Eye of a Rook

by Josephine Taylor

  You’ll have to do better than that, my lad.

  Rattlin’s rush at him with a heavy right-hander. Deflect and dance.

  Deflect and dance.

  Again.

  Again.

  And again.

  Then a loud crack of thunder travelling through the ground and up his body, and he was springing into the air now—tuned to the darkening elements; aligned to some kind of justice.

  Time.

  How could the first round be over?

  Lawler mopping at him with the wet sponge, his wild fuzz of hair coated by rain. Rivulets running down inside his own shirt, mixing with sweat. The air and his body hot and steamy.

  Stay focused.

  What?

  Stay focused. Lawler commanding him. He ain’t done with you yet.

  Then more of Rattlin jabbing and punching. Arthur skipping away, taunting and laughing. One or two punches catching him now. Blows glancing off lightly, but registered. White shirts gleaming in giddy rings around him.

  Come on, Rattlin!

  Hold your nerve. From Lawler. He’s slowing.

  Rattlin hadn’t looked like he was slowing. He looked solid and brutal.

  When the call came the second time, it had been a relief. Arthur remembers leaning against the rails and the wash of rain on his upturned face. Were the elements still on his side? He ’d felt the energy of the day’s drama ebbing, the weariness in his legs.

  But Lawler had read his discouragement. He’s slowing, I tell you. Lifting his chin and sponging his forehead, making it sting. Now you can attack.

  Time’s up!

  Arthur saw himself in that moment, turning towards Rattlin, aiming for a jaunty air. Saw, too, that Lawler was right, with Rattlin plodding forward, raising his fists as though they were lead weights. So he ’d rushed him, punching toward that round face, feeling the jar in his hand and the tearing at the root of his thumb, seeing blood on the big man’s mouth and rage in his eyes and feeling, for the first time, terror. Wrestling with the impulse to run.

  The thunder had stopped and the rain set in, properly now. Spectators running for cover. They were—

  The crunch as his nose was punched. The backward wrench of his head and the grab of his neck muscles. Trying to steady himself, resume his springing dance, but the pain … Shaking his bleary head to clear the ringing of his ears and Rattlin coming at him again through a wall of rain. Feinting to the side and landing a desperate punch to Rattlin’s head that had him on the ground, his own hand lanced with fire.

  Looking down at Rattlin, whose eyes were open but briefly unseeing. He supposed he ’d won, but the grass had turned to mud, the heat to cool and still he ’d wanted to put his foot on Rattlin’s neck and press down hard. Feel bone give way beneath him.

  Rochie. Rochie. Lawler had squeezed his arm, covered his head with a jacket—It’s all right. You can stop—and still he ’d shuddered. Cold and scared—not, now, of Rattlin, but of something in himself.

  Was this what he ’d wanted?

  A piercing note in his ears. His thumb aching and stinging, his eyes too. A throb shooting through his nose and across the bones of his face. He ’d reached down and shaken Rattlin, then turned away. Hodge and Greenwood could look after him; he ’d had enough of the man. And of himself, when he saw the fear in Smyth’s face.

  What had he come to, that day?

  He still didn’t regret it: Rattlin would never again hold the same sway or torment younger students. And he and Tom Lawler had formed an unspoken, unbreakable bond that day, too, so he is no longer completely alone. But he ’d felt ashamed somehow, himself muddied—still feels that taint.

  Who was he fighting for? Harris? Future victims of school bullies? Himself?

  Is there a right kind of fighting?

  Arthur looks at the little moorcock, puffed and proud, at his mercy. Thinks about what men defend and protect, what they fight for. Other people. Memories. Love.

  He makes his decision. “Don’t worry, my lad. You can keep your patch of turf; you’ve won it. And your mate. Where is she, anyway?” He swings an arm while holding his wriggling dog tight, not trusting the terrier to leave the bird be. “Off, then, off. Bring her here. Make your nest, raise your young. I won’t be back to bother you for the eggs.” He pictures the grouse eggs already in his collection. Their muted pink, mottled with crimson-brown. “Whoosh, whoosh—away! Away! These monsters will leave you in peace, bless you.”

  The moorcock launches itself with a loud whirr. Arthur hopes he hasn’t scared it off for good. He looks down at the terrier’s face and laughs. “Why, Taff. If you were a man, I ’d call that disappointment.” He bends down and scruffs his dog. “Come on then. Back to Hierde House. They’ll be wondering.”

  CHAPTER 5

  PERTH, OCTOBER 2007

  They couldn’t go on like this. Duncan puzzled and wondering; herself, miserable and awkward; their strange new politeness unable to bridge the space that grew between them.

  Maybe if she could open herself fully, sex might be okay. After all, it seemed to be mainly on the outside – as if someone had thrown scalding water between her legs.

  It was a mystery that had not been solved by several visits to the local GP. The one who’d diagnosed the urinary tract infection and prescribed a repeat antibiotic. Who’d taken fresh samples that yielded no answers. Instead, he’d offered her vague reassurances: residual soreness; mechanical urethritis that would ease. And the dismaying suggestion that she had brought this on herself: Maybe the sex could be less rough.

  But perhaps she was being oversensitive.

  Why wouldn’t it go away?

  She’d thought about setting to work on the internet, typing in symptoms to see what came up. But the thought provoked a definite refusal each time. Was she reluctant to accept that this strange pain was real? Resistant to confirmation that her problem was serious? Whatever the reason, she ignored the online search for now, didn’t demand an answer for that instinctive refusal, kept assuring herself this weird collection of sensations would disappear as quickly and mysteriously as it had arrived.

  She looked over at Duncan, absorbed in a documentary. American fiction writers. Steinbeck, Faulkner … his favourite, Hemingway. The subject of his biography. Duncan watched the screen jealously, as if his ideas were under threat. The biography was close to completion and a tender subject. Usually Alice would reassure him in these moments of uncertainty, but her mind and nerves were fizzing, preoccupied with this strange, disordered self. She held her body still, leaning back against the cushions in the corner of the sofa to reduce the pressure on her bottom. Wondering how she might prepare herself for him. For them.

  You need to pee. You need to pee. You need to – Alice closed her ears. It had been a month now. Her body could not be trusted. Urine that felt about to burst from her was usually scant and brought with it fiercer scorching and the reinstated demand: you need to pee. You need to pee … And was it her imagination, or had the strange rawness spread? The urgency and frequency seemed to have become a continuous burning, stabbing ache that the term ‘UTI’ could surely not account for.

  ‘How are you doing there?’ The show was finished. Duncan was smiling: his critical perspective on Hemingway must be safe. He shifted on the sofa, then put his hand on her leg and began rubbing it. Her knee dropped away from his touch before she could countermand it. She had to will her body closer to him. Ask her mouth to kiss him. Tell that sensual melt to spread and take hold. It feels good. It hurts. Which to listen to?

  ‘I’m okay.’ She smiled at him – fuck this thing – and gave the invitation: ‘Let’s go to bed, hey?’ No toilet; ignore the bladder. Maybe it would be alright this time. The week’s lectures were already sorted, so worst come to worst, Sunday could always be spent recovering.

  The doona was humped at the end of the bed and their pillows were askew. Clothes a messy shape in the corner. Damn, the washing. Penny would be surprised at this new, cluttered Alice when she came.
But it would be good to confide properly in her friend, to share what she’d only hinted at on the phone and through hurried emails. The sudden stinging of her eyes prompted Alice to scrub at her teeth with gaze averted. Then off with her clothes, into that tangled pile, and quickly into bed, leaving the bedside light on and herself curled around the doona, the silhouette a delicate solicitation.

  She must not listen to her body. She could do this. Duncan would be relieved and grateful, this problem would pass, as these things always did, and they would return to their lives and their recovered love. She focused on the sounds of his preparation. The bristles against his teeth, the gargle and splash. The piss hitting the back of the toilet and then tapering. The pause and short jet. Then the click of the switch as he left the bathroom. She opened her eyes to lamplight and his form standing over her. The bigger shadow looming on the wall behind him.

  ‘Are you up to this?’ The concern undermined by the bob of his penis.

  ‘Let’s try, hey?’ She pulled him onto the bed. ‘Maybe we just need to get past this thing.’

  He lay down next to her and lifted a hand to her breast. Gave the tweaks and squeezes he knew she loved. Desire spread, molten, through her gut and flowed into her groin. Ow! An answering lance, quicker than thought, shot to her nipples. Her body tensed instantly. No, she ordered herself. You will not pull away. She lifted her hand to Duncan. Stroked his face, chest and belly. They must hurry, before her determination lapsed. She licked her fingers and gently touched herself, right at the front. Still exciting, and further from the core of the hurt. She willed the pleasure. Felt moisture and blood gathering and building. The hardness growing.

  ‘You look wonderful.’ His voice anticipatory. But also hesitant.

  ‘It’s okay.’ And, yes, it actually was okay; the craving now was stronger than the spasms of pain. She reached out and drew him onto her, wrapping her legs around his back.

  The blind pushing was at first blunt. Exciting. Then it shifted. Became piercing. Scorching. Quickly, now, while she still could. Was he inside her? She couldn’t tell through the burning. Oh, no. No. The freezing. Oh, God. Duncan’s head buried into her shoulder. The tears threatening. No. She pushed her feet hard against his buttocks, forcing him in. A knife. A slash. A wound, gaping. Bleeding. Weeping. Open more, let him in. Let him in. An iron, branding. Oh, God. It hurts.

  ‘Alice.’ She could hear the love in his voice. ‘You feel so good.’

  The sway and plunge. The quickening thrust. The blade that had become all that she was.

  So deep. Wide.

  I cannot. I cannot.

  Splitting into light. Cracking open.

  ‘Duncan. No!’ Pushing him backwards and rolling to the far side of the bed. Curling tightly round herself. ‘Oh, fuck. Oh, God.’ The searing between her legs. Embers flying, settling in bursts of fire over her buttocks and down her thighs. Her body aghast.

  Not again. Never again.

  ‘Alice.’ His hand on her shoulder. ‘Alice.’

  Salty mucus in her mouth. Cheeks wet. Oh God, please take it away.

  ‘Alice.’ Duncan’s body against her back, curving around hers. ‘Baby.’

  Her sobs harder now, racking her body. An ugly wailing. ‘I wanted to do it so much.’ She couldn’t turn to face him.

  ‘I know you did.’ His words vibrating. A fleeting memory: her aching ear against her father’s chest. The dependable thud and soothing warmth. The resonating voice. The honest comfort. ‘Alice, it’s okay.’

  She rolled over and pressed her face against his chest. ‘No, it’s not. It’s not okay.’

  ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘It’s really … fucking … bad.’ She sobbed the words out. ‘Oh, Duncan, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Baby, you mustn’t do it if it hurts. You have to tell me. I don’t want to make it worse.’ He stroked her back.

  ‘But it always hurts.’ Her tears were slowing. The searing had calmed to a hot, dull ache. ‘This can’t be just an infection or bloody residual soreness. It’s way too bad for that.’ His fingers on her back, stroking. ‘I’m going to have to see someone else. Maybe a female GP, or a gyno. This guy hasn’t a clue.’ Stroking. ‘Babe, sorry, but could you stop?’ She shuddered his hand from her back as she spoke.

  ‘What? The stroking?’ His eyes wide.

  She nodded. ‘It’s like I can’t handle anything. Any more sensation than I already have.’ She grabbed at his hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He drew away. ‘Shit. I had no idea.’

  ‘I can handle the hug cos it’s firm. And constant.’ She moved into his arms again. ‘It’s the flickery stuff that’s too much. And anything near my bum.’

  ‘Okay.’ He squeezed her gently. ‘Maybe we should just relax like this.’

  She could hear the sleep in his voice. Unbelievable. Like her body, her feelings tore her in opposite directions: cross he could relax while she hurt so much, relieved he had not thrown her from the bed, afraid he wouldn’t be able to handle what she feared the future might hold.

  Despite that worry, she must act. It was her body. How could she protect it? Safeguard herself?

  She pictured the tired muscles with fiery nerves branching through them, the flaming membranes and irritated skin. Then she saw a line tracing a neon contour around her pelvis. A chastity belt. A barrier that Duncan must not cross – not until this thing was over.

  His sighing breath was against her hair. Alice let her tears run again and settled into his arms. Hoped that the bleak comfort would carry her into a dreamless sleep.

  Flames licking inside and out. Nails hammered here, and here, and here, and here – beaten harder, knocking the parts against each other, into each other –

  And she was awake.

  Sitting up in bed, then staggering to the door.

  ‘Penny.’

  ‘Jesus, Ali!’

  She must look a sight.

  ‘Oh, Pen. Sorry. Did we say? Did I –’

  ‘No, no. I had a meeting down the road and I wondered if you were …’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Pen. Come in, come in.’

  Pen’s heels tapped ahead of her to the kitchen. Alice filled the kettle and flicked it on, wiped her damp hands down her nightie. Looked at Penny’s get-up: her smart trousers and button-down shirt.

  ‘Could you grab the teabags, Pen?’ she asked, then spoke over her shoulder as she stumbled, still only half-awake, down the hallway: ‘I’ll just pull on some clothes.’

  In the bedroom she contemplated jeans for a moment, but opted for some comfort. Loose skirt and a t-shirt, that would do. Then she splashed her face with cold water, brushed her hair back. Frowned at her reflection.

  She saw Pen’s quizzical look as she walked into the kitchen.

  ‘I’d ask how you are, but you look completely wiped.’ Her friend’s face was concerned. ‘It must be bad.’

  ‘Some days are better than others, but, yep, overall it’s pretty crap.’

  Alice sat herself down next to Penny and immediately needed to get up again.

  ‘I’ve never known you in bed at this time, so …’

  Alice swivelled. Eleven o’clock. Jesus.

  ‘Sometimes I don’t sleep well, so I end up nodding off again when Duncan leaves …’ Her voice trailed away. She busied herself with emptying the draining rack. Plates, cups, knives, forks. Then grabbing milk from the fridge as the kettle boiled.

  She jiggled the teabags. Put a teaspoon of sugar in Pen’s cup and stirred the milk in. Leaned her body against the bench.

  ‘No teaching today?’ Penny asked.

  ‘It’s just the two units this semester, thank God,’ Alice said. ‘And I only have to be there for teaching and meetings – so just a couple of days a week. I can do most of the lecture prep and emailing here,’ she patted the kitchen bench, ‘and I can lie down when I need. So I’m lucky, I guess.’

  She thought about how the weeks had been since this all began. Reading students’ portfolios
in bed. Refreshing her memory on the sofa with her notes for the next tutorial: writing a sonnet, creating voice in short fiction, ‘wild writing’ … Distracting herself from Duncan, who wandered around her, unsure how to bring up the biography, now in its final stages. Five years of slog. At least he was gone all day Monday to Thursday and she could watch trash TV without his tacit disapproval. It was the first time she’d felt grateful for being untenured. For being a casual.

  ‘And Duncan?’

  But she didn’t want to talk about her husband with her best friend. Not with the strange wariness that had always been between them and Duncan’s jealous kind of … guarding of her. So she didn’t tell Penny that Duncan was solicitous, but that there were moments of irritation. Didn’t say he was someone who couldn’t tolerate problems without solutions. Not easily, anyway. Easier to brush it off – ‘He’s okay with it’ – change the subject – ‘I went to a gyno and had more tests, but everything’s coming back negative. I reckon he has no idea what this is.’

  ‘I can’t believe it! Surely someone must have come across this before, especially when it’s so painful.’

  ‘Not so far. And it’s frustrating, cos I feel like if I could treat this in the right way, it would go, but I just don’t know what the right way is.’

  ‘Do you want me to search a bit as well? See if we can find anyone better?’

  ‘Oh, Pen, that would be great. Thank you.’

  And then Alice was crying. And Pen came to her and held her sloppy, snotty face against her own pristine shirt. Patted her shoulder and soothed her with words that sounded unfamiliar coming from the mouth of her managerial friend.

  ‘Look, I need to head off.’ Alice made a show of glancing at her watch. ‘How about sending me an email if you need a further extension? We already have the medical certificates, so it shouldn’t be a problem.’

  Alice had reached her sitting end point, which seemed to come more quickly each working day. She created fictional pressing engagements just like this one to deliver her from meetings. Slouched in chairs so the weight of her body rested on the base of her spine. Kneeled on the ground when typing emails, the door of the shared office locked so that she could leap up if she heard a key twist. And when teaching, paced about as if thrilled by words and language – everything’s all good … everything’s entirely normal. A bluff that worked, for the moment, even as she grew to dread standing in front of the roomful of students, to detest being split so definitively into two selves: the self who was passionate and creative, who wrote and laughed and loved, and this new, pained Alice, this pinched and pale Alice. This Alice who was not Alice at all.