by JR Carroll
Larry said, ‘Give us that fuckin’ bag! Give us it!’
Swimming somewhere in the rings of Saturn Robert felt a blow to the side of the head and saw more heavenly bodies. As he reeled he could hear smashing sounds, and dimly wondered what there was left to destroy. In the din and madness he could hear the sickening crack of a fist making contact with bone. With his arms shielding his head he was struck again and again before finally reaching the floor, where he curled up to protect what there was left of himself. And that was when they put the boot in.
When he opened his eyes he wasn’t sure if he’d been unconscious or not. There was pain in every part of him, however he tried to move. Florence was sitting on the floor across the room, holding herself and sobbing. So the storm had passed. There was wreckage everywhere and the front door was wide open. A man walked by, one of his neighbours. He looked in, saw the devastation and kept on going, minding his own business: it was that kind of apartment block.
Robert tried to sit up, and a bolt of pain speared through his ribs – a pain so intense he nearly fainted. His forehead and nose hurt too and there was blood on his face. He slumped again, wheezing and coughing, as Florence crawled through debris on all fours to reach him.
Kneeling beside him she said, ‘They’re gone now.’
She was black and blue. There was a lump on her forehead. Her yellow dress was in rags, and her breasts, which were also bruised, hung loose. Robert wondered if they had raped her. Feebly he took her hand, but even the effort of squeezing it sucked the breath from his lungs and sent waves of unbearable pain and nausea through him.
Florence sniffed and said, ‘Are you all right, Robert?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I feel all busted up inside. I think all my ribs are broken.’
‘We’ve got to get you to a hospital.’
‘I can’t move, Florence. Oh, shit, it hurts. It hurts to breathe.’
‘We’ll get you into a taxi.’
‘Don’t bother, Flo’ence. Just leave me here and let me die. I want to die.’
The trouble was, he knew he wasn’t going to – not this time, not yet. Florence searched in the small side pocket of her dress, coming out with the original forty dollars she had intended to spend on heroin. ‘I’ve still got this,’ she said. ‘They took the rest, Robert. They took all that money I found, and the watch, too. The whole fucking lot.’ She covered her face and broke into loud, heartfelt tears. This was just too cruel.
Robert closed his eyes – even doing that hurt – and rolled his head sadly away. Poor Florence. Poor him. Lying there on the floor trying to cope with pain and shock, Robert knew he would never be able to make it to the door, let alone out to the street and into a taxi, even if one would stop for them. He was thinking, too, that they would be thrown out of the flat very soon because of the damage, and that he would not be able to find another place, not without references. It was the end of the line. They were going to be on the street with all the other derelicts.
Florence was still kneeling beside him, waiting patiently – for what? She had put her breasts back in the bra and was examining the ripped dress and wiping her face with her arm.
‘Florence,’ he said. ‘It’s no use. I can’t get up.’
‘I’ll help you.’
‘It wouldn’t do any good, love. It hurts too much. Anyhow we’d never get a taxi – they wouldn’t take us.’
‘Yes, they will. I’ll make ’em take us. I’ll throw myself in front of the car if I have to.’
Robert was still holding her hand. He could not focus on Florence because of the tears springing into his eye sockets, stinging him though the split skin. Something was happening to him. He felt as if a rushing force, like a fierce wind, had just swept clean through his smashed torso, squeezing the tears out and taking all the pain and suffering with it. It was over in an instant, and in its wake he felt surreal: calm, light and insubstantial as a leaf, almost … serene. As if the angels were hovering. As if he were on a natural high. As if the mermaids were singing to him from somewhere in the ether. He wondered: Is this what it is to die?
‘Florence,’ he said, and his voice was tinny, vibrant. ‘Do you know what?’
‘What.’
‘You are very special. I love you. Just want you to know that.’ Even though it hurt like hell, he squeezed her hand.
Florence’s chest heaved and she convulsed into fresh tears, as if he had just said a terrible thing. Then she was smiling through the wetness.
‘No-one’s ever said that to me before,’ she said.
‘That’s a shame.’
Florence was glowing and biting her lower lip.
‘Florence.’
‘What.’
‘Something else. I don’t even know what your surname is.’
‘It’s Buzza. Florence Ireni Buzza.’ She leaned over and kissed his face, wanting to cradle his head but too frightened to touch him. ‘I love you, too, Robert. And I’m not just saying it because you did.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘We’ll be all right, won’t we?’
‘I think so. Sure we will, soon as we get fixed up a bit. I don’t know how I’m going to make it to that cab, though.’
‘I’ll go and get him and bring him here,’ she said. ‘You’ll only have to make it outside. I’ll get the driver to help carry you.’
She’ll do it, too, he thought. She really will. ‘You’re such a one-off, Florence Ireni Buzza,’ he said. He raised his arm towards her the way the dying man in the lane had done, and Florence took his hand in both of hers, kissed it several times and pressed it against her bruised cheek.
The nearest public hospital was St Barnabus in Fitzroy. The driver took them to the emergency ward entrance and, to Robert’s astonishment, actually got out and helped him inside. When they were in the reception area, Florence eased Robert into a seat, then went to the unattended window and rapped for attention. A tight-haired, fiftysomething woman appeared. Florence rapidly explained Robert’s injuries, but the woman looked at her with implacable distaste, as if Robert had obviously got what he needed and deserved. When a response was evinced, it was all formality and officialese: paperwork. Names, addresses, next of kin, Medicare details. Name; his name, dear. We have to know his name.
For the life of her, Florence could not remember.
Then Robert started vomiting on the floor.
There was general panic and no lack of attention then. Fortunately Robert had eaten little, so it was mostly stringy, bilious liquid being brought up, followed by violent bouts of dry-reaching. Robert felt as if his entire stomach and intestinal system was trying to come out of his mouth. A male nurse appeared with a mop and bucket; other patients made space as Robert’s body continued to jerk and spasm uncontrollably.
‘Robert Curlewis!’ Florence shouted triumphantly. ‘His name is Robert Curlewis!’
Robert opened his wet, bleary eyes. There was a woman in tight blue jeans standing in front of him, a discreet distance away.
Looking directly at her shapely legs he heard her say, ‘What did you say his name was?’
Florence said, ‘Robert Curlewis. What’s it to you?’
Robert, hunched forward and wiping spittle from his chin, focused on the tight jeans, then lifted his eyes until he was staring into the stranger’s face. It took him a few moments, because she had a hand over her mouth, concealing half her face, but then he knew who it was.
‘Patti,’ he said – hoarsely. The fractured grain of his voice that of a thousand-year-old man.
She was still covering her mouth with her hand, and now she was shaking her head as well. When she finally removed the hand, sliding it down to her throat, she stuttered, ‘Robert. It can’t be you. It isn’t.’
‘It sure isn’t Dorian Gray,’ he said.
She stared at him – at it. This was definitely not her Robert: star of the campus, glamour boy, genius manque and dream lover – the man she had married. No. Not possible. But
then, the more she searched into his ruined features … ‘Oh, Robert,’ she said again, as if a sharp blade had just pierced her heart. ‘Robert.’
He no longer resembled the young Michael Caine. He no longer resembled anybody or anything. She stared at this human wreck that was no longer human; at the matted hair, the defeated, weeping eyes, the burst capillaries, the dried blood, the mucus, the filth, the skin that was taking on the texture of putty … No, not her Robert. There was some awful mistake.
‘It’s me, Patti,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ Strange thing to say, but he was – for her. What foul luck, running into him here.
Patti choked off a cry and hurried from the hospital, followed by a tall man who looked like Max Von Sydow – Christ, was that his ex-father-in-law? The man gave him a steel-eyed stare of pure hatred and went outside. A bit thinner on top, but yes, it was him, all right – former racing driver, bon vivant and man about town Brand Filjar, a fantastic – indeed, world-class – drinker and womaniser with whom Robert had spent many a testing session on Brand’s favourite tipple, the ice-cold slivovitz. Between Indian arm wrestles and snooker games at Brand’s house they would toast everyone and everything into the small hours: I give you the cabinet of Dr Caligari. I give you the island of Dr Moreau. I give you Dr Seuss. I give you my golf shoes. I give you … my daughter. Take good care of her. Take good care of my only baby. God how he could pour it down, then manage to come up bright-eyed next morning. Brand always said he just didn’t believe in hangovers, or illnesses of any kind, so he never suffered from them. It was all in the mind.
There was no bed or even a spare gurney available for Robert. A pimply doctor who looked about nineteen saw him where he sat for three minutes, examined him cursorily, said he probably had no broken bones, gave him some painkillers and Valium and sent him away. That was it. So Robert washed his face and hands in the toilet and they struggled out to the street again in search of a cab. It took a long time. The driver was not nearly so helpful this trip, even demanding a part of the fare in advance. Florence nearly threw the money at him. Sitting in the back together they didn’t say much, with Robert nursing his pain and thinking about Patti, and Florence bristling at the treatment of Robert in the hospital, then this driver wanting to be paid upfront. Judging by the way he kept looking at him in the mirror, Robert got the distinct feeling the driver wished he hadn’t picked up this fare – the guy looked ready throw up all over his upholstery, and the woman was obviously nuts.
They got off in Bridge Road, not far from the flat. Robert didn’t feel like going back there and facing the carnage yet, so they decided to sit in a quiet neighbourhood pub for a while, smoking and drinking through the last of their money. Robert had coins in his pocket, six dollars’ worth. Florence was good for another fourteen. That should see them on their way.
When they were sitting down with beers in their hands Florence said, ‘Who was that woman?’
Robert sipped his drink, grimacing with the pain of swallowing, and said, ‘That woman, Florence, used to be my darling wife. Hard to believe, isn’t it. But there you are.’
Florence lit a smoke and said, ‘She’s very pretty.’
‘She is,’ Robert said. ‘She’s aged a lot better than I have, that’s for sure.’ He laughed without a hint of mirth, but Florence did not smile.
‘They had no right to wipe you off like that in the hospital,’ she said. ‘They treated you like shit.’
Robert shrugged. ‘It was no less than I expected. And if it comes to that, I am shit.’
‘No, you’re not,’ she said, and put an arm through his. ‘Don’t say that. I love you, Robert.’
‘I’m pretty keen on you, too, Florence.’
‘Is it stupid for me to say I love you?’
‘Sure it is. But so what.’
‘Kiss me.’
‘Here? They might turf us out.’
‘Kiss me anyway. I feel like it.’
He gave her a long, lingering kiss – or several shorter kisses with breaks between them – that were not passionate but full of meaning. No-one threw them out.
When they had finished she said, ‘When we get home we’ll get into bed and I’ll look after you. Give you whatever you want to make you feel better.’
Robert nodded, stroking her face delicately. She dropped a hand onto his knee, than felt to see if he had an erection – some encouragement there. Not much, but better than nothing.
Florence went to the toilet soon afterwards, and when she was gone for a few minutes Robert reached for a newspaper, the Herald Sun, which was on top of the cigarette machine. He was not in the habit of reading papers these days, and rarely had any idea what was happening in the world. Flicking through the pages he stopped on page 5, where there was a piece about a murder in the city. The body of a young man with multiple stab wounds had been found in a lane in Chinatown. The motive at this stage was uncertain, although police believe the man was robbed. The victim’s name had not yet been released, and homicide detectives were appealing for witnesses to contact police. The murder occurred in broad daylight, a detective said. Someone must have seen something. In particular police were anxious to interview a young woman, aged twenty to twenty-five, of medium build with dark hair and wearing a yellow dress, who was seen leaving the scene at about the time of the murder. And there was an artist’s sketch of the woman in question.
Robert examined the graphic. Even allowing for inaccuracies, there wasn’t much doubt in his mind that this was a picture of Florence. The general description and the dress were hers; the date and time fitted, the money and watch she had ‘found’ – it all pointed to one conclusion. But Robert could not believe for a minute that Florence had murdered someone to rob them. The victim suffered multiple stab wounds, but Florence had no weapon, and there was no blood on her when she came home. Just bundles of cash in her bra and panties.
Florence came back while he was still trying to think it all through, so he put the paper back and said nothing for the time being. They drank a few more beers, cut out the change in VB stubbies and went home. The wreckage was too much to face up to, so they undressed and went straight to bed. Although he was hard enough Robert was in too much pain to fuck, so Florence went down and administered the blue-ribbon super extras treatment with tender loving care.
When it was all over she smiled up at him with traces of sperm on her lips and chin, which she wiped off with the sheet.
‘Feeling any better now?’ she said.
‘Much. Thank you, ma’am.’
She came up alongside him, leaned on an elbow and said, ‘I think you should have that three times a day.’
‘Uh huh. Before or after meals?’
‘Hmm. Maybe both, just to be on the safe side.’
‘I’m in your hands, doctor. Or your mouth. Whatever you think’s best.’
‘That’s settled, then. Now you’d better take your pills, too.’
‘I don’t know where they are.’
‘I’ll get them.’
She was back beside him in seconds with the little bottle containing Prolodone tablets, the packet of Valium and a glass of water. Reading the label on the bottle she said, ‘It says here alcohol is to be avoided when taking this medication.’
‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of. How can alcohol be avoided?’
‘It doesn’t say that.’
‘How many do I need to take?’
‘One, or two, depending. And one of the Valium.’
‘Make it two. Or three. Who’s counting?’
She lifted his head, placed one of the tablets in his mouth, fed him water, then repeated the procedure. Then she gave him the Valium. Robert fell back with a sigh, and in minutes his eyelids were heavy and twitching.
‘Want to sleep now?’ she said, and he could barely acknowledge. Florence pulled the blankets up over them both, held his hand and felt and watched as he drifted off. His face went slack, his mouth opened and there were rhythmic vibrations makin
g his throat quiver. Then he was snoring lightly. It was still bright and sunny outside. Florence kissed him softly, then curled up and tried to sleep too, but images of the dying man in the lane kept coming back to her. Florence was feeling guilty about what had happened. How could she have robbed a dying man? She pushed her face deeper into her pillow and tried to shut it all out. It wasn’t like her to do something like that. She saw herself slip the watch from his wrist, and hated herself. She could only conclude that she had behaved out of character because of all the stress in her life, but still, that was no excuse. She had done a terrible thing, and now she had to live with it. Deep down she was pleased Larry had taken the money, as if the responsibility and guilt belonged to him now. Florence couldn’t sleep for thinking about it, so in the end she took a Valium and that did the trick.
At about the same time, across the river in the affluent suburb of Armadale, Patti Filjar was sitting in her third-floor restored deco apartment with sliding doors and a distant view of the city skyline. She was still in a state of numbed shock from seeing Robert at the hospital, where she had been taken by her father to see a friend who had been in a car smash. Patti had often wondered what had become of her ex-husband, but never in her worst dreams did she ever think he could descend to that level. It was just beyond belief. It sure isn’t Dorian Gray, he had said, and Patti had understood the reference. As for that piece of fluff with him – some cheap little tart he’d picked up in a low dive, no doubt.
Robert Curlewis had exerted a hugely formative influence on Patti’s life, and still did in his absence. He was stylish, clever, intellectual yet fun to be with, passionate – and a fabulous fuck. Sex with him was sublime. Whenever Patti recalled those crazy, frantic times and the games they played she could not help quivering a little. She completely lost her sex drive for the three years straddling the demise of her marriage – and didn’t miss it one bit – but then it came back with a vengeance, and she was out fucking everything that wasn’t nailed down. She had been with many men since Robert, but none came anywhere near his mark. The young ones were all self-loving wankers, good for a one-night stand if that, and the older ones were either married, boring as shit, or queer. The number of men who had become gay later in life – often leaving their wives and children for a man – disturbed and disillusioned Patti. It was so bizarre and incomprehensible to someone as aggressively heterosexual as herself. She was in her prime and still ravishing, so why couldn’t she attract the right man? The answer was that Robert had spoiled her forever. From her raw materials he had staked out and created a pleasure-dome of soaring proportions, and now she presided over an empty palace: a Xanadu in ruins. Despite his terrible, unforgivable flaws, no-one could match him, and she wouldn’t settle for anything less. He was really the last of a certain type of man: an effortlessly seductive, self-destructive romantic who was probably born out of his true time and place. And a drunk. And a junkie. If only he had been able to curb his excesses. Why couldn’t he see that life couldn’t go on the way it was? People have to mature and develop, to evolve. Patti had badly wanted to settle down to a quiet life and have children, and still did. But time was running out, and there was no-one to have them with now.
