Читать книгу Straight Jacket - Adrian Deans - Страница 12

I stepped out of my sweaty shorts and walked into the green-tiled chamber I use for a shower. The room was like a conservatory — glass to the ceiling, lots of palms and ferns for privacy, and several strong shower faucets which blasted me from all sides.

I was feeling fantastic after my run (I’d done another few laps back at the park), but was suddenly irritated at the prospect of going out.

I’d been seeing Jill for a few weeks. I’d tried to keep it low-key, but against my will she’d fallen for me. Tonight I was being presented to ‘the friends’ — Sonia and Derek — and was bored in advance by the inevitable banal conversation.

I turned off the shower and began to dry myself, a little brusqueness creeping into my actions as I allowed myself to get the shits for a minute. I have this theory that L equals one over X. Love — or lust — can only be present while X remains unknown, but as soon as X is nailed down, the mystery’s gone and L becomes fixed. I realised that in the case of Jill, X was no longer a variable.

It was time, therefore, for a parting of the ways. But I didn’t have the heart to break up with her immediately, which meant I would have to go to this fucking dinner, play the gormless boyfriend and break up with her later, like the kind and sensitive fellow I am.

We’d already had one argument. Apparently Sonia and Derek don’t drink, and Jill had pleaded with me not to take any alcohol. But fuck that. Two bottles of wine should do it. Jill would only have half a glass, in deference to both sides, so I’d have the best part of two bottles to myself.

Suddenly, I was smiling as I pictured myself wolfing into the vino under the disapproving eyes of Jill’s teetotal mates. Maybe there was a little promise to the evening after all.

I finished dressing (in surgical black) and pulled the little wooden box from my bottom drawer. Inside were three different types of heads, a couple of grams of coke and half a tile I’d been saving for a special occasion.

The half tile went down with a glass of water — it’d be an hour at least before that kicked in, so I rolled a cocktail joint with a pinch of all three varieties. Then I fired up and wandered out on to my balcony to watch the sunset over the Lane Cove River Valley. It was a fucking cracker I decided after several tokes — and then a few tokes more to be on the safe side.

I found myself grinning as I anticipated snatches of the evening’s conversation. I’ve often been complimented on my wit, or how fast on my feet I am in a courtroom, but the secret, both legally and socially, is to be prepared. Never get into a confrontation unless you’ve already been through the whole thing in advance, anticipating every point and shooting it down with arguments you’ve had hours, days or years to hone.

I roached the joint and looked at my watch — still plenty of time. The dope would slow me down, so what about something to get the engine running? I chopped up a small line of coke and fought the urge to laugh. I always have a bit of trouble with coke — the idea of sticking something up your proboscis seems so ridiculous that I can’t help but laugh at the critical moment. I’ve pissed off numerous friends and associates as their precious white powder has been sprayed into the air by my grunting mirth.

But this time I was able to compose myself, even managing to switch nostrils for the second half and threw my head back in ecstasy as the powder hit the spot. The J Spot they ought to call it — the breathless Joy Spot.

Okay, I was ready for anything now. I strode back inside, grabbed two bottles of my favourite sauvignon blanc and popped them into my wine cooler — one of my few concessions to the bourgeois existence expected of a lawyer of nearly twenty years standing. I reckon you could break into Kirribilli House shouting anarchist slogans and clutching a Kalashnikov, but as long as you also had a wine cooler they’d think twice before shooting you.

•

I love driving stoned — although driving in sunshine is a lot easier than night, when the oncoming lights can be deceptive.As long as you get through the first few minutes, you eventually become one with the car, which is exactly what happened that evening as I made my way out of darkest Lindfield and turned my black Jag into the neon chaos of the Pacific Highway — the power of the engine rumbling in my loins, shooting up my backbone, purring in my brain.

It was nice to drive the Jag for a change. More often than not I got about in my nondescript Mazda. Brand new Jaguars tend to be noticed.

I was content to stay in the middle lane, which would normally drive me mad, but I was too stoned to risk movement in more than one prevailing dimension. Besides, I was in no hurry. It was a fantastic evening, violet black with the first jasmine of summer — the sort of night which enables and empowers my art.

Then the news came on, which meant I was late. Where does the time go? There was the usual crap about the economy, something about the prime minister’s prostate, and then a two-minute piece on the discovery of another body in Galston Gorge. Apparently the body had been partially dismembered.

Takes all sorts.

Jill was waiting out the front of her building in North Sydney, which pissed me off. I really enjoy the view of the harbour from her bedroom balcony, and I think the coke would have appreciated the express lift to the forty-second floor. Maybe later.

I had to say one thing for Jill, she was a class act — or so I thought when I first met her. She’s the sort of person who always seems completely uncontrived while strictly obeying the latest directives in clothing, hair and attitude. That’s one of the great things about being a man — dark pants, a sports jacket and an enigmatic frown never go out of style.

I pulled up next to her.

‘How are you, Gorgeous?’

She smiled nicely, but bunched her brows as I removed the wine cooler from the passenger seat and went to place it on the floor. But as soon as she sat down, I plonked it in her lap.

‘There you go, Beautiful. Look after that!’

She went to say something, but I revved the engine and pulled into the street. It was only a couple of minutes to her friends’ place in Cremorne, and I wanted to give her minimum opportunity to instruct me on how to behave.

‘Can you turn the radio down, Morgen?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Could you please turn the radio down?’

As she raised her voice, I strategically muted the radio, making it sound like she was shouting. In response, I thinned my lips and my eyes went flinty-hard. I stabbed a vicious finger at the radio console, and the car was suddenly silent.

She just stared at me in shock for a few seconds — I’d seemed so happy only moments before.

‘Darling,’ she said, mystified and a trifle concerned. ‘You didn’t need to turn it off … I only asked for you to turn it down a little. I wanted to talk to you.’

‘No need to shout!’ I snapped.

Her face went white and then green in the glare of neon at the top of Neutral Bay.

‘I didn’t mean to shout … are you alright?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I rang your office this afternoon and they said you’d gone home early. You’re not sick are you?’ she asked, clearly hoping I was. It might explain my mood swings.

‘Sick? I’m not sick. It’s Feargol that’s sick.’

‘Feargol, your boss?’

‘How many Feargols do you think I know?’

She ignored my sarcasm and soldiered on.

‘What’s wrong with Feargol?’

‘Cancer.’

‘Oh no … that’s terrible!’

‘That’s not the worst of it.’

‘Really … what could be worse than cancer?’

‘He’s gone and picked bloody Affridge to be head of Compliance.’

‘Morgen! How can you compare someone getting cancer with you being passed over for promotion? I had no idea you were so heartless!’

But she seemed relieved. She obviously thought she understood the reason for my disquiet, and it was nothing to do with her.

•

Sonia and Derek’s house was one of those understated semi-mansions on the harbour side of Cremorne — an annoyingly long walk both uphill to the restaurants and down to the water. It was fucking inconsiderate, and I felt my sense of justice becoming engorged — even tumescent, you might say.

There was a powerful smell of turpentine from some huge piney conifer and the marble steps were cracked, worn and yellow with age. The air temperature was perfect and there were flashes of jasmine from somewhere. The various drugs fizzing in my system made walking down a path feel like a triumphal progress with a fanfare of trumpets. Is that acid I feel?

Before we could ring the doorbell, light streamed out and I felt my pupils twisting like an itchy demon’s, and realised I was grinning widely at the woman who materialised in the doorway.

‘Jill! How lovely to see you!’

Sonia was very like Jill in appearance, but without the uncontrived aspect I’d initially found so attractive. In fact, I suddenly thought rather less of Jill for being friends with her — more judicial ammunition.

The two women exchanged air kisses, then Sonia turned to me.

‘Welcome, Morgen … we’ve heard so much about you.’

‘Well, none of it’s true,’ I said, the drugs turning my voice theatrically bleak. ‘Jill only knows my outer surfaces … she doesn’t know the dark creature brooding in my soul.’

The two of them stared at me in uncertain silence until I could no longer hold back the drug-fuelled grin, and they both smiled in relief.

‘Morgen has quite a unique sense of humour,’ said Jill, patting my arm, ‘but we forgive him.’

Sonia led us down a long tiled hallway to a recently renovated kitchen — all polished boards and stainless steel. Then she saw the wine cooler.

‘Oh … I’m sorry Morgen. We don’t drink wine … so we don’t have any appropriate glasses.’

Jill looked up at me coyly, imploring me to accept the dry dinner graciously.

‘That’s okay, Sonia,’ I smiled. ‘This wine is so good I could lick it out of Jill’s … navel.’

•

‘Just half a glass for me, Morgen,’ said Jill, with a glance at Sonia and Derek sitting stonily opposite as I poured into thick-lipped tumblers, which at least had the virtue of making up in quantity what they lacked in quality.

We were sitting in a candle-lit room that was obviously next on the list for renovation. The wallpaper had been stripped from the walls, but the paintings had been rehung — all dilettante originals by the look of them, with possibly one of Sonia’s? Certainly there was at least one watercolour hanging limply with exactly her shade of talentless pretension.

I offered the bottle to our hosts and their lips tightened even further.

‘Our decision not to drink alcohol is a lifestyle choice,’ Derek informed me. ‘It isn’t just an eccentric whim to be relaxed when offered wine by normal people. We believe the body is a temple.’

‘That’s fine, Derek,’ I said. ‘I fully respect your choice.’

I raised my glass, ‘To self-denial!’ and swilled down a few big gulps, allowing some of the wine to spill out either side of the glass and splash down my chest.

‘It’s not self-denial,’ said Derek, obviously struggling with his duty to be hospitable. ‘It’s no more self-denial than not drinking battery acid.’

‘You deny yourself acid? You don’t know what you’re missing!’

With an almighty effort, I managed to drag myself back from being sucked into the drug laughter vortex, from which there is no return. I knew I would get there eventually, when the acid kicked in, but the night had promise and I didn’t want the whole thing to collapse too quickly. So I straightened up and asked Derek about his work, just occasionally lapsing into a two or three-second burst of the sniggers.

Derek was a partner at one of the big accounting firms and would normally expect to have a good deal in common with someone like me, but the conversation trailed into silence and we turned to listen to the women.

‘I see relationships as a continuing metamorphosis,’ said Sonia. ‘Derek and I are at Stage 3 … which is married without children. But we’re about to move on to Stage 4: trying for children.’

She and Derek shared a nice little moment of bourgeois dinner table intimacy. Then Sonia said, ‘Mind you, there’s nothing more exciting than Stage 1: discovering your soul mate.’

And she gave first Jill, then me, this ridiculous look, which was designed, presumably, to elicit some sort of confession. Jill had the grace to look embarrassed, but shot a glance at me to see how I was taking it all.

‘Certainly Stage 1 is exciting,’ I agreed. ‘But sometimes I think it would be more romantic to morph directly from Stage 1 to Stage 9.’

Sonia looked puzzled.

‘Stage 9 … what’s that?’

‘That’s when you’re both cremated and your remains are scattered together.’

•

Eventually, I stopped laughing.

I would’ve stopped sooner if it weren’t for the ashen expressions around the table. And from the tingling under my skin and the sudden sense of impossible well-being, I could tell that the acid was at last making an impact.

The three of them had started eating their antipasto in silence while my snorting and sniggering ran its course. Several times I tried to speak, but as soon as I opened my mouth a great belch of laughter set me off again, until I slumped limp in my chair — my face wet with tears of evil joy, just trying to breathe without giggling.

At last, I managed some coherent speech. ‘Look … sorry about that. I … I guess it’s been a tough week. I had two lots of bad news today and it’s obviously affected me inappropriately. I know I must seem a bit of a dickhead but it’s nothing to do with you, Jill … it’s just my nervous response to bad news.’

There were pursed lips and steely eyes about the table, but Jill softened and attempted to explain on my behalf.

‘Morgen found out today that his boss has cancer.’

There was a further silence, broken only by another burst of giggles, which I managed to turn into a sneeze, and then a hacking cough.

Eventually, Sonia decided to accept my explanation, and, for the sake of Jill at least, allow me back within the fold.

‘Cancer is horrible,’ she said, with a tiny shudder. ‘It’s bad enough that a person’s life should be cut short like that … but cancer is slow and forces them to contemplate their mortality. I can’t think of anything worse.’

‘I can,’ said Jill. ‘They found another body in Galston Gorge today. That makes three.’

‘I heard about that,’ said Derek. ‘Wasn’t there some sort of … mutilation involved?’

‘Oh stop it, Derek!’ snapped Sonia. ‘It’s too horrible to even think about.’

There was a brief pause, but the new topic of conversation had yet to exhaust itself.

‘What I’d like to know,’ said Jill, ‘is how does the killer get so many victims without causing a scene. Someone must have noticed something. No one even knew any of these women were missing!’

‘It just shows that the killer must have been known to the victims,’ said Derek. ‘Maybe only briefly known to them, but enough to allow him … presuming he’s a man … to get close enough to … to do whatever he does.’

‘It’s too horrible,’ moaned Sonia. ‘The poor women were probably just trying to meet someone … and he turns out to be a monster! How’s any woman supposed to meet a man these days? It’s no wonder we’re all so lonely.’

‘The only solution is to sleep with friends,’ laughed Derek, glancing at me, and I rewarded his jest with a Mona Lisa smile. I never laugh at other people’s jokes.

‘Friends?’ exclaimed Sonia. ‘I’d rather take my chances with the murderer!’

They all laughed, and I said, ‘What’s wrong with sleeping with a friend?’

And Sonia was back in her dominatrix mien.

‘You must be joking, Morgen! You can’t make love with a friend … it ruins the relationship!’

I took another huge slug of my sauvignon blanc and emptied the bottle into my tumbler.

‘That’s bullshit,’ I said. ‘The transition from friend to lover is immeasurably more fulfilling than the transition from stranger to lover.’

There was a small silence as they tried to gauge whether or not I was serious.

‘I think you’re arguing in defiance of the accepted cant,’ said Derek, raising an elegant eyebrow.

‘That’s right.’

‘I could never make love with a friend,’ said Sonia. ‘It’d be too embarrassing … like doing it with your brother.’

‘That’s the whole point!’ I exclaimed, probably getting a little drug-animated. ‘Sex is pure intimacy … the baring of the soul! What’s the point of baring your soul to a stranger? You may as well do it with a whore! Baring your soul to a friend … to someone with whom you’ve already developed some kind of deep relationship … is to take the path to ultimate intimacy. Getting over that embarrassment … crossing that gulf … is the most fulfilling … life-affirming … vital thing you’ll ever do!’

This time the silence was profound. We all knew that Jill and I had only recently met and had ‘done it’ on the first night.

And before I knew it, the drug laughter vortex opened wide and sucked me screaming into its dark, hysterical depths.

Derek and Sonia finished their antipasto.

And Jill ran sobbing from the room.