by JR Carroll
In the wake of their traumatic bust-up Patti had undergone extensive counselling and psychoanalysis, and believed she had a firmer grip on reality as a result. She had a better idea of who she was and what she was about. For instance, she now understood that she had a personality disorder or a chemical imbalance in her brain that made her susceptible to extreme or binge-type behaviour. Because of this – and convinced she had inherited alcoholic tendencies from her father – she had taken the vow, and nowadays drank nothing stronger than coffee or club soda. There were many times, however, when she sorely needed a real drink, to get on the end of a Southern Comfort bottle once more.
As part of her makeover she had also studied computer technology, and had become a skilled systems analyst, programmer and software consultant who was highly regarded, and not just stared at, in the business. So well-placed was Patti that she only needed to work part time nowadays. She couldn’t believe half the stuff she and Robert used to get away with at the uni – it would never happen now. A lot had changed, the times had changed, life was a lot more serious, and on balance she was a better person as a result. But there was residual anger too, occasional bouts of depression, utter blackness, feelings of deprivation and a deep sexual frustration – all down to Robert, as far as she was concerned. One doctor had even likened her symptoms to those of schizophrenia, but the mere mention of the ‘S’ word was enough to send Patti into a downward spiral. The truth of the matter was – and she could hardly bring herself to accept this – that she was still fixated on Robert, or at least on the idea of him. Not that she wanted him back – certainly not, under any circumstances – but there were still a few problems to be ironed out in that dark little sector of her life. On the subject of which, it was no accident that whenever she masturbated, it was Robert, always Robert, who supplied her staple fantasy.
22
After Robert had managed to break through the hard shell of excruciating pain that seemed to be enveloping and crushing him like a set of steel jaws, and risen to some degree of consciousness through the drug-induced haze, all the horror of the previous day’s violence gradually returned to him. He thought only one thing: I need water. If I don’t get water now I’ll go stark, bollocking crackers. Turning his head slightly, gingerly, he saw Florence lying wide awake with the stains of many tears on her battered face.
‘Flo’ence,’ he said feebly.
She looked at him, but did not smile. ‘Robert.’
Robert didn’t bother asking fatuous questions about how she was feeling. ‘I need a drink of water, Florence. Please.’
She got up like an old, crippled woman, shuffled out and took a long time to come back. Propping his head up she helped him drink, spilling some of it down his front. Robert knew he was slurping like a thirsty sheepdog on a hot day, but didn’t care. At last he fell back with a relieved gasp.
‘Thank you. Saved my neck. Oh, shit-a-brick.’
But her eyes had fallen, and she pushed a hand through hair that was in serious disarray. There was more than physical pain causing her distress.
‘This is my fault, Robert. I’m so sorry,’ she said, and released yet more tears.
Robert said nothing, thinking about it and remembering. What was his name? Larry. Larry Wolper. Larry was a big, brave man, punching up Florence, and as for the other two mongrel dogs …
If he had a gun he wouldn’t give a rat’s arse, he’d go up to their shithole, break in, lie in wait and shoot them all when they walked in the door: one, two, three. Drop them like fucking flies. Scum like that didn’t deserve to live and breathe. Not even the RSPCA would lament their passing. It was the first real violence Robert had ever tasted, and it was nasty. Very nasty. Something else he hadn’t been in a long time: angry.
‘What’s that black piece of shit’s name?’ he said, as if it made any difference.
‘Richard Lambert. They call him Richie, or Rich.’
Robert tried to sit up, battling rib and gut pain all the way.
‘Do you want to get up?’ Florence said.
‘I have to get up. Nature calls.’
He staggered to the bathroom, holding himself together, pausing to take in the bombsite that had been his flat. And feeling sick. There were real problems confronting them now, and not the sort that would go away by themselves.
When he got back he sat on the edge of the bed, trying to put it all together in his mind. Things were going from bad to worse: there had been blood in his urine, and his ballsack was badly swollen where they had kicked him.
‘Florence,’ he said. ‘We have to talk.’
She gave him a worn, defeated look that said: fine, kick me out – I deserve it. Judging from her teary and red-rimmed eyes, she had barely slept all night, the poor girl.
‘Here’s the situation as I see it,’ he said. ‘This flat is now shit. It is unliveable. I have to report that fact to the agent. If I don’t they’ll find out anyway, assume we did it and then throw me – us – out. The thing is, Florence, I also have to inform the cops. To cover us. That’s our only insurance.’
He could see from her guilt-ridden face that she knew where this was leading.
‘The problem is, you’ll have to tell them who did this, and maybe you don’t want to do that, to maybe provoke them again. Fair enough. But I think you’re going to have to put them in. You can’t report an incident like this to the cops and then pretend you don’t know who did it. Right?’
Florence was nodding; nodding and sniffing.
‘The problem with that is, we know why they came here. There’s the question of stolen money, and that’s exactly what Larry’s going to say. Also, there’s the matter of a few thousand-odd bucks and an expensive gold watch. How do we explain that, or do we say nothing about them?’ He became aware that his voice was rising.
Florence wasn’t saying anything.
‘Florence,’ he said more quietly. ‘You said you found those items, but frankly I don’t believe you. No-one would, and certainly not the cops. Now as it happens I saw in the paper yesterday a report about a murder in the city, near where you said you were, and there was a picture, a sketch, of a witness that looked amazingly like you. So, Florence, before I call the cops and the estate agent and start the wheels moving, is there anything you feel you should come clean about? Now’s the time; not later.’
Florence didn’t take long to think about it – in fact Robert had the impression she was busting to get some dirty water off her chest.
‘I did lie to you,’ she said.
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘… I was in Little Bourke Street, just … walking. I saw these men attacking this bloke up a lane. When they saw me they pissed off. I went to the guy, and I don’t know why, what made me do it, but I took his stuff. I wasn’t thinking. It was there; I just took it. I know it was a shit act.’
‘That’s it? The whole thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘You just happened to be there.’
‘Yes, I swear.’
‘The trouble is, someone obviously saw you. As far as the law is concerned you’re tarred with the same brush as the actual killers, more or less. You’re an accessory as well as a thief.’ He thought: And so am I now. Robert turned his head away. He didn’t want to be thrown out onto the street, not in this condition. He didn’t want to sleep in tram shelters, getting bashed up by thugs every fucking night. He could hardly crawl, let alone walk. This little sanctuary was the only thing between him and the last stages of the painful journey down the toilet. But there was no way the agent would believe his version of events without a police report to back it up. It was a dilemma; a fucking bind. Maybe they could just say unknown persons, some passing hoons, broke in and did this to them, but they would have to give descriptions and be subjected to questioning by experts. Florence was the weak link, but Robert wasn’t even sure he could lie convincingly either. That’s what happened when you got involved with another person: you were compromised. And now it w
as too late. Sooner or later, a police investigation into Larry and his mates would lead them back to Florence, and even a dumb cop would then tie her in with the murder of the man from whom she took the watch and wallet. The watch especially would be easily identifiable. It was a little surprise packet primed to blow up in their faces the moment they involved the police. There was just no way he could do it to her.
‘We’re going to finish up in a squat,’ he said tiredly.
‘I know some people in a squat,’ she said. ‘I stayed in one for a while. It wasn’t too bad.’
Robert looked at her. She hadn’t told him that before – but then no doubt she had her little store of secrets tucked away the same as everyone else.
‘The trouble with a squat,’ he said, ‘is you have to share it with other people. Street kids and primitives. I am much reduced in circumstances, Florence, but I am not an animal. Not yet. And anyway I prefer the non-communal life, such as it is.’
Ignoring this, Florence said, ‘There are plenty of empty joints around, factories and that. We could start one up.’
‘Then every fucking hippie and feral creature in the place’d be sniffing around trying to get in, and we wouldn’t be able to stop them. We’d have to defend our territory against tribes of savages.’
‘Some of them are nice, decent people,’ Florence said.
Robert wondered then if he’d made an offensive remark against her race, if indeed she was Aboriginal. Sometimes he thought so, other times not. His judgment alternated from time to time, depending on her mood and speech. It seemed stupid to ask her at this stage, and anyhow what difference did it make to anything.
‘What difference does what make?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘You said what difference does it make to anything.’
‘Christ, did I. I was thinking out loud. They might be nice people, Florence, but I’m fucked if I’m going to shack up with a bunch of freaks.’
‘Maybe we won’t have to leave here.’ She didn’t sound optimistic, however.
‘Maybe. Maybe miracles happen. Maybe Christ himself will deliver us from evil. Maybe there’s another way of handling this whole problem.’
‘What other way.’
‘Forget the cops. We do not want them turning up here and spotting you, putting two and two together, with that picture in the paper. Take our chances with the agent. They might be reasonable about it, who knows. And we square the business with Larry and the boys ourselves.’
‘What do you mean, square the business.’
‘I mean exactly that. Break into their fucking house, rob them. Wreck stuff. Paint the walls. Burn it. Get even. What’s the expression? Fuck them over. Wouldn’t you like to fuck the cunts over, Florence?’
Florence’s expression did not change. She did not seem at all shocked or fazed to hear Robert, in her view a model of civilised behaviour, suggest an action so barbaric and in such a crude and passionately meant manner. It was a side to him she didn’t know existed.
‘We wouldn’t have to break in,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I’ve still got my keys.’
Robert sat up straighter, straining and grimacing. ‘I’m starting to feel better,’ he said through gritted teeth. And he was; strangely, paradoxically, the presence of pain in his body acted as a kind of stimulant, making him see and feel more keenly. Now there was edge, where previously there had been dullness, numbness, nothing. He felt as if the violent shaking-up he’d been dealt had caused his component parts to re-assemble themselves in a fresh, more active configuration. He still didn’t care if he lived or died, not really, but now he had a vital ingredient to justify and even strengthen that attitude: a cause.
He stood up, leaning a steadying arm on the wall. Florence made to help him, but seemed nervous about touching him anywhere.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s only bruised ribs. I can live with it. I used to be fit, Florence. I used to be able to take pain. I boxed with the best. I rowed. I ran fast. I could do the hundred in nine-eight. How are you?’
‘My face hurts, mostly. Feels kinda numb and dead under my eye.’
‘Help me get dressed, Florence. We’re outta here.’
‘Are we goin’ there right now?’
‘To Larry’s? Yep. Now is the hour. Ripeness is all.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yep.’
She paused a moment. ‘If we do this, we can’t come back here. They’ll be around tonight for sure, bet on it, and this time they won’t mess around, they’ll fuckin’ kill us both.’
‘Stuff it. Let’s think about that later. Come on – are you in?’
Florence’s face blazed with a fierceness that excited him and would have scared the pants off him if he’d had any on. ‘My fuckin’ oath I am. Try and stop me if you can.’
Jesus wept. What is this girl capable of doing?
They had a lot of fun turning over Larry’s house. Florence took to the cistern and washbasin with a hammer while Robert attended to the main bedroom, ripping the mattress up with a kitchen knife, smashing CDs and a ghetto blaster, emptying out drawers of clothes and so on. Then in the living room, which was a pit of fast food scraps, empty beer cans and coffee mugs with fungus in them, they took apart the cheap furnishings, rendered the TV ratshit, wrecked the plastic hi-fi stack, scattered everything around and in general gave it a thorough run-through. Any cash or valuables – including the murdered man’s gold watch – they confiscated. In the second bedroom, which had a sign on the door saying Richie’s Haven, Robert found a revolver wrapped in an oiled rag secreted behind a chest of drawers. Robert knew nothing about guns, but he could see by spinning the chamber that this one was fully loaded. When he showed it to Florence she very wisely told him to keep it so Richie couldn’t use it on them. So as well as being a murder accessory, burglar and vandal, Robert was now the proud owner of a Smith & Wesson .38, which seemed to have the serial number filed off it for some reason.
They got out of the place after half an hour or so, leaving ruins strewn inside and a back window forced open in an attempt to deflect suspicion, since Larry would know Florence had a key and therefore would not need to break in. That might fool them for about five seconds. Later in a pub they stocked up on beer, wine and cigarettes and then got a taxi back to the flat. In his pockets, as well as the handgun, Robert had around seven hundred smackers, which was no doubt the balance of the money Florence had taken from the dead man. This time they were not getting it back. When they’d had a few drinks they were discussing what to do with it and Florence suggested they go to the casino and try their luck on the tables. Robert had never been to the casino, but was feeling high enough after the wrecking job and a few stings under his belt to go along with anything. So the casino it was – if they would let them in.
No problems. Bit of a spruce-up, some clean gear, outward confidence and a hint of style from days gone by produced a welcoming smile from the beefy young doorman. Robert had heard a great deal about the casino, but had no idea what to expect at close range. What struck him was how immediately comfortable he felt in these garishly unreal surroundings: everyone was here for the same reason, and no-one was interested in anyone else. No-one questioned or interfered with you. You were a free, anonymous citizen of the casino, as if the establishment was a sort of principality for dreamers and lost souls. Robert liked it all: the constant pinging of poker machines, the surging crowds pressing against the gaming tables, the charged atmosphere, the friendliness exuded by the staff. It was a glitzy kind of halfway house for a range of character types: ragers, gamblers, both professional and pathological, criminals, would-be criminals, housewives from the ’burbs, dreamers, fantasists, insomniacs, timid bank officers pretending they were high rollers, quiet desperates like Robert. And Florence. Everyone had their own racket.
The first thing he did was buy ten five-dollar chips at a roulette table, half of which he gave to Florence. They hung around the table watching, being entertain
ed, and Florence was the first to make a move.
‘Here goes,’ she said, putting a chip on black. Robert placed a hand on her waist as she leaned over: she felt warm and sensuous under the thin dress. While the wheel spun she leaned into him, her hair brushing against his chin, and Robert felt waves of affection for her. She lost that five, but it didn’t matter: she turned her face to him, smiling, and shrugged.
‘Pick a number,’ he said.
Florence thought about it and said, ‘Nine.’
‘Any special reason?’ he said, placing his bet.
‘I liked being nine,’ she said. ‘It was my favourite age.’
