The Insult

by Rupert Thomson

  The photo never left his hand, not even when it was winter and he wasn’t wearing any gloves. His fingers would practically freeze around it. He would walk into a bar or a cheap café or a fast-food restaurant, and he would lay the photo down in front of him and then he would stare at his hand and wait for the life to flow back into it. People in those places, they were always teasing him. Is that your little sister? Is that your girl? You think I could make it with her? How much? And when he didn’t say anything, when he just looked at them with eyes that turned them into ghosts, they sometimes said, What are you staring at? You got some kind of problem? And he’d come back to the village with a tooth missing, or flakes of dried blood in his ears. Other times they were fascinated by the picture and they bent right over it and studied it close up. No, they’d say. Don’t know her. No, I’ve never seen her.

  He found her by chance. It was a spring evening and he was walking in the streets behind the flower market. She came out of a corner shop and stood on the pavement, looking up into the sky. All the light was up there, above the rooftops; down on the street it was almost dark. He stood beside her, facing her. He waited. At last, sensing his presence, she turned and looked at him. He showed her the photo. She stared at the photo, then at him. Then at the photo again. She asked him who he was. He didn’t answer. He was still holding the photo up for her to see.

  ‘Where’s the baby?’ he said.

  She glanced beyond him, waved her arm. A taxi appeared. She opened the door and climbed in. He watched the taxi pull away with her inside it. Why had she left like that? What had he done?

  Edith Hekmann’s chair creaked as she shifted on it. I was still sitting on the bed. Nina in profile, gliding out of reach. I remembered Kolan talking. She saw it as an omen. Then he’d corrected himself. A warning. I put my head in my hands. My face was wet.

  ‘People say men don’t cry,’ Edith Hekmann said, ‘but they do. They’re always crying.’ She paused. ‘I think it’s a sign of weakness.’

  I spoke into my hands. ‘I don’t give a fuck what you think.’

  ‘My husband used to cry.’ She paused again. ‘But I already told you that.’

  She was still moving that object around. It sounded more like a bottle now. Or maybe it was an ashtray after all. One of those heavy ones. Cut-glass.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said.

  Each time Mazey was in the city, he went to the corner shop in the hope of seeing her again and getting an answer to his question. He always appeared at sunset, which was when he’d seen her last. He stood and stared at soap-powder, cereal, canned fruit. Sometimes he was in there for over an hour. He never bought anything. Finally the owner became suspicious. Threw him out. But Mazey got it into his head that the girl must be hidden there somewhere. He pushed past the owner, back into the shop. Then he began to look for her, pulling tins and packets off the shelves. The police were called. Mazey spent a night in a prison cell on a charge of disturbing the peace. When they released him, he hitched a ride north, one and a half days in a lorry that was piled high with grit.

  Three weeks later he was back again. He stayed with Ackal and Moler in their two-room apartment near the bus station. He lay on the bare mattresses and drank vodka out of dirty glasses. They taught him card games. Teased him about his photograph. During the long hot evenings he watched the corner shop, but the girl did not appear.

  It wasn’t until December that his luck changed. On his way south he stole a van. He’d been waiting at the service station for hours; nobody had even looked at him. He was cold and tired, and the van had a cassette machine in it. He forced the door. Soon he was driving past the petrol pumps and out on to the motorway. His tape was playing, the tape of Miss Poppel’s chimes. He turned it up so loud, he could hear the wind moaning in the background. His mouth widened a fraction, which meant that he was smiling. Later, Ackal asked him if the van was stolen. He nodded. Ackal turned to the man with the jewel in his ear. ‘Learns fast, doesn’t he.’

  One afternoon Mazey was driving through the western suburbs when he saw the girl walk out across the pavement and climb into a car. It wasn’t excitement that he felt. It was more like a kind of recognition or contentment: things had fallen into place at last. The car was a gold colour. He followed it. His photo lay on the dashboard, weighed down with a stone.

  The girl drove through the city centre and on into what used to be the railway yards. As she passed a low, concrete building she slowed down. The building had a pink flashing sign on it and no windows. She parked just beyond it. He watched her from across the street as she walked up to the black man who was standing by the door. They talked for a moment, then she disappeared inside.

  Mazey waited there all evening. It was a wide street, badly lit, with rubbish blowing over it. Just traffic-lights and tramlines. And that sign, of course – flash, flash, flash. He stared at it so long, it was printed on the air in front of him, even when he looked away; he had to shake his head like a money box to rid himself of it. Every now and then he got out of the van and walked up and down the pavement, but he never took his eyes off the girl’s gold car, not for more than a few seconds. Once, he went up to it and wiped the window with his hand and peered in. There was nothing much to interest him except the objects dangling from the rear-view mirror. He couldn’t quite make out what they were – there was too much condensation – but he knew why they were there. He nodded when he saw them. Chimes.

  By the time she appeared again, it was after midnight. The black man walked her to her car. He leaned on the top of the open door while she sat behind the wheel. Mazey could hear their voices. Finally the man took a step backwards and her door slammed shut. She sounded the horn as she pulled out into the fitful late-night traffic. She seemed to enjoy driving through orange lights. He often had to drive through red ones to keep up with her. Though she drove like someone who was being followed, she didn’t seem to realise he was there.

  She stopped on a street that was lined with trees. He watched her climb a flight of steps. A door opened. She was inside the house for almost an hour and when she came out again, there was a man with her. He was wearing a leather jacket. They drove back to the city centre and parked in a side street behind the railway station. The man said goodbye to her and left. Mazey followed the girl into the station. It was the middle of the night, but there were still crowds of people around, some walking in unsteady circles, others asleep on benches. They didn’t surprise or upset him at all; he’d often done the same thing himself.

  The girl disappeared into the café. He stayed outside, leaning against the hot-drinks machine. He liked the sound it made when someone put their money in, the way it shook and rumbled. He hadn’t been there long when a man with dark glasses and a white stick passed by. Mazey didn’t know what a blind man was. He’d never seen one before. The dark glasses, the white stick. It worried him, somehow.

  It worried him even more when the blind man walked into the café and sat down opposite the girl. The blind man was facing the window. After a while he took his glasses off and wiped his eyes. Was he crying? Mazey pulled back from the window, puzzled. But there was nothing he could do – nothing he could do except go back to the drinks machine and wait. And wait. The hands on the station clock only moved if you didn’t look at them.

  At last the door of the café opened and the girl came out. She was alone. Mazey took a step towards her, then he stopped. She looked up and saw him standing there, staring at her. Just then, the café door opened again. It was the blind man. He called the girl’s name several times. As she turned to speak to him, Mazey drew back into the shadows.

  The blind man and the girl left the station together. Mazey followed them. It was snowing now, bitterly cold, and the wind cut through his coat. He reached into his pocket for the vodka Ackal had given him. His hands were numb; after he’d drunk from the bottle, he could hardly screw the top back on. Halfway down the street the blind man swung round and stared at him. The girl, too. Mazey stopped, uncertain
what to do. But then they hurried on again. It looked as if they were making for her car. When they reached the car, though, the blind man turned his back on the girl and walked away. Mazey was relieved. The blind man had begun to frighten him.

  The girl stood on the pavement, snow sticking to her hair. She shouted something, but it was taken by the wind – and, anyway, the blind man had already disappeared into a building; he couldn’t help her. She found her keys and unlocked the door of her car. She didn’t notice the van that was parked behind her. From where he was sitting, hands on the steering-wheel, Mazey could see the shape of her head framed in the rear window. He thought of a morning by the stream. The shape of the girl’s head on the ground, hair covering her face. And then, when he had finished, she jumped into the water and she stood there, and her dress spread around her on the surface like the green pad of a lily …

  It took her a while to start the car. But when she drove away, she drove fast. This time he was ready. He followed her to a tall grey house on a street not far from the flower market. Then, as she opened her car door and got out, he walked up to her and hit her with a jack. She slumped against the side of her car as though she had suddenly, and mysteriously, fallen asleep. He lifted her into his arms and –

  ‘You’re making this part up,’ I said.

  ‘You think so?’ Edith Hekmann’s voice was sharp. When I didn’t answer, she said, ‘What about the rest of it? Was that made up?’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ After pausing for a moment, as if to emphasise the truth of what she’d said, she continued:

  He lifted the girl into his arms –

  I knew what she was doing now. This story was her revenge on me. I was going to hear it whether I liked it or not (and if I didn’t like it, maybe that was even better). There was a door in the room, but I would never find it, not until she’d finished talking. I tried not to listen, but her voice got through. Perhaps, after all, she was right. There was a part of me that had to know.

  – into his arms and carried her to the van. He opened the door on the passenger side and lowered her on to the seat. But when he closed the door, her head fell sideways, the skin above her eyebrow flattening against the window. He opened the door and she collapsed. He had to push her further along the seat, further in. He closed the door again. This time she stayed sitting up. He looked left and right. There was nobody about. She lived in a quiet area. And besides, it was late. Probably three or four in the morning.

  As he turned out of her street he slid his tape into the stereo. There was a calmness then. Snow lay on the windscreens of parked cars. Houses came and went like dreams – bright and strange, but instantly forgotten. He heard a sigh. The girl had woken up. Almost immediately she bent over and was sick on the floor. A hot, bitter smell filled the inside of the van.

  He took the route he would have taken if he’d been driving home. He recognised the buildings, the roundabouts, the signs. Everything was comforting, familiar. Even the girl who was in the van with him. Once, though, she opened the window and started shouting. He had to hit her on the head again to keep her quiet. She slept for a long time after that.

  She was still quiet when he turned off the road, into a building site. He stopped the van. He put his arms around her and lifted her out through the driver’s side. He laid her carefully on the ground. It was a damp, muddy place. A cold wind blowing. Plastic sheets shifted and billowed against the scaffolding. Mazey stared at the photograph in his hand, then he stared at the girl who was lying below him. Somewhere not too far away there was the sound of metal knocking against metal.

  When she opened her eyes, he bent down and held her wrist. He meant to be affectionate. But then he remembered that she didn’t like him to touch her and he took his hand away.

  ‘Where’s the baby?’ he said.

  ‘What baby’s that?’ she said in a faint voice.

  ‘Your baby,’ he said.

  She frowned slightly. ‘I don’t have a baby.’

  ‘You have a baby,’ he said. ‘You hid it.’

  She tried to sit up, but he put one hand on her chest and pushed her down.

  He asked her again. ‘Where’s the baby?’

  She closed her eyes and would not answer.

  He picked up the jack and hit her with it, then he put it on the ground beside her. He undid the buttons on her leather coat and opened it. Grasping her sweater by the hem, he lifted it up over her body until it covered her face. It wouldn’t go any further. His hands hovered in the air above her, undecided. He took hold of the vest that she was wearing underneath. Pushed it up over the sweater. Her arms were still trapped in the arms of her coat. They stretched out on either side of her, bent at the elbows; she looked oddly relaxed. He tucked his fingers under the waistband of her skirt and pulled at it until the zip broke. He tugged it down below the level of her hips. Her underpants came with it. Next, he took his pen-knife out. He chose the longest of the three blades and snapped it open. Tested it against his thumb, the way he’d been taught. Placing the tip of the blade in the middle of her rib-cage, just at the point where the two halves joined, he pressed down hard. He cut in a straight line until the blade ran up against her pelvic bone. Blood slid across her belly. He put the pen-knife down and reached inside her. There didn’t appear to be anything alive in there –

  I didn’t recognise the woman at first. She was bathed in radiance and I was walking towards her. I weighed almost nothing. The ground didn’t seem firm enough to be the real ground. Her hair wasn’t hair at all but light. Her hands reached out eagerly to welcome me.

  She showed me some clothes that were dirty and her face was troubled. What should I do? she seemed to be asking. What can I do? I didn’t know. I, too, was filled with despair.

  ‘Mr Blom?’

  A voice was calling me. I didn’t want to answer it.

  Time passed miraculously fast and suddenly the clothes that she was holding up for me to see were clean and white, and she was smiling. I wanted to rejoice with her.

  ‘Mr Blom?’

  ‘What is it?’ I was irritable. ‘What?’

  I could feel carpet under my left eyebrow. Under my cheekbone as well. And my right hand.

  ‘You passed out.’

  It was Edith Hekmann’s voice.

  ‘Probably all that talk of blood,’ I heard her say. ‘Some people faint even at the mention of it.’

  I pushed myself up off the floor and sat on the edge of the bed with my head between my knees. She talked on. I didn’t have the strength to stop her. After a while I lay back. Then I turned over, on to my side. The blankets were warm beneath me. I felt peculiarly comfortable all of a sudden. Peculiarly well.

  – He wrapped her in her leather coat and lifted her and put her in the back of the van. He covered her with a piece of blue tarpaulin. Not far from the van there was an oil-drum filled to the brim with rainwater. He washed his hands and arms in it. He didn’t panic; it wasn’t in his nature. He just climbed into the van and turned it round and drove out of the building site. The snow eased as he moved north. For a while there was sleet. Then, finally, just rain.

  When it was light, he pulled into a petrol station. The man who worked the pumps wanted to talk. First he said something about how early it was. Mazey just nodded. Next he mentioned the weather. Mazey agreed with him. Then, as he walked round the van to put the pump back on its bracket, he said, ‘You’ve got something bleeding in there, mister.’

  Mazey looked up from the money he was counting.

  ‘There’s something bleeding in the back of your van,’ the man said.

  ‘Deer,’ said Mazey.

  ‘Making one hell of a mess.’

  Mazey nodded.

  ‘Deer, eh?’

  ‘Shot it this morning. Back there.’ And Mazey angled his thumb over his shoulder, back along the road.

  He paid for the petrol.

  ‘Interesting music,’ the man said.

&nbs
p; ‘Yeah,’ said Mazey.

  Then he drove away.

  It was late afternoon when he reached the village. She remembered that she was taking the washing in when he came round the corner of the building. She remembered watching him as he walked towards her. There was nothing nervous or hesitant about him, nothing to suggest that something might be wrong. There never was.

  But then he took her by the arm and though his touch was gentle there was a pressure in it.

  ‘What is it, Mazey?’

  ‘The van,’ he said.

  ‘What van?’

  He led her to the car-park at the side of the hotel and showed her the van. It was pale-blue, with rust around the headlights and the wheel-arches.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ she asked him.

  ‘I took it.’ He told her the name of the service station. Then he opened the back doors and lifted the tarpaulin.

  She reached in quickly, drew the tarpaulin over the body, then glanced behind her. The windows of the inn were black, empty. At that time of day the residents would be sitting in the drawing-room and listening to the news on the radio. Martha would be preparing supper in the kitchen. No one could have seen anything. She bent down, felt for a pulse. Not that there was much chance of that: the injuries were too severe. But she had to make quite certain.

  The girl was dead, and had been dead for hours. She wasn’t sure whether or not she should feel relieved.

  ‘When did this happen?’ she asked.

  Mazey stood beside her with his hands in his pockets. He was also looking at the inn, not furtively, though, as she had done, not guiltily at all, but with the complacency of somebody who called it home.

  She had to repeat the question.

  ‘Last night,’ he said.

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  He shook his head.

  She took him by the arm. ‘You have to get rid of the van. I don’t care how you do it. Just get rid of it. Do you understand?’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow.’