The Colour of the Night

  ‘One day they’ll scan all that,’ he said, emphatically. ‘Goodbye books’.

  Shaun wrote in his journal: 8 columns out the front, 8 sides on the dome, 8 rows of desks. Jess peered up at the three levels of balcony high above them. ‘Look at that, Ello. I wonder if anyone’s jumped from up there?’

  Shaun spotted an information desk and the other two followed him to it. Jess whispered, ‘Ask if they have a cigarette machine.’

  Shaun waited for the assistant to raise her eyes from the computer.

  ‘Do you have any jobs? For adults?’

  Jess’s mouth dropped. ‘Don’t pay any attention,’ she said. ‘He’s just a problem child.’

  ‘Do you? In the library?’

  The assistant looked from one to the other: the dark goth, the pale young man, the brown boy. ‘Yes, there are always jobs.’ She rotated her monitor towards them and Elton looked away. ‘This is the library’s homepage. You scroll down to Work at the Library here, then click on –’

  ‘Just do a Google search, Shaun,’ Elton said. ‘Thanks,’ he added and moved towards the exit.

  ‘Thanks,’ Shaun repeated and took off after him. On the way out he told them both, ‘You two could work together. Here at the library.’

  Jess glanced at Elton. ‘Where do you get these weird ideas, Shaun? Do you think them up or do they just pop straight out of your arse.’

  ‘Take it easy, Jess,’ Elton said. ‘He’s only trying to help.’

  SHAUN WAS FIRST through the door. ‘Elton might take a job at the State Library,’ he blurted.

  ‘Or I might not,’ Elton said and stomped up the stairs.

  Adele was in the living room, dressed elegantly, and Shaun watched her looking for her purse.

  ‘You’re going to work now?’

  ‘I guess so, though I wouldn’t have gone until you came home.’

  ‘Where do you work, Aunty?’

  Adele sat down and beckoned the boy to take a seat opposite. ‘I have my own business, Duke. I work in hospitality. I act as a companion for people if they need a dinner partner, or a guest at a conference.’

  ‘Men?’

  ‘Yes, men. There are a lot of men who need companions.’

  ‘Mr Warner doesn’t.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Mr Warner next door. He already has a companion. Stef.’

  ‘Yes. Well, that was unfortunate …’

  ‘Do the other men already have companions as well?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hope not.’ Adele surprised herself – was that really how she felt?

  ‘I like Stef. Do you like her?’ Shaun asked.

  ‘I suppose so. I wouldn’t call her a friend, but …’ She wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.

  ‘She could have been your friend. But I think she’s very unhappy now.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Adele said. What else could be added? She left soon after with Shaun’s words lingering: Do the men already have companions? It really wasn’t her issue – was it?

  It was dark when Shaun went through to the backyard and climbed the steps to observe the man cleaning bricks again. A single globe on a long lead hung on the paling fence, and around it an array of recently hatched insects batted and bounced against the planks. Arman had his head down, chipping at the mortar. Benton had failed to take his medicine so he might as well attend to the backyard task until some other strategy materialised.

  ‘Hello.’

  Arman turned, startled once more by the boy’s sudden presence.

  ‘I still have the stone,’ Shaun said and held it up.

  ‘Good, it is precious.’

  ‘I can’t help you now,’ Shaun told him. ‘I have to help Elton make the dinner.’

  The man raised a brick. ‘Five hundred and forty now. Fifty-four dollars.’

  ‘Does that other man live here as well?’

  ‘Benton? Yes.’

  ‘Why did you tell me to leave? Is there something wrong with him?’

  ‘No.’

  Shaun assessed his new acquaintance: he looked trustworthy. ‘Okay, thanks,’ he said and prepared to leave.

  ‘Wait.’ Arman rested his tool. ‘There is something. I think you should not come over. I think you should stay away from him. Benton is … Benton is … not well.’

  The boy dropped from view and Arman stared at the dark space where he had been, the boy-shaped afterimage lingering. He inspected his long line of neat bricks, warm saffron in the electric light. They seemed new again. How easy it was to recuperate things in the material world, how hard in the spiritual.

  STEF ADMIRED herself in the mirror. Her newly-tinted chestnut hair was cropped shorter and it suited her. She rarely dressed up but the black, backless dress that now hugged her figure reassured her that forty-two was not an unattractive age. She’d told Simon she was going to the fundraiser as a guest of the president – all of it true. He was predictably disgusted. ‘A room full of Australia’s wealth. And not a creative bone among them.’

  ‘Who’s funding your practice then?’ Stef countered.

  ‘Doesn’t mean I have to indulge them. I choose my own company.’

  And Stef chose hers. The cab arrived and very soon she was at Frieberg’s address in East Melbourne. It was another very warm evening but this suburb seemed cooler; was it the extra vegetation? The cast-iron gate on the street between concrete pillars stood open. She paused for a moment to gather herself – was this really a good idea? She took a deep breath and walked up the narrow path, a clipped hedge on either side, and as she mounted the tiled steps Frieberg appeared in the doorway backlit by a chandelier in the hall.

  ‘Christina. Come in.’

  Stef kissed him on both cheeks and flushed. He was not an unattractive man, tall, slim, about fifty, hair greying at the temples. He was already in his dinner suit, a bowtie neatly positioned.

  ‘Let me get you a drink,’ he said and was gone.

  Stef moved further into the dining room and sensed that she was the first to set foot in there for some time. An antique clock ticked on the mantel, a floorboard creaked under the aging carpet. Very old books on shelves were lined up in sets, untouched. Small dark landscapes in gilt frames hung on the flocked wallpaper and were weakly illuminated by dedicated lights mounted above each one.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Frieberg said, returning with two glasses of sparkling wine.

  ‘Lovely house.’

  ‘Empty though. Wife died a while back. Should get rid of it, really. A bit silly rattling around in this old joint. I need a little flat in the city, but what am I going to do with all this … stuff? Anyway, that’s enough of that. Tell me about yourself – I guess we should know each other a little, before we go.’

  ‘Me? Oh, I’m fairly simple really. Just a … forty-year-old woman with … with an interest in the arts.’

  ‘The arts? Music, literature?’

  ‘Painting mostly. The visual arts.’

  ‘You’re a collector?’

  ‘No, not really, not much anyway. You’re president of the Foundation?’

  ‘Yes, well you have to do something. I’m an endocrinologist – boring as hell – so I try to promote diabetes research. It’s something anyway.’

  ‘Well, it’s a good thing someone’s doing it.’ As soon as the words tripped into Frieberg’s stuffy room, she wished she hadn’t spoken. So predictable. Should she tell him she was Type 1? Better not.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying this, Christina,’ he said, placing his glass on a polished sideboard, ‘but you don’t seem like a professional companion.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No offence, but you seem more … candid.’

  ‘Homely.’

  ‘No, not homely, just … a little upfront … not overtly professional.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s the best kind of professional companion, someone who doesn’t appear so.’ Much better; she felt heartened.

  They arrived ahead of time, the taxi dropping them on t
he steps of the casino, and once inside, Stef was pleased to see the placename on their table; Dr David Frieberg and partner. They took their seats and wine was poured. With David on one side, Stef found herself seated next to another guest speaker, the head of a diabetes research unit in Switzerland. She foresaw a long night ahead, but the wine was good and she was pleased to have chosen the chicken and not the beef. When Dr Frieberg was finally called to speak, she was surprised to find herself paying attention.

  Coca-colonisation, he began, was a term appropriated to draw attention to diabetes, the fastest-growing chronic malaise in Australia. One person was diagnosed every five minutes with 270 people developing the disease each day. Type 2 diabetes made up ninety percent of cases and was related to bad diet and a lack of exercise, he said. Two-thirds of all Australians were overweight, one in four children, and young adults were now seven kilos heavier than they were a decade ago.

  Stef listened while discreetly scanning the room. The elegant, black-tie audience sat respectfully around circular tables in groups of ten or twelve, half-filled glasses and wine bottles bestrewed across crisp white tablecloths. She noted that very few guests appeared overweight; were the two-thirds of fatties that Frieberg fingered too afraid to show? It would make sense; they certainly couldn’t nod assent and shake their heads at the appalling diets of most Australians, as these guests did.

  Frieberg concluded with more statistics: diabetes treatment cost Australians three billion dollars per year while the total cost of obesity was around 58 billion annually. America had more than 25 million diabetics, more than Australia’s entire population, but the worst epidemic, he said, was in China where a nation-wide survey concluded that 114 million people now had the disease.

  Aggregates and percentages hardly worked with Stef. They fell about her like snowflakes melting into the greater mass of generality. Statistics, she felt, served better if they were singular. Simon the lecturer had once explained it: You can ruminate on one stat and digest it; a second only saps the first’s energy. Perhaps Dr Frieberg was in general agreement with this, or perhaps he’d noticed that the guests were beginning to squirm in their seats, their attentions hijacked by other distractions.

  ‘It is a symptom of humanity in crisis,’ he stated more forcefully, leaning into the microphone. ‘It has the potential to unseat, not just our economy, but the very fabric of society.’

  Stef’s paying client left the podium to polite applause, the music started and conversations erupted gently, rising in decibels as each voice strove to override the other. Frieberg accompanied Stef around the dining hall, exploring the range of goods that were presented for the silent auction. Some items were advertised on posters: luxury cruises, trips to the Himalayas and the Antarctic, tickets to the opera and ballet. Other items were on display: a bottle of Grange, an Egyptian artefact, cases of champagne, a sculpture, and paintings. Stef spotted her own work. The card beside it showed that two people were bidding, though so far it had barely reached the reserve.

  She couldn’t help herself. ‘What do you think of this one, David?’

  ‘Not bad. Not my cup of tea, though. I like to see a depiction of something. My scientific background, I suppose.’

  When the dinner mints and coffee appeared, David and Stef made a gracious exit and headed up the stairs to Club 23 for a nightcap. They sat at the bar and Stef opted for a liqueur while David ordered a scotch, no ice.

  ‘You’re probably wondering why I invited you, Christina,’ he began.

  ‘Well, actually, I hadn’t really –’

  ‘The fact is, I’m dying.’

  ‘Really? I’m very sorry to hear it.’

  ‘I won’t bore you with the details. But you can imagine how odd it is to be standing up there preaching good health when you’re nearly dead. I haven’t told anyone – you’re the first.’ He laughed. ‘Lucky you, eh?’

  Stef wasn’t sure what to say.

  ‘So I invited you because I don’t want that lot in there’ – he thumbed behind him as though the guests were still present – ‘to say, He died a lonely, old, solitary man.’

  ‘You’re not old, David.’

  He smiled and suddenly seemed years younger. ‘Just lonely and solitary, eh?’

  ‘David …’ Stef searched for the right words. ‘I have something to tell you as well – a confession perhaps … I’m not who I say I am.’

  ‘Oh, I’m aware of that; I didn’t expect Christina would be your real name.’

  ‘No, it’s more than that. I’m not Christina, but neither am I the woman who uses that name.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m Stefanie Mitchell, and … Christina is … a friend of mine. I just thought it would be interesting to attend this evening … with you. And Christina gave me the opportunity. I’m an artist. That painting you didn’t much like the look of was mine. Sorry.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so earlier? Oh, I see; you’re married, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve compromised me … Stefanie.’

  ‘How? We’ve had dinner and a drink. We haven’t done anything wrong, have we?’

  Stef knew she’d had quite a few drinks but felt in control. She sat upright on the stool in her sleek black dress, aware that David was appraising her. He turned slightly towards the bar and sighed. His profile was chiselled and not at all unattractive.

  ‘Do you want to?’ she said.

  ‘Do I want to what?’

  ‘Do something … wrong?’ He swivelled to face her and she looked into his eyes. ‘Would you like me to go home with you? I mean, this is not what I normally do, but … well, fuck normality. What do you say?’

  THE UNUSUALLY hot days continued and even Shaun was obliged to stay indoors. It was after six before he finally left for the park, to explore while there were still a few hours of daylight. As he stepped onto the street, Benton was sitting in his kitchen staring at the screen and spotted the boy immediately. His body flexed and sent an empty shot-glass rolling across the table. It fell to the floor but he disregarded it, preferring instead to watch the boy as he strode away from the camera. Stumbling to his feet, Benton lurched out the door and cautiously turned the corner onto Frederick Street, following Shaun at a safe distance. There was no hurry; he didn’t want to frighten the lad.

  Shaun walked quickly and the man marched to keep pace. It was not until the boy reached the small park near Merri Creek that Benton called to him.

  ‘Shaun! Shaun, my boy. Good heavens! Small world, eh? Fancy seeing you, then. Where’re you off to?’

  ‘I’m going to … I’m just going … out.’

  ‘Of course you are! Me too. I like a bit of exercise. The kids at school used to say, “Look at Benton run!” I was good at sport. You like it? Any sport in particular?’

  Shaun avoided his attention and strode faster.

  ‘Good Lord, hang about, son. I’m not that agile.’ He laughed and tried to speed his step, the warm air accelerating the whisky in his veins. ‘Listen, I just want to apologise about the other day. Will you hear me out? I’m just an ordinary man, Shaun. Did you ask your mother? She likes me.’

  Shaun decided to run, though he could not pinpoint why. Something did not seem right and he knew that actions often overpowered words. He took off across the grass and instantly the man lunged after him. It spurred Shaun on and he pumped his legs as hard as he could but the lumbering man with the great stride still seemed to be gaining. He could hear his footfall and the heavy panting, but Shaun was quick on grass and darted between the trees. He glimpsed another man pedalling along the bike path and shouted to him. The man turned his head, his bike wobbled, but he rode on.

  Shaun spurred downhill towards the creek; he might lose him there.

  But Benton turned with him. ‘Shaun! You’re upsetting me now. Don’t make me angry, son. Come on. I’d stop if I were you.’

  Shaun scrambled over the metal barrier and down the embankment, slipping on
the rough river stones. At the bottom, he looked up, and high above him the man’s dark form loomed liked the owls he’d observed in the forest, waiting to ambush small prey.

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Shaun. I thought we might have been friends. Are you coming back up?’ Shaun did not answer.

  ‘Very well then.’ The man climbed over the barrier and began his descent, searching for footings as the light faded. It was darker in the deep cutting and the sounds of the city were hushed; down there a different world existed, eroded and elemental, no place for humans. Shaun stepped across the rocks to the other side.

  ‘You little bugger. What do you hope to achieve? I hope you don’t expect to get away with this sort of nonsense.’ The man was puffing noisily. ‘Bad behaviour, boy, very bad behaviour.’

  Shaun began to scramble up the other side but the steep bank and thick blackberry canes prevented it. He turned to see the man edging down the riverbank, his arms extended.

  ‘You’ve done it now, Shaun. You’ve got yourself in a right mess. I’m afraid I’m going to have to –’ Just then, his foot slipped sending a cascade of rubble tumbling down the embankment and Shaun watched as Benton came down after it, his big frame a contortion of arms and legs. He fell solidly against a large block of basalt. Shaun held his breath. The man lay still. He groaned, his limbs moving slowly at the joints like an injured spider.

  Shaun, spurred to action, darted around him and scrambled back up to the bike path. He ran then, as fast as he could, and did not slow until he was on his own street. Every now and then he glanced behind him, expecting to see the lumbering figure. But no dark presence materialised.

  Once inside, he went straight to the bathroom, peeled off his woollen jumper and removed his damp shirt. He splashed water on his face, returned upstairs and ventured along to his cousin’s room.

  ‘Elton?’

  ‘Shaun. Thought you were going out?’ The older boy did not look up from his monitor but leaned closer, tightening his link to the cyberworld.