On River Road

by Chris Else

  ‘But you’ll … You know. You’ll keep an eye on things, won’t you?’ Colin asked, looking at Larry.

  ‘We’ll work together,’ Fiona said.

  ‘Good. That’s great.’ Nodding. It was all the same really, wasn’t it?

  ‘Now, this morning, you won’t have to enter a plea,’ she told him.

  Plea? ‘I should plead guilty,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ Larry raised his eyebrows.

  ‘It would be easier, simpler.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Larry was dressed in a pinstripe suit, a red tie with small animals on it. African animals, a little safari park.

  ‘I won’t get off.’

  ‘No,’ Fiona told him. ‘But we could get you manslaughter.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘On the grounds of provocation.’

  ‘She provoked me.’ Voice, the voice of hatred. That’s what hurt the most, the hatred in the way she spoke, except that he couldn’t really feel the hurt. It was too deep down.

  ‘The choice is this. If it’s manslaughter, you might be out in two to five years. Maybe less. You can do something with the rest of your life.’ Larry’s voice was crisp, businesslike. Nothing like the evening Larry with the drawling wit and the glass in his hand. Colin listened without really understanding. The rest of his life? It seemed an impossible achievement.

  ‘If it’s murder, you might do ten to fifteen. That’s a long time inside.’

  ‘Pleading guilty wouldn’t be easier, then?’

  ‘Not to murder, no. You might want to plead guilty to manslaughter, when the time comes.’

  ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘You have to listen to Fiona. She’s your counsel. I have to keep out of it. I’m going to leave you now so that she can talk to you and tell you what to expect. Okay?’

  Standing up. Larry was standing up, about to leave. There was an ostrich on his tie and a lion and a giraffe. There was an antelope with pointed horns. But there wasn’t a gnu and there wasn’t a zebra. Why wasn’t there a zebra?

  ‘Are you angry with me?’ Colin asked.

  Larry laughed, the old familiar Larry-laugh. ‘You’ve fucked up somewhat, mate. You’re not exactly on my list for citizen of the year.’

  ‘I don’t want people to be angry with me.’

  ‘Nil carborundum … Don’t let the bastards grind you down. Take care.’ Larry shook his hand, turned, walked to the door. Tall figure waiting for the guard to let him out. And then he was gone.

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen this morning,’ Fiona said. ‘You’ll just be charged. I don’t think we should even ask for bail. I think …’ She began to explain about psychological reports and something about a bail hearing in a week’s time. He didn’t understand. Didn’t hear. Just kept staring at the door. A grey door with a spyhole in it. Larry had gone out that door.

  ‘Do you want to know what happened?’ he asked Fiona.

  You stupid man. You stupid, stupid man. You don’t think. You don’t feel. You feel nothing for no one but yourself. You are insensitive. You play games. You manipulate, manipulate. You stupid man. Always, always you manipulate me. You are nice, you buy me presents, then you go quiet on me, you say nothing for hours, or else you shout because I don’t do what you want, because I have my own life, and you think what I do is nothing. You hate what I do because it’s mine. So would it be a surprise if I go with someone else? Someone who listens? Someone who is nice to me? Would it be a surprise?

  No one is ever nice to Colin, though. Poor Colly. Poor, poor Colly. He gave you a house. Gave you a place to grow your plants. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t say how silly they were. He tried to make it work. He tried. He did his best. He worked hard and he made money. Maybe if you were nice, if you were nicer, it could all be fun again. Because it’s you that stops him. You that makes him small and weak. If you were nicer, it would all be fun. You could make love together in the bed in the morning and he could make you smile. Like he used to. A yellow day, instead of this one. A lovely yellow day.

  41.

  SHE WAS AT THE bench in the workshop, the pokerwork iron in her hands. Thin drift of blue smoke, smell of burning wood. Head bowed, intent on her work, she did not see him, so he stood and watched her. The concentration held her still. Lit by the skylight above her, white round of her shoulder, copper-coloured curls. She was dressed, as usual, in T-shirt and overalls, like a country girl, face fresh from the clean air. As he looked at her, he remembered the sharp cry, intensity of pleasure, scream of love, the thought that she wanted him to impregnate her, that he wanted to do it, not because of what would happen, neither of them wanted that, but because of what they were. Physical creatures, living bodies. Submitting. Did you come alive when you submitted? Could you reattach yourself to the real world? He was afraid of her now, he realised. For the first time.

  She paused in her work, moved back a little to examine it, and saw him. Smiled.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘How long have you been there?’ She switched off the iron, placed it on its rack so that the hot end was not touching anything.

  Moving towards her, around the end of the bench, reaching out for her, folding her to him, her solid weight, relief just in the presence of her but a kind of sickness also, like nausea.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Pushing him away a little, looking at him in concern.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That bloke who shot his wife, you knew them, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no escaping any of that. It was all his world was right now. ‘He’s Lisa’s ex-husband.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. Is she all right? How’s Imogen?’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘Poor kid!’ She hugged him suddenly. As if he, too, were a poor kid. Which he was, perhaps. At least, he could feel that he was and let her treat him that way.

  ‘How about a cup of tea?’

  ‘I think I just want a cuddle.’

  She laughed. ‘You might change your mind given the state I’m in.’ Moving back from him, looking at him, grinning, but unsure of herself. ‘Although that’s good in one way. No little babies in the offing.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘You’re sorry I’m not pregnant?’

  ‘No.’ But maybe he was, a little curl of disappointment. ‘I’m sorry about what happened. Last week.’ That long ago? Was it a whole week since he was last here. ‘And I’m sorry I didn’t call. I should have called. To see how you were.’

  ‘I was fine.’ She took his hand, tugged at it, began to lead him towards the house. The door into her kitchen with the tongue-and-groove walls and the black and white linoleum worn through in brick-red patches.

  ‘Go and lie down,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’

  He did as he was told, walked through into her living room, clean and tidy, the hooked rug on the floor in front of the TV, the quilted cushions piled in the old sofa. In her bedroom he took off his jacket and shoes, lay down on her bed with his hands behind his head, stared at the ceiling. Thinking nothing. Seeing nothing. But then the scent of her began to rise out of the bedclothes, the pillow. Like toffee, like something good cooking on a stove, but sharper too, more primitive, hooking into the head. He turned, rolled on his side, took the second pillow in his arms and buried his face in it. Breathed.

  ‘You hiding?’ She was standing there with two mugs of tea, looking down at him.

  ‘Smelling. Smelling you. Wonderful smell.’

  She laughed. Put the mugs on the bedside table, kicked off her shoes and sat, lay down beside him. The sag and lift of the mattress was a beckoning, rolling him towards her. He let it happen, reached out, arm around her, pulled her over so that her face was above his, kissed her. Let his hand rest in her hair, the spring of the ringlets. He had once said she looked like Shirley Temple. She hadn’t liked it.

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ she said, moving back a little. ‘You don’t need to worry about me. I can manage. I mean, this is a convenie
nt arrangement for me. A little company, great sex, no ties. What more could a girl want?’

  ‘Certainly not a baby.’

  ‘Noooo.’ Drawing it out, her lips rounded like the offer of a kiss.

  ‘But it was nice.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Rolling her eyes.

  The high pitch of pleasure, which had come to nothing. What to do now then? Where to from here?

  ‘Drink your tea,’ she said.

  At the top of the drive he paused, put the handbrake on. The road was empty both ways. No. To the left, from the south, a car. He could have got out ahead of it but he didn’t. Waited, watched it. It was a white car. Small, moving fast. Too fast. Growing. The hum of its motor, like an insect. Flash in front of him. A two-door. Toyota. Like Maddy’s car but a man driving. Ward? Could it have been Ward? Hard to tell with the ripple of reflection across the side window.

  He eased out into River Road, turned towards town. Feeling puzzled. More puzzled than he understood. Ward driving Maddy’s car along River Road, what was wrong with that? If it was Ward, of course, which it might not have been. The speed, then, was that it? He remembered Friday evening, at the dinner. Ward leaning across the table, saying something to Colin, the two of them laughing, and the look in Lisa’s eyes, the expression on her face, which said they were berks, both of them. Colin the Killer and Ward the Wet. The thought came with a strange sense of bitterness. He had nothing against Ward, except, of course, that he and Colin were such bosom buddies.

  Then he remembered the snatch of conversation with Maddy.

  — Were you driving it that afternoon?

  — No. I wasn’t actually. I had to take Damien and his mates to cricket. They wouldn’t have fitted in my car.

  So who was driving your car? Ward? No, he thought. That’s crazy. Yet here they were, the man and the car, in the very spot.

  An intersection coming up to his left. Pigskill Road. He braked, swung into the turn. A hump through a little cutting and then he was up on top where the roadway widened. He pulled over on to the verge. Reached in his jacket pocket for the cellphone. Pressed the double-digit code for Ward’s number.

  ‘Good afternoon. Wyte and Lorton, Accountants. This is Marie speaking.’

  ‘Is Ward there please?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid he’s out. Can I take a message?’

  ‘Marie, this is Tom Marino. Do you know when he’ll be back?’

  ‘Hi, Tom. He shouldn’t be too long. I can give you his mobile if you like.’

  ‘Please.’

  A pause. She read it out to him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  He hung up and dialled the number she had given him while it was still in his head. One ring. Two. Three.

  ‘Lorton here.’ Noise in the background. Street noise. Ward was walking somewhere.

  ‘Hi, Ward. This is Tom.’

  ‘Tom, how are you, mate?’ Concern in his voice, and something else. Weariness. ‘How are Imogen and Lisa?’

  ‘Coping.’

  ‘Tough on Imogen.’

  ‘Yes, she’s taking it hard.’

  ‘Bloody dreadful business.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God, poor old Col.’

  No! But he didn’t shout that, didn’t even say it. Just stayed silent, swallowed. Stared at the road ahead of him, arrowing off between the fields on either side.

  ‘Was there something I can help you with?’ Ward asked.

  ‘No, not really. Just a thought. A quick question. On the afternoon Carla was killed, were you out driving Maddy’s car?’

  ‘Me?’ A pause. Just a little pause. ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  Lying bastard.

  ‘Thanks, Ward. Sorry to bother you.’

  Hung up. Didn’t even think then. Rang directory service. Got the number, got connected.

  ‘Hello, this is Maddy Lorton.’

  ‘Hi, Maddy. It’s Tom.’

  ‘Tom? Oh, God, how are you?’

  ‘I’m okay. Look, I know this is a bad time to be bothering you with my obsessions but I just have one quick question.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘On Friday evening, at dinner, you said you weren’t driving your car on the day Carla got killed. I just wanted to know if Ward was driving it.’

  ‘What’s this about, Tom?’ Suspicion.

  Allay it, he thought. Lie to her.

  ‘Nothing really. A couple of people I talked to mentioned a car like yours. I’m just trying to decide if there were two white Toyota Starlets around town that day or one.’

  ‘My car wasn’t anywhere near River Road.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Ward took it out. He ran up to Kaimata. On the way back he stopped off at the service station on Longbush Street.’

  ‘To get gas?’

  ‘I think he used the car wash.’

  ‘Thanks, Maddy. Look, that’s really helpful.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Suspicious, still suspicious. But he didn’t care. He had what he wanted now.

  Lying bastard.

  Heart beating hard. The rush of certainty, the confidence. It was like desire. Take it easy, he thought. Be careful. Think it through.

  42.

  ‘ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?’ Sylvia asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Larry said, looking at her.

  ‘Come. Sit here.’ She patted the space next to her on the sofa.

  For a moment it seemed as if he would refuse, as if he couldn’t be bothered moving just for the sake of her proximity, but then he stood up, a sort of twist and heave with one hand on the arm of his chair and the other balancing his glass, and moved over, sat down. The leather creaked. She felt the warmth of him close to her. She reached up her arm and slipped it behind his neck, smoothed her palm over the side of his head, the ribbed texture of his hair, the fleshy flap of his earlobe.

  ‘You look tired,’ she said.

  ‘Not tired. Just stuffed around.’

  ‘Who’s stuffing you around?’

  ‘Nobody. Me.’ He took a big gulp of his whisky.

  ‘Is it Colin?’

  ‘Yes. Mostly. Well, professional distance isn’t always my long suit, is it? Even harder to achieve in cases like this.’

  ‘Even though you can’t represent him?’

  ‘Especially when I can’t represent him.’

  Well that made sense, in a way. All the care and none of the responsibility.

  ‘Does he have a defence?’ she asked.

  ‘Everybody has a defence.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Go for provocation. It’ll be mostly up to him. The only version of what happened is his. If the jury believes him, then we have a chance. If they don’t, he’s had it.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  He turned his head to look at her, a little grin on his face that had no humour behind it.

  ‘Honest answer?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t think he knows what the truth is.’

  And no one else knew either. No one would ever know. Colin could say anything about Heidi now she was dead, any lies at all, and if people believed him, that would become the official version. It seemed obscene, a travesty of the way a life ought to end. The least you ought to do for her was to try to understand. How could you give her anything like full value otherwise?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I can’t help asking. Usually, with your cases I’m curious but there’s no real urgency, no real need. This time it’s different.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  And suddenly, of course, all the questions seemed footling or prurient and she felt pathetic for wanting to ask them. Except that they pushed. They insisted.

  ‘Where was the rifle?’

  ‘In the wardrobe.’

  ‘In the wardrobe?’

  ‘That’s what he says.’

  ‘Why? Lisa says he never used it.’

  ‘Who knows why?’ A shrug. ‘Isn’t there a frisbee on the top shelf of my wardrobe?’ />
  ‘And he just took it out and shot her?’

  ‘No. When he first pointed it, it wasn’t loaded. He wanted to scare her. Then she started yelling.’

  ‘She started yelling when he pointed it at her?’ That doesn’t sound right, she thought.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that? Surely, if someone points a gun at you, you’d stop yelling, not start. And what was she doing while he was taking it out of the wardrobe? Just sitting there?’

  He shrugged. Because that’s what Colin said happened and there was nothing to prove it wasn’t so?

  ‘It’s all crazy,’ she said. ‘It makes no sense. The police seem to be asking everyone if she was having an affair. Why?’

  ‘Colin thinks she was.’

  ‘That can’t be right.’

  ‘He says she admitted it.’

  ‘Who with, though?’

  A silence. He was thinking. He was weighing up the pros and cons of giving her the information. She wondered how he made such decisions, what criteria he applied. Whatever they were, she did not really understand them. Sometimes he told her things that seemed very indiscreet. At others he withheld what seemed like completely trivial information.

  ‘In the strictest confidence,’ he said. ‘For the time being at any rate.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘It was Tom.’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Colin says Heidi and Tom were having it off.’

  ‘And what does Tom say?’

  ‘He denies it. Of course.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ she said. ‘You believe it?’

  ‘I don’t have to. Colin believes it.’

  ‘And you’re going to drag it all out in court?’

  ‘Out of my hands,’ he said.

  ‘Here you are then.’ Ward was standing over her with a glass of wine. She reached up, took it, watched him as he turned and moved to his chair. He sat down with a sigh, leaned back. Then, he lifted his own glass to her in a little toast, winked.