The Painter's Friend

by Howard Cunnell

  John’s dog went straight to the giant-sized youth and he held her and rubbed her head and cooed to her. The other dogs began crowding in.

  Not my dog, I said. As you know.

  Why you with her if she’s not your dog?

  Needed to see you.

  You got lost, your dog got away.

  Still, I said, here I am.

  I heard you calling her.

  Adam’s hair was loose and to his shoulders. He had a loose end of it in his mouth as though as he was sucking the moisture from it. Big drops of water shone brightly in his beard.

  John’s had a notice, I said.

  Chewing his hair he jabbed his scarred and battered face at me.

  I heard about it. What’s that got to do with me?

  If you’ve heard about it then you know.

  What?

  It’s bad news.

  He reached into a top pocket of his shirt and fetched out an elastic band. Squeezed out the water from his hair, scraped and tied it back. Wiped his hands on his trousers.

  Nothing’s gonna happen, he said.

  Can’t be living here for nothing, I said. You’ll be the first they come for.

  Get up in the fucking trees then.

  Seen this before, I said. Know how it ends.

  A man with a skull for a face walked out from the treeline, holding a plastic bottle of clear liquid. Gene. Eyes as huge and as dark as I remembered. Boots heavy with mud. Dirty green combat trousers with a thick leather belt. Doing up his zipper as he stepped out. Big carabiner shackle through the belt loop just above the left pocket of his trousers, with a chain attached to it that disappeared into the pocket. Black hoodie, no dirtier than mine, with the sleeves rolled up. Chevrons of savage and barely healed cuts made angry pink bars on the inside of his left arm.

  Big home-made India ink tattoo on his right arm. Thick outline of a broken heart with the initials ‘M. V.’ inside it.

  Cunts will make you pay for the air you breathe, he said.

  Face a death’s head. What you needed to know about him was in those black eyes. There was something moving in them, too fast and too far back to identify what it was.

  You got a letter? I said.

  Gene’s eyes widened even further and he stuck out his chin.

  Fuck’s a letter? he said. Fucking nada. The coppers.

  Looked at the bottle in his hands. Took a swig. Held out the bottle.

  Take a drink, Gene said.

  Petrol on a fire. The burning stink flooding the inside of my head. Shorten your life, whatever it was.

  I held up my hand.

  No thanks, I said.

  Take a bloody drink, Gene said.

  I won’t, I said. Thanks.

  Won’t? Gene said.

  The look he gave me scraped against my backbone.

  No.

  Too good for a bit of Tuppy’s? Gene said, pushing my shoulder with an iron hand.

  What’s the matter? he said. This stuff’s fucking organic mate, fucking craft, fucking artisan. That’s what cunts like you drink, no?

  Pushed me again. Same place. Harder.

  The dogs lying in the weak sun raised their heads and stared at us.

  Keep still. Head down. Show my hands. Unarmed. What you’re supposed to do. Hope danger passes. Not in prison, street. Wouldn’t last five minutes. Not here.

  Shoved Gene and grabbed his neck in one motion. Hard grip. Felt his throat, the thick arteries in his neck, pulsing and warm under my hand. Walked him backwards.

  Fucking problem? I said.

  Black eyes. Nothing. Wasn’t scared. Didn’t give a shit. When I looked down John’s dog was by my side, looking at Gene with her ears back. She barked. Rest of the dogs were fanned out close behind her.

  Give it up Gene, Adam said, laughing. Turned the fucking dogs against you.

  Let him go, Terry.

  I stayed where I was. Fuck you as well.

  Make it count. Step in. Fuck him if he spent the night in the cells. Make him wish he fucking stayed there. Forced myself to breathe in and out. Deep breaths. Until the heavy roar began to slow down. Lost a kid. Fuck’s sake. Let go of him. Not his fault you hurt all over.

  John Rose’s dog licked my hand.

  Gene started to move his hands to rub his neck and stopped. Poured a splash of the poteen or whatever it was on the ground before he took another drink.

  Gene, Adam said, his big hand trailing in the fur of the dogs that flowed past and round him like water.

  Gene held his hands out and the dogs came to him, snuffling his palms. He rubbed their heads, never taking his eyes off me.

  Come and sit down Gene, Adam said. Terry.

  I saw Gene go somewhere, and I did not know where that place was. Never been there and didn’t want to. Then he came back, slowly at first and then all at once. Gene sat down. I did too, leaving the third camp chair empty between us.

  Anybody got a smoke? he said.

  I handed over my makings. We smoked in silence. Gene threw his end in the fire. Sat rolling the clear bottle between his hands.

  Tuppy? I said.

  Tuppy Lawrence, Gene said. Got a still on his boat. Tastes like piss haha.

  Gene took another drink, a big one. Tears in his eyes afterwards. Sat down. Warming himself at the fire. Huge clouds moved slowly in the clearing of sky above our heads, coming together, joining, breaking apart. Crows travelled between the high treetops, calling in faraway voices. The dogs that had been lying in the sun sat up while it was gone, waiting for the poor warmth to return.

  Cop said to me, where were you when it happened? Gene said. How many times I got to tell you, I said. I wasn’t there. Don’t know when it happened. Know somebody who did, who was fucking there, why don’t you talk to them? Cop said, when did you last see Michael?

  All the time, Gene said, voice low. My son. Michael’s standing here right now.

  From nowhere a knife with a jagged edge appeared in Gene’s hand. Something you’d use to cut fishing line. Gene leaned forward and jammed the knife point first in the dirt in front of him.

  Fucking told him, he said. You won’t ask Kaplan questions I’ll talk to him my fucking self.

  Gene stabbed at the ground. Digging out a small hollow, the dirt flaring from his knife. The knife scraping on stone.

  Cop said, are you making threats, Mr Vincent?

  Digging into the dirt with his knife.

  Cops won’t put the divers in again. Find him. Won’t put ’em in. Said he’s not in the river. Said where is he then? Said his body’s on the island, Mr Vincent. Reason to believe. I said you what? Turned over every stone, I said, looking for him. Bare hands. Think I haven’t? My boy?

  Gene hit his chest hard with the fist that held the knife.

  Said you’re a violent ex-offender, Mr Vincent. Said that’s why I fucking come here in the first place. Get away from who I was.

  Don’t fucking listen, Gene said, looking down at his closed fist, the knife. Think I did it. Cop said.

  Shaking his head.

  Said if it was the rich girl in the river you’d never stop looking for her.

  I couldn’t see his face. Voice rising slowly from a far place, deep inside, somewhere under blackness. Knife hand stabbing deeper in the dirt.

  Gene, Adam said. Mate.

  I’d met Perseis walking in the forest under the last full moon.

  Couldn’t sleep. Wanted a drink. Went for a walk instead. Winter rain still filled the muddy hollows between the trees, and the churned-up ground, the reflective surface water, was a darkly shining honeycomb, its solidity uncertain every time I put my foot down. The trees were blue columns. The river was silver movement between the trees.

  Found myself at Michael’s stones. Sat down. Wondered if I should smoke. The dog was not with me, otherwise I’d have known Perseis was coming long before she entered the clearing, wearing a midnight-blue cloak, and carrying a flat stone in her hands. The long hem of the cloak was soaking, her face and v
iolet eyes moon-washed under the soft hood.

  I took the stone from her. Seemed the thing to do. Cold, smooth. Darkness retreating from its surface as it dried. Put it down on top of the others. Perseis looked down at the configuration of stones, moved the new stone a fraction, nodded. She took down her hood. With her cropped head and violet eyes she looked like a believer in a cause I recognized but could not name.

  The painter, she said.

  Terry.

  You’ve come from Paris? she said.

  Paris? I said.

  Did he send for me?

  Who?

  Michael of course, she said.

  She held out her empty arms, standing still, palms upward, as though testing for rain that did not fall, but had been and gone though more was promised. Later I thought of her that way, held in the time both before and after the rain fell. The air dry, the water on the ground a mystery to her.

  Nan by the end spoke in different voices. Napoo finny. She’d look at me and say that like I was supposed to understand. Ariel Galton turned her visions into paintings that peeled my skin. I talked to these dead women as much as if not more than I talked to anybody else. Maybe in her dreams John’s dog took other forms.

  The dog was wrestling now with one of her black and white brothers. Taking it in turns to force each other to the ground. John’s dog kicked out as she lay on her back, the black and white dog play-biting her throat. Both dogs grunting with effort. Then John’s dog was up suddenly, as though on a signal, and driving her brother down. The floor of the camp had been roughly swept within the last day or so and was mostly packed dirt. John’s dog shook herself, and particles of the ground were visible as a fine mist in the sunshine that still reached us in the clearing.

  Been home since they let you go? Adam said.

  Came straight here, Gene said.

  They looked at each other. Finally Adam nodded.

  I love her, the skull-faced man said. That’s the fucking problem. Sun comes up with her every morning.

  Gene pulled his knife from the dirt, wiped the blade on his trouser leg and folded it and put the knife in his pocket. Swept the dirt back in the hole.

  Not enough, he said, laughing with no joy. Long fucking chalk.

  Gene stood and walked towards me. I began to get up but he went on past, banging my shoulder hard with his knee as he did so. Walked into the treeline and disappeared.

  Adam looked into the fire.

  Police turned his boat upside down when it happened, he said. Divers crawling around in the muck underneath. Brought dogs on board. Searched all over the island. Put Gene in a room for days. Sweated him. Meanwhile the girl, the only witness, flies to Switzerland.

  She’s back now.

  Yes she is, Adam said, and Old Bill are putting the screws to Gene again.

  I took out my tin and rolled another cigarette. Handed the tin to Adam. Adam held a stick to the fire until it was flaming and then lit us both. I watched the dogs playing in the fading dappled light.

  Perseis asked me if I’d seen Michael, I said. In Paris. I’ve never been to Paris in my life.

  All her people are in Paris, Adam said. Cut her off when she took up with Gene, least that’s what he told me. I don’t know if she’s ever told them about Michael.

  That he died? I said.

  I don’t know if she told them about him at all.

  Gene got no people?

  Adam shook his head.

  She knows he’s gone, he said. Gene reckons she says all that Paris stuff so she won’t say what she really thinks.

  Which is what?

  That Gene had something to do with it.

  Gene really believe that?

  Explain why Gene looked like he was being eaten away from the inside.

  She needs to believe her son will come back alive, Adam said. That’s a big part of it I reckon.

  Plenty of people had made money from that lie. Nan cleaned the spiritualist church, a big brick church in its own grounds, with a black-painted iron fence all the way round.

  People come to talk to their dead, Nan said, but the dead don’t talk for free.

  I never stop wanting her to come back, and she does come back, in the shape of a head that was like hers, a southern voice. She came back, in my cell, my locked ward and on the road. She never goes away and she never comes back.

  I’m not who you think I am, I’d said to Perseis.

  Then why are you here? she said.

  For the light, I’d said.

  No, Perseis said, gesturing with her hands at the clearing, the small tower of stones.

  Why are you here?

  The sun was below the tops of the trees now, moving slowly west. Sunlight still found us, in flashing parcels, but it was darker and cooler in the camp. We rolled and smoked more cigarettes. Adam always knew where all the dogs were.

  You working? I said.

  Always working. Worked on half those bloody towers.

  Doing what?

  Got two jobs, the big youth said with a half smile. This and that.

  Gene?

  Boats. Build ’em, fix ’em. Keep ’em running. Good bloke. It’s a bloody shame.

  Adam reached behind himself for more wood for the fire. He held a piece to the flames, blowing and stirring it until the fire glowed, and then he lay the wood on the fire with another piece crossways. Sat looking into the flames. Then up at me.

  You never asked for them painkillers, Adam said.

  It was a long winter, I said.

  Adam had become a dark figure rimmed in low light. He kept adding wood until the fire was blazing. The dogs had gathered to the heat and were lying down, staring at the flames.

  Could still smell the strong drink. The poteen or whatever it was. Tuppy, Gene had said. I wondered where his boat was. Not at the moorings.

  When I woke up it was dark. The blaze had quietened, and the fire pit was a low bowl of pulsing heat. Adam was asleep, sparks making little smoking holes in his trousers. The broken parts of his face and head seemed softened, and I could see how young he was. The half-wild dogs were asleep. Five sets of eyes snapping open the second I moved. Adam opened his eyes and looked at me.

  Take your bloody dog with you, he said.

  Not my dog.

  I turned to look for her. She was right there, looking up at my face. Eyes shining, mouth open. Ready.

  I don’t know what you’re looking for, Terry, Adam said. But you’re not the story here.

  Your trousers are on fire, I said.

  It was full dark in the forest, though there was a slim curve of silver that flashed irregularly at the edge of my vision, on the right side, and that may have been the result of the fall in winter, or even some unknown light source hidden and revealed by the trees and the spaces between them. I worried that I had got turned around, and that the light was coming from Adam’s fire, but the dog did not hesitate or doubt her direction, and I followed her, the tip of her tail bright in the darkness.

  It’s as you would expect, John Rose said when I took the dog back.

  A few can pay, he said. They’ll moan but some might be glad to get rid of the riff-raff. Most can’t afford it though, and don’t know what to do. The renters know something’s up, rumours, but nobody’s had a letter. A lot of them live on boats that aren’t worth what they’re paying now. The owners will most likely cut their losses, kick off the people living there and sell the boats for scrap.

  It was the moon, of course. In the forest.

  Terry, he said. Boy, are you listening?

  It make you feel worthless, he said. Like your life never mattered.

  The canvas was warm to touch and hot under my bare feet.

  From the top of John’s boat, I could see a pair of swans on the other side of the river, spaced parallel on the water. Holding their positions on the gently running tide. In the space between them I could see the smudged marks of four downy cygnets.

  The black canvas covering was tied down by bungee cords,
and came off in sections.

  Fold each piece in four, John called from the other end of the boat.

  The cords were stretched tight and hard and soaked through. Nipped my fingers more than once trying to release the hooks, rusty where the protective covering of plastic had worn away.

  I moved and worked slowly, carefully, my body still sore from my winter fall.

  Above the swans the willows that fringed the riverbank. Through the willows the private jetties, and above the jetties emerald lawns sloping up to the big houses. White stone villas with red tile roofs. Reflected sunlight blazed from a conservatory window.

  I stood on the barge barefoot and shirtless, my trousers rolled up.

  I could see a long-legged girl in T-shirt and shorts, sitting on a patterned blanket in a garden, the redness of her hair and white skin clearly visible. Somebody must have called her, as all at once she jumped up, then bent to gather her blanket. She skipped and then stopped herself, before walking slowly out of my sight, the blanket under her arm, her hair aflame.

  Vesna used to make a big thing about taking the covers off, John said.

  I bet, I said.

  John glared at me and then laughed.

  A week at least of uninterrupted sun before the old man had said: Are you up to giving me a hand?

  Put it that way I can’t say no.

  The top of the barge was not much wider than my shoulders. Difficult to stay balanced while removing the thick canvas from under my feet.

  From up there I could see the beginnings of deep green inner space below the river’s surface. Valleys among the reeds and river grass leading down to blackness. Perch rose for waterboatmen.

  John was also barefoot. Wearing blue overalls with several buttons undone, and a white vest bright against his skin. No hat. Straight and strong as a length of rebar, was how he looked. Sun out. Different man. Must have been something when he was younger. Dressed for shore leave in wild port cities that were only names in books to me. Aden and San Francisco. Mombasa, Port Moresby.