush, into the laundry sink, the bounce of flying drops like bullets in the air. Please, Daddy. Please don’t hurt him. Let me make this clear. I will not have the peace disrupted. You understand me? I will have calm and quiet.

  26.

  TOM DREAMING OF A house, an old house, and it was leaking somewhere, water dripping from the ceiling, big wooden beams and the strips of floorboards. He was in a cellar and the water was running down one of the walls, a dark patch, damp and shiny, and the floor was earth, mud, and the water was carving out a channel as it flowed across the dirt and out through the door.

  Then he was standing on the veranda at Clisserford and pointing out to Laura Kerrington how the work had come along. Because the project was finished, there were two big mounds, like hills. No, they were real hills because they were covered in tall pine trees, dark green against a pale grey sky, and there was a road winding off into the distance between the mounds. And the woman, maybe it wasn’t Laura although she had the same shaggy blonde hair, was standing close to him, and he wanted her. She wanted him too but there was a word they needed. He couldn’t think of it but he knew it was her name, or the name of the place that she came from, where they were going.

  Then, they were in a bed, naked, dusty brown light. His cock had grown enormously long so that it came up nearly to the level of his shoulders, and it was growing very thin, stretching like treacle, like an exclamation mark, and he was afraid that it would stretch so much it would become detached, that it would break off altogether.

  What were the chances? Good. No, that was the wrong word — not good, the opposite. Bad. High. The chances were high. Tom didn’t need to figure it out. He didn’t need to remember back to the time when he had last thought about such things. The days with Annabelle before Carla was conceived.

  Astra’s reaction had told him. Lying there beside him after he had rolled off her, slipped out of her, aware of her as the world came back to rights. She was staring at the ceiling, taking long, slow breaths through her open mouth. Left hand came up to rest with
the wrist on her breast bone. Right palm on her belly. Rise and fall.

  — Are you all right? he had asked.

  — Oh, yes. I’m fine. I feel … I feel … My God, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have done that. Don’t hate me, will you?

  — No, he said. Of course not.

  She rolled towards him then, gathering up the sheet, wrapping herself in it. Lay there with her eyes closed, head pressed into the hollow of the pillow. He bent over her, the ginger curls.

  — Please go, she said. Just leave me, please.

  So she was ovulating about now. So she would get pregnant. Of course. It had happened before, hadn’t it? Twice before. Two boys with two different fathers. All because she liked the way it made her feel to do it without contraception. Guilt and fear and hope. Did she hope? Was she wanting it to happen? Or, perhaps, more to the point, was he wanting it to happen? Because afterwards, since then, since he left her yesterday, he had not behaved like someone who was desperately fearful of the outcome. He had not been dwelling on the awful consequences for his life, for his relationship with Lisa. If he had thought of her at all in his preoccupation with Merry Gibbitson, it was the compulsion of his flesh that he remembered, Astra’s cries and her body moving under him in the rhythm of their lust, as he looked down at her from a million miles behind his eyes.

  27.

  LISA CAIRNES, IN A brisk walk down George Street, tension in her shoulders against the chill in the bright air, reached the steps of the building that housed the Durry Advocate.

  ‘Oy! Lady!’

  She turned and saw him, Max Hosche, crossing the road towards her, odd sideways shuffle as if his right shoulder were turned against the wind. There was no wind.

  ‘Max. Good morning.’

  ‘I got a story for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They killed Bessie.’

  ‘Bessie?’ She stepped down, back on to the footpath, looked at him curiously.

  ‘The dog. They killed my dog. I found her yesterday, down by the creek. Dead.’