He sat up on the bed and thought about the calls he’d already made: the one about the husband getting himself off on child pornography; a wife dead in a car crash out on the interstate; he’d tell people he knew they were alone and he was watching the house; he’d leave messages on answer-phones to tell people that their children had been dredged up dead and bloated in the nearest river; that an errant husband had been caught with his dick in a prostitute. It was, he truly believed, his way of setting people free, plus, he reasoned, he really liked fucking with people.
He settled on a number and made himself comfortable, he took a long pull on his drink and dialled the number, it rang briefly and was then snatched from its receiver. The voice at the other end sounded haunted and reckless. He thought of a fairground again, the brightly coloured bumper cars juddering on impact, the rain of sparks bursting into life against the wire mesh overhead. He remembered once standing on the raised lip of the ride as the cars trundled past and he stepped off and into their path.
The voice at the end of the line spoke first.
Where is she? he demanded to know, where’s my wife? Delighted, he decided to play along. He took another quick hit on his bottle and decided to play the petulant child.
That’s what I want to know; he could feel his voice tightening, going up a note, where is she? He felt hysterical himself, exhilarated, the skin on his arms prickled into life.
I’m her husband, raged the voice at the end of the phone, her husband. He sounded small and wounded.
He laughed absurdly knowing he’d found a strange confidant, someone to share his pain with. This was someone who was already out of control, shunting his way through life, scattering people, ignoring their screams. In another life, he thought, he would have liked him; they could have stared down the terror together, exacted revenge on unfaithful wives and girlfriends.
Let me tell you about your wife, he said. He looked down at the phonebook to check he’d got the right name. Raven, listen to me, that bitch isn’t just fucking me, hell, she’s running around on the guys that she’s using to run around on you. She’s fucking insatiable. She told me you were never enough for her. I guess I’m not either.
There was nothing but a subdued gurgling coming from the end of the phone, the sound of a grown man trying to conceal his tears. He thought about pressing on, but the fun had gone out of it, he needed the call and response of it, he needed the game, not mute compliance, the soft, bubbling sound of sadness. He placed the phone back in its cradle and let the world he’d destroyed go spinning off its axis quietly down the fibre-optic line, all that anger and hate minuscule and tiny and shrinking with every quiet second.
He’d set Raven free, he reasoned. But he felt itchy and desperate to be on the road again. He stalked around the ever-darkening room and began throwing clothes into his bag. The receptionist looked surprised to see him checking out in the middle of the night, but said nothing as the driver paid his bill in crumpled dollars and pushed out of the door without looking back. He was in a hurry, he muttered as he left, he had to get back on the road.
Song 7: House
Oh, you’ll like this one, said the realtor, her hand flitting between her thigh and the gear stick.
She smiled as she said it, her mouth was a gleaming welcome sign, a strong, unflinching beam. He hated her within minutes of their meeting, especially as he realised he couldn’t maintain his loathing when confronted with her perfect face. Her every utterance pricked at his skin, but her eyes confounded him and brought out a drooling adolescent compliant and eager to please. Every property so far had the greatest view, the greatest rooms; he prepared himself to be dazzled as he passed through yet another door that framed only disappointment. He nodded happily back at her as they came across yet another dimly lit box room after she’d promised him what sounded like high-vaulted atriums stuffed with pillows.
The streets went by in avenues and crossroads, rusting rails and white wooden fences, overgrown gardens, cars backed up in twos in their driveways. She was talking again; he wished she’d shut up and turn the radio on.
Mr Raven next, she said as they got out of the car and took the steps up to the porch.
Like the bird, she grinned as she pushed at the doorbell.
Idiot, he thought, but he was wearing an immoveable grin as he watched her take the steps as quickly as her closely fitted skirt would allow. She was beautiful in a hermetically sealed sort of way. He wanted to prise her casing apart and fall on the soft flesh beneath.
She pressed the bell again, there was no response and for a moment he saw the slightest downturn in her mouth.
Odd, she said in a voice without colour, a voice that wasn’t used to disappointment, that was used to getting its own way. She would, he thought, use that voice if she woke up one morning and found blood and bones in her hair. She took out her cell phone and stabbed at the buttons. He was impressed by her dexterity. Inside the property a phone rang, he imagined himself inside the walls regarding the ringing phone. There was a pause and then the sound of something hitting the wall that caused them to take a step backwards.
She looked at him. She wasn’t smiling. The phone stopped ringing, which caused her to stare quizzically at her cell phone as if she’d caused it to cease.
Hello, someone said, he could hear the tiny voice buzzing from her handset. It was hard to imagine the owner of that voice standing beyond this very door; he sounded a hundred miles away.
Mr Raven, she said. She was sparkling again, all neon and cleavage, it’s Julie Ledger, the realtor? we have a viewing.
As if to emphasise the point, she leant in on the doorbell again, the sound of it came back minuscule and remote through her cell. They heard the sound of the phone going down both inside the house and out.
Mr Raven’s voice came through the wood and small glass panel of the door. Julie Ledger was craning forward to see inside, she quickly looked down at her shoes as his face appeared in the square window set head height in the door.
I can’t just now, said Mr Raven, the place is in a real mess. His head turned as if he were surveying a room in sudden violent disarray and seeing it all for the first time.
We don’t mind a little mess, said Julie Ledger. He imagined tiny bells ringing when she spoke.
Mr Raven . . . She rang the buzzer again for good measure even though they were now almost eye-to-eye through the glass. He had to give it to her; her smile was still so fixed that she looked like a skull.
Stillness, a car went by, a dog barked, suburbia drifted along in these innocuous streets, he looked around, he liked it, it reminded him of being twelve years old. He could pitch a baseball on these neat, oblong lawns, drink a beer. He was never happier than when he felt like he was living the life of an actor in a commercial. He liked their summation, their precise message, that the story they had to tell was related in thirty or forty seconds and then gone. He imagined their happiness behind his TV screen; they lived out here somewhere beneath these blue skies, their lives lit up with the wonder of promise.
The door opened, Mr Raven appeared as if in section, a sliver of his sweating face visible through the opening.
You can’t come in, he said. He sounded unsure himself. Miss Ledger, sensing his vulnerability, pushed at the door, but it stuck fast and she bounced back a little harder than she might have liked. She studiously ignored it, like someone losing their footing on ice in front of a restaurant window full of diners would.
Mr Raven, she insisted, her voice colder, then in a tone that was both patronising and pleading.
My client, she indicated him standing there. Did he imagine that she bowed her head when she did this? She was suddenly cowed. How many parts could she play? he wondered. His eyes drifted down to her tough-looking calves. Works out, he thought. He admired her loosely pinned hair, her painted nails, no wedding ring, he glanced at his bare fingers, he hadn’t worn his ring since the divorce. Sometimes during his frequent indiscretions: that was how he referred to t
he infidelities that broke his marriage apart, indiscretions, it was a word that took the guilt and madness out of his actions, he’d slide the ring off and drop it into his pocket. If he forgot he was wearing it and it came up in conversation then he’d tell the woman it was a family heirloom, that he wore it to remember his grandfather by and then he’d slide into the seat next to them.
There was a moan and then a syrupy-sounding cough as if someone’s mouth was filled with thick liquid. Mr Raven suddenly disappeared from view and they both leant forward to make out the dark shapes moving around behind the door. Mr Raven’s face came hurriedly back into view.
I’ve got someone sick in here, he said. He looked resigned and frightened as if he’d slipped out over some unimaginable edge and it was too late to gain a foot or handhold and drag himself back to safety.
Mr Raven, Julie Ledger said again, but he could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She looked tired suddenly; her shoulders sloped so that the front of her buttoned jacket pointed outwards.
We’ll have to make another appointment, said Mr Raven, quietly composing himself. He ran his hand over his face to wipe the sweat away; it looked like it was smeared in tar, his fingernails black. He closed the door with a resounding thud and they both stood there in the silence, dust from the porch clouding their ankles and feet. He was about to suggest that they creep around to the back of the house and peer in the windows to still the uneasy feeling in his stomach when she spoke.
I’m so sorry about that. I remember when me and my roomy came down with flu, we couldn’t bear the thought of visitors; we had tissues and empty orange juice cartons everywhere. She smiled, she trilled, she made some sort of throwaway gesture with her hands, he wanted to choke her until she fell to her knees and pleaded with him to stop.
Don’t you think something’s going on, he said, something bad?
Oh please, she said, her indestructible smile had returned. People get ill all the time. And with that she strode off the patio and towards her car. She turned to him and held the beeping car door open.
Momentarily he heard the buzzing of the electricity wires overhead and a window shutting somewhere. Everything was in vivid relief, the blades of grass in the back yard shimmered with green light and sang, there was a haze to them that hurt his eyes, it felt as though there was someone standing close to him and the light was drawn up and out of the house and the silence and sky were suddenly flat and lifeless. The unearthly buzz sparked off and fell around him like sudden rain. Julie Ledger leant on the car horn.
Come on, silly, she said, we’ve still got one more house to see, and her smile was an opening, her body an invitation, he felt a surge of longing as she dropped her head slightly and held out a hand to him.
Business first, she said, then pleasure.
The next time he passed the house it was done up like a hastily wrapped gift in a crisscross of black and yellow police tape. He felt his stomach lurch as he drove by, slowing down to take in the garish panorama. The house was ugly, more so than he remembered, and he found his eyes drawn to the overhead wires. He remembered the figure out in the garden and the shadow that it cast along the yard and up and over the house and then the stillness that consumed him. He pulled over and went and stood in front of the house, he touched the tape and felt himself tip slightly, the air sucked from his lungs, spots of light darting in front of his eyes. The policeman came from around the back of the house, took the stairs slowly and stood looking at him, one hand on his hip, near his holster. He flicked the button that opened it up to reveal the dark brown of the revolver handle beneath.
Sir, said the policeman evenly, this is a crime scene. He indicated the tape ringing the perimeter fence and house like weeds strangling a flower. Could you please step back. The policeman stared gravely down at his hands which he realised were clutching the tape as if it might hold up him up if he started to fall. He slowly let go and stood there gulping for air.
What happened? he said. The policeman was detached and remote, he was still like a cat, he said nothing.
I was here, he said softly, and the colour came flooding back into the policeman’s eyes as if he were focusing for the first time.
Sir, the policeman said, lifting the tape and stepping under it, did you say you were here? The policeman gently placed his gloved hand on his wrist and let it stay there.
I’m not going to run away, he said, but he didn’t know if that were true. I was here looking at the house a few days ago and Mr Raven . . .
You knew Mr Raven, said the policeman; he stepped closer and tightened his hand a little around his wrist.
He came to the door, he said. He was sweating, there was tar on his hands. There was someone moving around inside. We heard them coughing and there was someone standing out in the yard. He tried to point to the back of the house to indicate where he meant, where he’d dreamt of playing ball, but the policeman held his arm tightly.
We? the policeman said.
The realtor, he said. She wanted me to rent the place, my wife had thrown me out, I needed somewhere to live.
He was crying suddenly, leaning against the policeman for support, his body convulsing and shaking until he felt empty. The policeman gently pushed him back onto his feet and then led him to the police car that was parked two spaces from his.
He saw Julie Ledger through the glass and in spite of himself felt his heart lurch. The detective opposite him followed his gaze.
Cute, the detective said. Is that why you didn’t report what happened at the house, too busy sniffing around after her?
No, he said, but he meant yes. We were looking at houses, he said.
Tell me again, said the detective, how you heard something, someone maybe, hit the wall of the house, saw blood on Mr Raven’s hands . . .
I thought it was tar, he said.
You thought it was tar, said the detective. What did you think you heard hitting the wall, the bucket the tar came in?
I didn’t know what it was, he said.
You said you wanted to go to the back of the house to check what was going on. Why didn’t you? said the detective.
We had another house to see, he said, but he had no resolution left, he felt shallow and ashamed. He’d felt the life going out of that house and into the sky and had done nothing about it. Instead he’d followed Julie Ledger to her car, driven to the next apartment which he neither liked nor wanted but had signed off on regardless as Miss Ledger had intimated (he imagined, had he imagined it?) that doing so might mean that their mutual business was out of the way and any more time they spent together would be purely for pleasure.
She’d driven him to her office, his eyes roaming her body with every carefree mile, where he’d signed the six-month lease and then she’d walked him to where his car was parked at the rear of her building. The wind had picked up and caused her shirt to pull tightly against her, he felt thrilled standing there as if he could lean in and kiss her and she’d return it, her warm mouth on his. Instead, she brusquely shook his hand, thanked him for his business and hoped that he’d be happy in his new home. It was then he saw the glinting engagement ring come to life on her finger.
Your ring, he said stupidly as his face got hot.
I never wear it when I’m working, Miss Ledger said brightly. Imagine if I lost it looking round a property, I’d never forgive myself. She smiled and it was a smile that said our business is finished here, go away, you’re staring and it’s creeping me out.
You thought you saw someone in the garden, said the detective.
I don’t know, he said, it was more of a feeling. He felt useless thinking it, let alone saying it.
So you didn’t see anyone in the garden, said the detective, but you said you thought you did?
A man came into the room and handed the detective a folder. She’s got nothing, he said, indicating Julie Ledger beyond the glass and then looked at him for a moment.
Not according to our friend here, said the detective and waved the folder in
his direction. Both men smiled and the man who’d brought the folder in left, he held the door open briefly and he could hear an electronic typewriter clatter and ping and someone ask for coffee, black, and then the door closed and it was quiet again.
You’re dead from the eyes up, were the last words she said, that’s when Mr Raven hit her. She bounced off the wall and crashed into the couch, but then came up fast attacking his face with both hands. They struggled for a moment and he could feel the sweat forming on his neck. He pulled his hand back and hit her in the side of the head and she staggered, gave him a murderous look and sank to the floor, blood gathering around her nose and lips.
In the last year of their marriage she’d taken lovers, as had he, as their marriage had waned and their sex life had shrunk. When they’d first bought the house they couldn’t decide what colour to paint the bedroom so they’d daubed different colours on the wall, it was, they’d admit, a horrible mess, but they couldn’t bear to paint over it. So for months they lay beneath a blur of colours and a jumble of half-hidden words, it was like sleeping as the walls exploded silently around them. Together they’d been as brilliant as those colours, now they were bleached like bones. They’d get drunk and talk about it some nights, wonder at the vagaries of love that had drawn them together and was now pushing them apart. They agreed to rent out their home and spend some time apart, hoping that in the spaces they left that love would flood in and buoy them both up again, the current causing their respective crafts to tip towards the other.
Then one night the phone rang and it was a man’s voice. He was drunk and demanded to know where she was.
I’m her husband, he raged, her husband, but the man had laughed at him and told him what she had said about him behind his back when she was with him, when she was with all the other men. His own affairs simply wearied him, he took no pleasure in it, sex was revenge, but he wasn’t sure against whom. Their drunken evenings became binges, their conversations screaming fights until one night she didn’t come home. It was midday when she came through the door and the argument started almost instantly. By the time they’d finished fighting she was splayed unconscious on the floor, her leg gathered up underneath her as if she’d been pushed from the balcony of a tall building. Her face was covered in blood, the red seeping into her mouth. His hands were tacky with sweat, make-up and skin. Then the doorbell rang and then his phone and then he was standing at his door trying to persuade two strangers to leave. His head was pounding, the walls pulsed and boomed, he could barely hear what the girl outside the door was saying, the wires overhead sang and then the silence snapped as his wife came spluttering back into life. He rushed to her side and forced his fingers into her mouth and clutched her throat with his free hand until she sank back into blackness then realising the door was still open he flung himself into the space, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. There was blood on his fingers. He could feel it.
Cross Country Murder Song Page 11