The Low Road

by Chris Womersley

The man was much older than Lee, maybe fifty and sort of heavy with disappointment. Handsomeness clung like rags to his face. Lee waited for something to make sense, for that moment when the world slotted into a familiar view. The stranger sat there with one bare foot slung over his opposite knee, chewing at a fingernail.

  Lee straightened. How did I get here?

  Someone dumped you here, apparently.

  Dumped me here?

  Last night. I don’t know. That’s what the manager told me.

  Who’s that?

  Some crone called Sylvia.

  And Lee recalled things: the view of streetlights passing overhead from a speeding car, a man and woman arguing in the front seat; the cold, hard touch of concrete and dew against his cheek. Why?

  The stranger sort of laughed. It happens, apparently.

  Where are we?

  On the outskirts. A motel. Parkview, not that I would hold your breath about the park or the view.

  Lee began to feel faint. The room began to lose colour and shape, as if dissolving into more liquid form. He blinked and shook his head. And who are you, again?

  Wild.

  A doctor?

  The man called Wild made an indeterminate motion with his head and scratched his nose.

  Lee gritted his teeth. He stepped forward and placed the muzzle of the gun against the man’s cheek. The man’s teeth clacked together. Who do you work for? You with Marcel? You come after me?

  The man shook his head a fraction. His eyes were wide.

  What about Stella? You know him? He send you?

  The man tilted his face away from the muzzle. I wish that I worked for someone, but I don’t. I don’t have a clue as to what you’re on about. I don’t like it as much as you don’t like it. Fact is, I wish I never set eyes on you but there’s not a lot we can do about that now.

  Lee leaned in until his face was barely an inch from that of this man called Wild. He could smell the damp wool of his tatty overcoat, something a bum would wear.

  Why are you trembling? Wild asked.

  Lee paused with the gun still jammed into Wild’s cheek. You can’t have that money. That’s mine. That’s my trip out of here. You understand me? Shaking, he took the gun away and stepped back.

  Wild rubbed at the thumb-sized imprint of the gun muzzle on his cheek. I really don’t care about your money.

  Then what do you want?

  I just want to get out of here. If I wanted your damn money I would have taken it while you were passed out on that bed all day. If I wanted your money I wouldn’t have bothered cleaning that wound of yours. How much you got there anyway?

  Should be eight grand.

  Wild scratched his jaw and raised his eyebrows. That’s hardly money. Might last me two weeks if I’m lucky. Or unlucky.

  Well, you look like you could use it.

  Oh, I could always use it. I take it it’s not yours?

  It’s mine now.

  With effort Lee went to the window. His breath fogged the glass and he rubbed at it with his sleeve, like a man cutting a hole in ice. Nothing had changed. There were just the same rooftops and electrical wires. The sky thickened as darkness took hold. Through the rattling window he could feel the intimation of the evening and wondered what on earth was happening. Lights flickered in the distance and cars cruised past with headlights on. He wondered briefly about Josef, with his scent of cheap hair oil and violence, the suit that always needed cleaning. The way he sucked at that gold-capped tooth of his. Lee imagined his rangy figure striding across rooftops and edging through doorways, batting obstacles aside with the back of one hand as he searched. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

  One of the cars parked below reversed from its parking bay and nosed out into the traffic. It was the arguing couple, with their dogs scrabbling on the back-seat vinyl. Lee ran a hand through his hair and slumped on the bed among the medical wreckage. His stomach was smeared with his own warm blood. He licked his lips. A metallic taste had leached into his mouth. His body felt like wet sand. Again he looked around, trying to anchor himself in the room.

  And someone wants their money back? Wild asked.

  Lee ignored the question. You said you already looked at this . . . at this hole?

  Yes.

  What can you do? It’s fucking killing me.

  Like a cat on a sofa, Wild sat back. Here? Nothing much. I’m not qualified for this kind of thing.

  So what use are you?

  Wild offered a slight shrug, accompanied by a twitch of his hands. That’s a good question. He looked embarrassed. They sat in silence. Someone called out in the car park below. A car door slammed.

  So why should I trust you?

  No reason at all, but it seems like you’re a man without too many options. Anyway, you’re the one with the gun.

  Lee’s thoughts were logjammed. Guess I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

  There you go. Your options. Besides, Wild continued with a sweep of one large hand, believe it or not, but I’m a desperado as well.

  And you don’t want my money?

  My concerns are of a different sort.

  Like what?

  I just want to get the hell out of here in one piece. Keep a low profile. Escape.

  You sure? Lee swallowed. Because I’ll kill you, he added in what he hoped was a menacing tone.

  Quite sure.

  So is there a plan?

  A plan?

  To get away from here.

  There’s a man I know who will be able to help you.

  Where?

  Out on the plains. A day away.

  A man? Who is he?

  An old friend. A great doctor called Sherman. He’s sort of helped me out lots of times. It’s a safe place.

  Safe?

  Well. As safe as you get these days.

  And he can help me?

  Absolutely. Fine doctor.

  Isn’t there somewhere closer?

  I would have thought distance was an advantage?

  Lee pondered. You got a cigarette?

  No. Bad for you. It’s Lee, right?

  Yeah. You got a car?

  Yes. Outside.

  What’s your name?

  Wild. I told you.

  Lee was exhausted and the pain across his body was immense. Within the ribbing of the thin blue carpet, an insect made its way from fibre to crosshatched fibre, some pale, carpet-eating bug going about its tiny business.

  He licked his lips and steadied himself. Am I going to be OK?

  Wild got to his feet. Automatically, Lee raised his gun. Wild stopped but said nothing. Lee watched him. What are you doing?

  We need to clean you up. Don’t want you bleeding all over my car.

  Lee stared into Wild’s pale blue eyes. He still wasn’t sure he trusted him. The guy’s hair was like the end of a coarsely cut rope.

  Look. I’m more than happy to leave you here with your fortune and a bullet in your belly but, you know, old Sylvia has got the exits covered so whether you like it or not, you’re coming with me. The sooner we can get you somewhere, the sooner we can fix you up. Besides, I think you’ve still got the safety catch on.

  Lee felt himself being dismantled from within, piece by tiny piece, and recognised the childish urge to weep. He lowered the gun and lay back on the bed.

  You know who shot you? Wild asked as he scrabbled through the items on the bed.

  And again Lee remembered the woman with the gun and her slow blink. He wondered if Josef had set him up for some reason. Not exactly. A blonde woman is all I remember.

  Wild began daubing Lee’s stomach with a circular motion. Goodness, how romantic. Don’t move, for God’s sake, it’s hard enough without you wriggling around. But I take it this has something to do with that money over there?

  Lee held his breath and clenched his fists against the pain that splintered through him. You could say that.

  You don’t know her?

  No. Never seen her before.

>   What’s this other scar here, on the other side? Your right side?

  Nothing.

  That’s a big nothing.

  Lee shook his head and tried to ignore the smell of alcohol and bandages as Wild dressed his wound, which he seemed to do with much anxiety. He doubted this guy was a doctor at all. Probably swiped the bag from someone. It was, however, an act that seemed to require an exchange of minor intimacies.

  I’m meant to be at my sister’s.

  I see. And where is that?

  Lee hesitated, unsure of how much he should reveal to this stranger. Out near the ranges. Small town.

  Ah. The country.

  Yeah. There’s a lake. She’s expecting me.

  Wild stopped what he was doing, as if reminded suddenly of something unpleasant. Well. That’s nice. Perhaps you could go there when you’re better.

  Yes. I think I will.

  With your ill-gotten gains.

  Lee allowed himself a smile. Yeah. Wild’s grizzled profile hovered above him and he could feel the old guy’s anxious breath on his chest and the tight warmth of bandages being strapped across him. The burn of antiseptic. The bandages felt secure. Perhaps it would work out after all.

  And where are you meant to be?

  Wild straightened. What?

  Can’t imagine anyone ends up here because they want to.

  He shook his head. We don’t have the time for that particular conversation.

  When Wild had finished, Lee fumbled his way into his bloody t-shirt and grabbed his leather coat and the suitcase. He picked up the phone.

  What are you doing?

  Calling my sister. I should tell her everything is OK, that I’ll be there soon, in a few days.

  Wild shook his shaggy head. I don’t think we have time for that either. Do it later.

  Lee wondered about Wild. Was it foolish to go with this stranger, or no more foolish than anything he’d done in the past day or so? He knew there were moments in life when everything changed but invariably they emerged from nowhere with their own logic, from angles never considered. Accidents and disasters and acts of God. Then there were other occasions when you felt the breeze and all it required was a step. A particular and terrifying sort of abandonment. This was one of those times. He grabbed the suitcase. OK. Let’s get out of here.

  Wild was already standing by the door with his bag. Yes. Let’s sally forth.

  What?

  Let’s go.

  Lee nodded and they stepped into the cold night air.

  5

  Josef made tomato soup from a tin. It plopped into the saucepan with a fleshy sound. He heated it and ate with concentration, blowing on each mouthful before sliding the spoon into his dry mouth.

  It fell dark and he drew the curtains. Some neighbours talked loudly on the stairwell outside his door. There was laughter, followed by frantic shushing. It would be that idiot from flat seven. He had the sense of a tiny bomb detonating within his chest. What was it about the laughter of others that could be so devastating? He ran a finger around his collar and sucked at his gold-capped eye tooth, fondling the surface expertly with his tongue. The noise died down, but irritation swirled in his chest, like mud stirred from the bottom of a lake.

  After eating, Josef sat smoking hand-rolled cigarettes at his kitchen table. White Ox tobacco, a prison habit. He wore only trousers and a white singlet. His skin was pale. Beneath a prominent collarbone was a clumsy scar, a splash of differently coloured skin, where he had been shot a long time ago. A woolly cross was tattooed on the inside of his left wrist. The tattoo’s longer line was about two inches in length, easily hidden beneath a shirt cuff. He traced the faint threads with the fingertips of his right hand, sensitive to the ink beneath the surface. Occasionally, the tattoo hummed, a sound to which he alone was sensitive, in the same way that only the musician is aware of the vibration of a cello’s string long after the audible note has died away.

  One of his clearest memories of prison was of the monotone whine of tattoo guns assembled from a thick guitar string, elastic and a small motor. It was constant, a sound that accompanied men calling out to each other and the clatter of tin plates and cups. He had watched men being tattooed, their mouths tight with discomfort, and he could recall many recurring designs: dragons, naked women, flowers, barbed wire, teardrops, tigers. Hundreds of women’s names, thousands of LOVE and HATE. Stars and pit bulls. Men bearing Christ upon their backs.

  Of acquiring his own tattoo he had no memory, not even of the scabbing that occurs afterwards. It was as if—like the skin itself—it had always been there and sometimes as he rubbed at it, he believed it had just floated to the surface, some thin wreckage washed up on the shores of his body. Periodically he would be compelled to rid himself of the damn thing and spend hours rubbing at it with rags soaked in various solutions: bleach, milk, vinegar, mineral turpentine. Once, even sandpaper, gently back and forth, with no result aside from a predictable and embarrassing graze on his inner arm. All of this was, of course, to no avail; the fucking thing would be there forever.

  He drummed his fingers on the laminated tabletop. The kitchen possessed the sepia odour of last week’s dinners, of cuts of meat nobody cooked anymore and beneath that, faintly, of fly spray. A transistor radio in leather casing burbled, its volume too low to discern actual words. He listened only to current affairs or Test cricket; anything else seemed too frivolous. He’d never possessed an ear for music and failed to understand the point of it. A week-old newspaper was on the table, along with the makings for a cup of tea and his packet of tobacco. Steam unfurled from the teapot. He poured himself a cup and added his customary dash of milk, his movements almost ceremonial through long years of repetition.

  A tea-leaf circled on the surface of his drink. It sank and reappeared in the milky currents. He knew a tea-leaf floating on the surface of tea foretold a visitor. He also knew it was unlucky to kill a white swan or a white moth; that it was lucky to touch a hunchback; he knew not to place a hat on a bed and that a shoe on a table would only tempt death by hanging. He made sure to smash the discarded shells of hard-boiled eggs, lest witches use them to sail out to sea and drown unwary sailors.

  His family were given to poring over the moist bodies of newborns, looking and feeling for signs of future career or personalities: a birthmark; a wayward blink; a caul to guard against drowning. When he was born, a grandmother shouldered into the room and held him up to her face as if preparing to devour him, before announcing he would remain a lifelong bachelor, alone and uncharmed. How she arrived at this diagnosis was unclear, but it was accepted nonetheless and woven without argument into the family fabric.

  When he was a boy, the women sang songs of demons and love, of forests and oceans and blood. They were warned away from Jews, particularly at Passover when, as everyone knew, they held Christian children over vats and sliced their throats with butcher’s knives to drink their blood. He believed in some vague and shifting version of hell. Thanks to his dry-fingered aunts, he also knew all about the saints. About Saint Dreux, the patron saint of those with broken bones, the owners of coffee shops and the deranged. About Saint Nicholas, who raised back to life three children who had been murdered and crammed into a vat of brine. Saint Francis, patron of those fated to die alone.

  These offerings, this knowledge, was a love of sorts. Josef was never sure he trusted the signs his relatives insisted were scattered throughout the world, but he found them impossible to ignore. If nothing else, they gave shape to otherwise shapeless anxieties and were a personal bulwark against imminent disaster. After all, only those fears that remained unnamed retained their potency. Although he had not seen them in a long time, he imagined those aunts as they were twenty years ago, shuffling on slippered feet through darkened houses, forever haunted by ailments of obscure provenance.

  The tea-leaf vanished beneath the surface. He wondered who the visitor could possibly be. Only on experiencing it did he realise how rare expectation had become for him
.

  The phone rang in the lounge room. He rose slowly and answered it, already disappointed by the growing comprehension that it would undoubtedly be Marcel.

  Josef?

  Yes, Marcel.

  We got a problem.

  Josef lowered himself into an overstuffed armchair that was here when he moved in. It was an enormous thing, almost capable of swallowing him whole. He stifled a sigh. What is it?

  You heard from Lee? You seen him?

  Josef sucked at his gold tooth. No.

  Nothing?

  No. Why?

  Because. Because neither have I.

  Josef adjusted the phone receiver to hear better. He cast an eye about for his cup of tea, pointlessly because he knew it was still on the kitchen table, going cold. He opened his mouth to speak, but Marcel interrupted.

  He was supposed to be here this afternoon by the latest. You saw him, did you? You gave him the right instructions?

  Of course.

  Of course. Don’t give me of course, Josef.

  Josef blushed. Motes of dust eddied like plankton in the lamplight. Well, he said. I’m not sure what could have happened out there. It was pretty straightforward, you know.

  Yeah. I know. You know. But does that fucking kid know?

  Well. It was . . . uh, I explained it all.

  Great. You explained it all.

  Gave him the piece, wrote the address. Josef sucked at his tooth. If language was how the world was defined, their use of it was the inverse: a means not to describe things or pin them down, but to break them into something more haphazard. Information was not conveyed but rather whispered or scattered in unlikely places, thickly coded, freighted with ambiguity. The world was almost always approached from the side.

  Marcel went on. Well, Sammy’s been around today and seen Stella with some woman—

  A woman?

  Yes, a woman. Blonde thing. A fucking blonde woman.

  Josef nodded. He needed to say something and listened to Marcel listening to his silence, imagined him screwing the phone into his ear in an effort to detect its meanings. You think . . . You think he, uh . . . What you think happened?

  If I know I don’t have to ring you. Tell me what you think. You’re the man who brought this guy in. Said you had high hopes. Reliable, trustworthy. Write the guy a fucking—what is it?—a reference. This is your thing here, Josef. He’s your guy.