by Alan Duff
The text went off right beside him; he wiped a hand on a big fluffy towel, which he thought a bit pretentious, didn’t need to be told the obvious. The room rate reflected that. With exceptional service of course.
It was Anna.
God, hope she hasn’t changed her mind. She can’t turn up now. Looked at his watch sitting on the broad spa rim, just after six. Maybe he wouldn’t read it. But she’s your daughter, your special daughter. And if she does turn up …
Out wid frnds soon, njoy yr meetg. Xxoo
XXs and hugs 2 u 2, he fired off. He climbed out of the tub.
Looking in the full-length mirror at a fairly flat stomach, not much muscle conformation, a bit narrow of girth to say not such a big heart, legs straight enough but hardly prime stallion limbs.
The face his wife and others said was handsome but unspoken qualification in their tone and he could see why: something in his somewhat shy expression, even to himself. In horse terms, kind eyes. In his heart he’d much rather be the beast, like Raimona was in his early days — still was if approached by all but three people. Even Riley had to be wary.
And yet something there in his face, as if he didn’t truly like himself. No reason not to — a stable enough upbringing, parents neither demonstrative nor verbally encouraging but he didn’t feel hard done by; his father’s entire life revolved around his successful furniture and carpet store in Maitland, mother quite a distant person, as if permanently distracted. None of her children adored her, not like they did her parents, the only grandparents Riley knew. Granddad Sean who doted on him because he took to horses at a young age and carried the family name. When he got left the broodmare farm, certain family members got upset and his parents took his brother Martin’s side — Martin being the oldest. Even twenty-two years later things had not been patched up, his brother hardly spoke to him and his parents were distant. You’d think he had inherited multi-millions and they were left starving.
From day one of taking over Galahrity he was too busy to worry about lack of contact with his family. Even his immediate family took second place to the business. Now look where it had got him.
Staring back at him, however, for just one slightly troubling moment, was a man doubting himself. Doubting his integrity, questioning why he was so looking forward to this tryst. As if his wife, the woman he’d married, did not exist. As if life could only mean something if it was a prime race horse or a prime woman.
Oh, come on now, Riles. Drop the moral bullshit, this is simply male hormones. Easier to get on with a second shave of the day to ensure smooth facial skin for a close encounter. Clean his teeth, gargle mouthwash, put a hand on his genitals and give that mirror reflection a defiant, even self-loving, rampant-man smile. Picturing himself like his stallion, coming out with two strong handlers barely able to hold him back, fully erect, his penis a beast in itself, rearing up at sight of the mare’s turned sex, plunging straight into her, no foreplay requirements with the equine species, lunging bared teeth at the mare’s leather-protected neck. How would Bella, or whoever, react to that?
It never changed. Something emerged in him the man, the personality, in the private intimate company of a lover. This one or that, it mattered not who. Indeed, a slightly different persona emerged for each individual — and there had been dozens over the years. He was in complete charge, a worldly man, a woman-lover who could hang on her every word, stroke her suggestively mid-conversation, crack a joke, of course tell her many times in an evening how beautiful she looked; he could hold back his sexual urge, take time massaging her, talking softly as he rubbed and squeezed and broke any hesitancy with praise and humour.
Another Riley Chadwick came out, the world changed to the one of his planning, light chatter over the room-service champagne on ice, high-quality hors d’oeuvres the hotel laid on. No smoker attracted him, no matter how beautiful. Though the aroma of Sandy Tulloch’s Cuban cigar that afternoon had Riley considering he might one day take it up as an occasional habit. An impressive, prepossessing look too: a fat Havana sticking out your mouth. A man-in-charge image. Overtly phallic symbolism.
There were ones who started off uncomfortable when first arriving, he could read them on opening the door, the discomfort, the obvious implication sex was going to take place. A rule too that he always informed he was not only married but happily so, this was about sex, albeit best practice, and not for him to offload gripes about a wife not interested in screwing.
Some were confident, not in need of a drink or space-filling talk, got quickly down to business without any inhibition. One part of him preferred this direct approach. Another thought it too forward. Until, that is, nothing mattered. Then, the moment it was over: what was all the fuss about?
Those who had been with him more than once knew the routine: enjoy best-quality drinks, a few laughs, the woman did most of the talking, he the attentive listener, snacks and the occasional full meal, drawn-out foreplay and mutually enjoyable sex. Then time to leave, honey.
Staying out of town in a top hotel his routine was he’d run a fresh spa, afterwards watch a documentary or the horse racing channel, call his wife to report in, sometimes Anna to say goodnight if it wasn’t too late, or he’d text her. And planning his horse operation well ahead, as he kept extensive records on everything to do with the business, he would often stay up late working, get on the blower to Straw and talk horses, no matter the hour as Straw did not mind in the least.
This end of night he had a large sum of money to think about. The days of bank overdrafts might be well behind him, but fifteen million, in these highly uncertain times that were affecting his business as badly as any, was a massive buffer.
There was Bella to dwell on, how good she was in the sack. Measured not just on his own pleasure but if she achieved climax. For it not to be a two-way street seemed a waste of expensive hotel and the time spent looking forward to it. Waste of a woman, her own sexuality, too. If you were going to do it, then go hard out. Which was Claire’s problem: too inhibited. Good to be with, but not for one moment earth-shattering.
Unlike Bella who had no inhibitions, declared in specifics what she wanted of him; boy did she know herself sexually. She liked, to use an American term, to give and receive head. Her intimate odour a natural arouser, quite different to the Chanel perfume, whatever number she wore. She was thirty-two, she said. ‘Separated, but neither side is hurrying the divorce — no reason why, just indifference and I’m over marriage.’ A ten-year-old daughter her sister was babysitting. She hinted she could stay the night, but to Riley that felt a worse betrayal of his wife than having sex with another woman.
Tonight, their third time together, they’d shown better understanding of each other’s sexual needs, perhaps emotional ones too, though he didn’t want to go too far down that path.
Check to see if Anna sent another text. No. Could still be out with her friends, his lovely girl whose eyes he thought questioned him. But how would Anna have got on to him? He was very careful.
He wouldn’t get back to the farm till lunchtime. Never mind. Things had changed. Fifteen million in cash was the next life-changer after Raimona.
Chapter fourteen
Place was from another era, back in the last century. It could well be late ’60s the geezers in this pub were out of — or not out of. Still stuck there. Jesus. In a fuckin’ time warp.
Back in the past, forgotten men who Deano could see had never once been vital; he had grown up surrounded by the same type. In every face, even in smiling or laughing, something bitter tasting twisted each man’s features. Something sour. Not sour you could spit out and replace with sweet or just plain pleasant-tasting. Bile-bitter sour. Men who wanted to vomit up all their pathetic unmanly qualities and start again.
He could see his own father mirrored. Faces made worse by the booze as it slackened the muscles like a slow and sure strangling of self restraint and pride, and there was no need to hide the failure. Bulbous drinker’s noses everywhere, the rheumy eye
s, and lips how they pursed together, at every few sentences. A man had to gather his composure, keep the slurring at bay, try to be coherent, least till it no longer mattered.
Deano bought a schooner, sauntered over to an elbow leaner table, parked his elbow and beer on its careworn surface, right by the pool table. Looked around, confirmed his man was in residence — standing right over there. Felt a little tension come on then. Relax, D. He’d have no idea why you’re here. Stare at the walls, play a game of picking out the photos, guess who the famous sportsman is. Beer nice and cold. Could feel it already working on a man’s muscles, calming his brain. Maybe emotions too.
Back with a fresh beer. To Skid Row indoors, the last step before life was over. Kind of frightened him too, like staring into the future and maybe seeing his own face here among his own beaten, never-tried kind. Give-up merchants. Nah. Not me. No way. Fuck that.
One of those olden-day pubs, still had the old beer signs in the windows and a frosted bottom half so you couldn’t see in. Keep the wives’ eyes out, stop the kids from seeing dad on the piss. Ceramic tiles on the walls to about chest height: plain cream, a shiny glaze, the top row quarter-rounds and smaller, with a pattern. Nicotine-yellowed old-fashioned wallpaper going up to a high ceiling — that fancy ornate plaster stuff, kind of cool if you had nothing else to look at and no one to talk to.
Black-and-white and colour photos, framed, of horses winning some famous race as inscribed below. Melbourne Cup. Doncaster. Golden Slipper. Every Aussie knew of these famous races. Pics of boxers, famous league players. No upper-class rugby players here. Every league player’s face game-battered and a few familiar faces now bouncing at places up at the Cross, gofers for the gangsters, bashers for club owners and debt collectors. More pics of race horses thundering past winning posts, from other eras. How good would that be, to see the horse you owned be first in a big race? How much money would you make? Be the end of any unhappiness, for sure.
Patrons went out for a puff, including Deano he decided: an opportunity to get talking with his man who was heading for a fag right now.
No, he could wait, even if hanging out for a fag. Patience, they’d all agreed. ‘Or it’ll look so obvious you went there with an agenda, Dean.’ They dropped the o, his mates did, when it was serious shit, called him D when things were going well or one on one, Deano in general.
Had his mark from the photo Lu gave him, bloke a few years younger in the shot but it was him all right, confirmed for the second time, standing over there on his Pat Malone, SEXO screaming from his eye-darting existence, hair combed across the skull how baldies everywhere do, a day’s facial hair, funny weak eyes, a stupid grin like he’d won a twenty dollar line at the bingo and felt he’d done something clever, or as if about to resume a conversation with someone. Chin of a weak man, set back from the upper lip cleft diving down to a skinny throat on a rakish body with its violating dirty old man’s cock. Of all the bad things Deano had done in his life, committing sexual crime was not one of them.
Drinking alone, but with that eye out for conversation with anyone, Lu’s Uncle Rick clearly a Larry-no-mates. Deano had ignored the solicitous looks, he’d keep, let him go out for a puff; sipped at his beer, glanced a few times at his watch, took in some more of the human surrounds. Men who could say they weren’t defeated because they never entered the race, the fighting ring. Just stayed outside it, the cheek to criticise everyone who tried, downing their beers, changing into even lesser men who would go home later and beat up wives and kids, some sexually abuse their own kids, terrorists in their own homes.
The odd younger man but none his age — worried it might make him look suspicious. Couldn’t do anything about that now. No intention of ever coming this way again at any rate. Not as if they were going to murder the bloke. Just serious enough injury not to invite too ferocious cop interest, figuring cops wouldn’t give a sexo like Rick that much of their time.
Knew the barman was weighing him up, would be unable to place his face, though Deano was no neon-sign ill fit: these were his kind of people, like his parents’ generation, same type, same pissheads, same gene pool. Just older versions. He could be the son of one of these losers in the barman’s eyes.
Trouble with drinking on your own in a quite crowded bar, it affects you more. A litre of beer and he was ready to go, just walk up to the dude and publicly accuse then haul him outside into the dark and put some slipper into his balls and head. Settle, Deano, son. Watch a horse race in the meantime on the box, of no interest to a young man. Hear the announcer say something about a horse being out of Raimona. At first thinking that was a country, till he realised it was either the father or the mother. Big deal. He didn’t care if the horse was out of fuckin’ Africa.
Outside the heat was bearable, and though there was a smokers’ open air area out back, most chose to stand out front, on the street among steel-shuttered small shops selling second-hand books, tropical fish and food for fish, dogs and cats claiming to be on super special. They could see the action, traffic and young louts and hoods on the street; could always duck back inside if the trouble got too near. Traffic a constant flow down on the Paramatta Road. Less so this side street. He’d play it cool to start so the bloke didn’t get suspicious.
‘How ya goin’?’
‘Yeah, all right,’ Deano answered without looking at the bloke.
‘Fuckin’ smoking laws, eh?’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘What laws are there for them then, eh? Eh? Who tells them what to do, what not to do? What’s wrong with a bloke enjoying a fag? He ends up with lung cancer that’s his lookout. Right? You agree?’
‘I do, mate. Too right.’
‘Ain’t seen you around before? Well, saw you last weekend, as you would a stranger.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What wind did you blow in on? We’re more a pub for older folk. Would’ve thought a young bloke like you’d be down on the Paramatta Road, drinking at one of them trendy places, a café, a wine bar, whatever they call them. Heineken’s what they drink don’t they? And wine. In a glarse.’ He did a mock accent well short of the mark, even to Deano’s ears.
‘Not me. I drink Tooheys on tap. Get more bang for your buck. Like it quiet. Just moved here. Flats are cheaper out this way.’
‘Than the city? You betcha they’re cheaper. By a country bloody mile, mate.’ Uncle Rick edged closer. ‘By a country mile. How much ya paying?’
‘Ninety bucks. Shared room.’
‘That’s reasonable. With who?’ His eyes got suddenly darting. ‘Not a pretty sheila, ya lucky young bastard?’ Old Rick chuckled, showed his rotted teeth that had breathed foul air over suffering Lu.
‘No, mate. In my dreams.’
‘In yer dreams is right. Sheilas these days. I thought they turned it up more than in my time — do they?’
‘Dunno. How often did they turn it up in your time?’
‘Not bleeding much, I can tell you. Fuckin’ missus, I’d be lucky if she gave it once a fuckin’ month. She doesn’t watch it the thing’ll heal up. As if that’ll be any missing. I’m lucky to find it. You heard the one about how do you find a fat woman’s hole?’
‘Yeah.’ Deano found a little grin. ‘With flour, right?’
‘On the wet spot. Bloody funny that one is.’
Uncle Rick paused then, weighing Deano up. ‘A man’s not made to get it once a month. Is he?’
Spilt the sentence. To draw Deano in, have an escape route. Or confirm.
‘Is he, I say?’
‘No. Guess he isn’t.’
Deano drew hard on his cigarette, held it in to do its stuff, let it go. Wasn’t looking at Rick directly, just in his wider vision, to give him room.
Room to come out with a leer, a glance around, couple of quick sucks at his fag and come further into Deano’s cave behind a cloud of smoke.
‘All men are born to fuckyfucky alla time, hah?’ Rick, in the strangest of accents.
‘You g
ot it.’
Two steps closer. The eyes right at Deano.
‘And I bet you done your share, eh, ya lucky bugger? Fuckin’ given it to ’em? Rammed it right up the ole twat hole? Her cakehole, might as well, seeing it’s a hole. Eh? Eh?’ Chuckling.
‘Cakehole?’
‘Her mouth, son. Her north and south, we used to call it in my day. Kids don’t use rhyming slang anymore. Then there’s her, uh, a-hole?’ His laugh more an uncertain cackle, eyes flickering all over Deano trying to get a read.
‘Aw, dunno about that one.’ But without a disapproving expression. Didn’t want to scare the bloke off.
‘Well not yet.’ Rick’s eyes went wide and he giggled. ‘Some say it’s the ultimate experience. Ya know, with the tightness and all. Eh? Whaddaya reckon?’
I reckon you are going to suffer, that’s what.
‘Pat’s the name,’ Deano introduced. The grip back surprisingly strong for a man exuding weakness.
‘Rick. Or Ricky. However you like. Join a bloke for a beer then?’
‘Maybe later, Ricky.’ The man reacted to being called Ricky — looked like it made him feel loved for himself.
‘Just whenever you feel like it, Pat. Or just join me for the next smoke, you want?’
‘Sure. Waiting for my flatmate.’
‘He’s a bloke? Or?’
‘With two horny sisters, don’t tell the world.’ Deano now with his own leery grin. Had it all figured out, how he’d lure the man.
Rick just stood there. An old man wanting to be young, to have more young females sexually, at opportunity denied him because of age and character and all the other crosses against his name.
‘Horny? Two of them? Sisters? Peas from the same dirty pod?’