The Low Road

by Chris Womersley

  What?

  We were going home. That’s all.

  Home?

  To see our parents.

  Lee’s breath fish-hooked in his throat. You’re what, brother and sister?

  The boy nodded. A tremble passed from the girl through the gun, along Lee’s arm, through the root of his shoulder and deep into his body. He looked into her moist and shining eyes. It was an inevitable intimacy. At that moment a person is unlike at any other time in their life; their noises, the flash of their eyes, the darknesses they must be prepared to betray. He believed her when she said she would do anything to save herself.

  Lee thought quickly and tilted his chin to address the boy. Come here. Give me your driver’s licence. The boy did as he was told. Lee inspected it. What you need to do, he said at last in what he hoped was a calm voice, is to get back into the car and drive back the way you came. You need to do this quickly. Straight away. You have to get as far away from here as possible, OK? This is no place for you. But I find out you told anyone and . . . I’ll come after you. He thought of the worst threat he could make. I’ll find your parents and kill them, do you understand me? This is no place. No place for you.

  The boy nodded eagerly and Lee removed the gun from the girl’s blonde head. She stayed crouching where she was for several seconds before scrambling to her feet and running to her brother. She was sobbing loudly now and they both vanished behind the glare of headlights. The car rumbled to life, skidded on the gravel skirt and sped away. Lee listened to the car recede until they were enveloped in silence once more.

  Lee could feel Wild looking at him but ignored him. He turned to one side and spat before picking up the bag he’d taken from the car and staggering across the road with it banging against his calf. He flung the bag into the back seat of Wild’s car and lowered himself into the passenger seat. Automatically, he reached down to check the suitcase hadn’t been disturbed. The money. The money. His body was leaden with pain.

  Wild returned and sat behind the wheel. Can’t take you anywhere, can we? He sounded disappointed. Lee stared straight ahead. Wild paused with both hands on the steering wheel before starting the engine and easing out onto the tarmac, but braked almost immediately. There on the road in front of them, hovering at about knee height, were six shining points embedded into thick, dark bodies.

  The dogs were immobile, watching. Their growl was almost beyond hearing, a low monotone of a pitch equal to the car engine. Despite the car, they didn’t move. Their malevolence didn’t seem to be personal but was perhaps of a more indiscriminate nature. Wild edged the car towards them. Their fur shone silvery in the headlight glare. They stayed firm. The car crept forward and the bumper nudged one of their solid bodies. Only then did they surrender the road, allowing barely room enough for the car. Lee averted his gaze as they edged past.

  They left the dogs unmoving on their stretch of road among the whispering trees. Lee lit a cigarette with trembling hands and resisted the urge to look back and see if the dogs were pursuing them. Instead he stared ahead at the roadside markers and at the white lines being sucked beneath the car. He held a hand to his nose and inhaled its bloody scent.

  They drove through the night, with no hint of what the countryside around them was like, or what lay beyond the narrow periphery of the headlights. There were few other cars. Occasionally a truck swung past, decked with lights, like a lumbering carnival. They didn’t speak and before long were utterly absorbed into the night.

  At around dawn, a small town sprung from the darkness. Like any other town on the plains, it consisted of low, flat-roofed houses, a primary school and a few slabs of struggling grass. A wide and desolate main street with a newsagency, a fish-and-chip shop, a chemist and a motel.

  Wild pulled into a motel opposite the railway station and checked them into a room while Lee slumped in the car. He was exhausted and in great pain. It was cold and the town was blurry and indistinct through the frosted windows. When Wild returned, he was stuffing the last of a muffin into his beard. His overcoat was flecked with crumbs. Lee listened as Wild chewed and breathed, chewed and breathed.

  He turned to face Wild. Am I dying?

  Preoccupied with a lump of muffin embedded between his teeth, Wild didn’t answer. Finally, he licked his fingers, started the car and turned to face him. He burped and Lee could smell the food on his breath. Blueberry. Muffins were always blueberry.

  Hate to tell you this, Wild said, but we’re all dying. This Ishould know. I’m a doctor, remember? Albeit suspended.

  Lee rolled his eyes. But why are you helping me? It seemed suddenly important.

  Wild picked some crumbs from his lap and popped them into his mouth. He chewed and appeared to consider the question. Let’s just say that we both could use a little assistance right now. I’m hardly what you would refer to as an upstanding citizen at this point in time, you know what I mean? Let’s say we both have our reasons for disappearing.

  Lee thought about this. But why should I trust you? I don’t even know you.

  And you trust the people you do know?

  Although it hurt, Lee laughed. The old guy had a point. A bird cawed and swooped like a stone from a powerline to the road, where it cracked a snail against the asphalt. I don’t understand how all this happened.

  Wild didn’t say anything, merely shrugged and guided the car into the parking space. He cut the engine and wiped his nose with a dirty sleeve. He was outsized in the interior of this tiny car; the top of his head brushed the cloth ceiling. Beside him, Lee felt like he was shrinking, draining slowly away, becoming even thinner.

  Where are we going, again? Lee asked, but Wild had already stepped from the car and unlocked the motel room. Lee grabbed his suitcase of money and followed.

  The room smelled of old cigarettes and cheap carpet cleaner. It was the foreign smell of strangers. When he was a boy, people brought food for him and Claire after their parents died, ordinary meals like casseroles or pies, but they always tasted somehow wrong, not at all like his mother’s versions of the same dishes. And he and Claire would stare at the pie dishes on the kitchen bench, sometimes as many as five or six, unable to eat them. That difference, infinitesimal, just enough to matter.

  The main concern with your bullet, Wild was saying, is infection. As far as I can tell, no major organs were hit, but we need to clean you up a bit.

  Lee didn’t like the reference to your bullet and had a brief vision of the mangled lump making itself at home somewhere below his right ribcage, shouldering things aside. Settling in. You’ve got to get this thing out of me.

  Wild closed the door and slid the chain across. He tested the door, then turned and looked at Lee. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. We’ll get you somewhere, he said at last. I know where we’re going. To see an old friend of mine. He’s the best. You’ll be fine.

  Can’t you do it?

  Wild shook his head. No. And don’t ask me to.

  Lee placed the suitcase onto one of the two low, narrow beds and sat next to it. The bed emitted a birdlike squawk. I got to change my clothes. I’m covered in blood. Gingerly he removed his leather coat and wiped his hands on already filthy jeans. His t-shirt crackled with dried blood. He sniffed at his hands and exhaled, embarrassed. And I don’t even know whose it is.

  Wild scratched his face and cleared his throat before throwing out a hand and saying in a booming voice: I am in blood so far steeped that I should—No, wait. Should I . . . wade no more, to go back would be . . . as tedious as going over. Or something.

  What?

  Shakespeare old chap. The bard.

  Lee nodded absently. He was fading. He tried to focus on his surrounds. There was a radio on the sideboard alongside a metal jug of water. The edge of the laminated bedside table was scored with thin, black scorch marks from forgotten cigarettes. A truck pulled into the car park with a mechanical snuffle. Outside, morning was taking hold and light trickled into the room like weak, milky tea. He thought
of the bullet inside him, this fragment of the world he now carried. He was exhausted. The ceiling light fizzled. What did all this mean, if anything? Everything. Nothing. He opened the suitcase. The money, all there. His money. He thought of his sister, of his childhood self pulled against her stomach, the cold smell of their kitchen. Still clothed, he arranged himself around the suitcase and passed into a thick and dreamless sleep.

  9

  Josef wormed through the traffic and arrived at Stella’s apartment block early in the morning. It was a quiet street; hardly any people walked by, a few cars. He parked opposite the grey, three-storey block and checked his gun. He rolled a cigarette and smoked it inside the car, keeping an eye out for anyone going in or out. Nothing. Leaves gathered in the doorway, corralled by the wind. Josef checked himself in the rear-view mirror. He had barely slept the night before, just lay in the dark wondering what to do. He ran a hand over his face and patted his black hair into place. After twenty minutes, he crossed the road.

  The stairwell was dim and quiet. A woman answered when he knocked. Strange. All his information was that Stella lived alone, that he had no family or friends in the city. I’m sorry. I think I have the wrong address. I was expecting someone else. . . .

  The woman rested her weight on one foot. She was young, maybe thirty-five, with short, blonde hair. Her face was halved lengthwise by the partly open door. Well. That makes two of us.

  Josef stammered. He looked around the musty landing and tugged at his sleeve. Perhaps it was the next apartment? Sorry. I was looking for a Mr. Stella.

  There was a dim murmur of domestic activity emanating from somewhere in the back of the apartment, a smell of food cooking. The woman tilted her head a fraction. Oh yeah?

  Josef wondered if he could jam his foot into the door before the woman closed it. Does he live here?

  The woman sniffed and looked Josef up and down slowly. She checked the hallway behind her before leaning in towards him. Look, she said in a low voice. You’ve got what you want, now piss off.

  Josef sucked his tooth. He tried to see past the woman down the dark hallway but could make out nothing. I’m not here to see you, missy. I’m here for Stella, alright. Now is he here? I need that money back.

  You can’t see him, mate.

  So he does live here?

  You can’t see him, the woman repeated and began to close the door.

  Josef reached into his jacket for his gun, simultaneously stepping forward to press his foot against the door. This fucking bitch, he thought, is going to get it.

  The woman pressed a pistol into Josef’s abdomen. Don’t move. I already shot the other cunt and I’ll do it to you as well, old man. You’re not getting in here.

  You shot Lee?

  The woman shrugged. That his name? Yeah. Sort of an accident, but you’ll get it too if you’re not careful. I’m not as afraid of you as you think, mate.

  Did you kill him?

  She shrugged. Doubt it. Maybe.

  Josef had to stoop to see her face. Green eyes, a tiny glob of mascara on her eyelashes. It was early to be cooking, he thought. A roast perhaps, with vegetables and wine and the good cutlery. A family lunch, the clatter of plates. He froze with his foot between the door and the jamb.

  We don’t want your type around here, the woman went on in a quiet voice, obviously ensuring no one else in the apartment heard. You caused enough trouble here, lending money to a man like my dad, who only pisses it away at the track. Vultures.

  Josef wondered if she would really shoot him. His own gun was half raised, not quite ready. He was too old to be shot and doubted he could squeeze off a shot before she fired. He could feel his blood running close to the surface, just beneath his skin. The tattoo at his wrist felt as though it were attempting to wriggle free. Despite his predicament, he was relieved to know an injury was the reason for Lee’s absence, rather than his own poor judgement.

  What about the money? Just give me the money. That was a loan. Not a gift. It won’t go away. What he does with it is none of my business.

  The woman shook her head and kicked at Josef’s foot to dislodge it from the doorway. You’re not listening. We gave the money back. With your little friend. Dropped him off somewhere with it.

  What? Where?

  On the outskirts. Some place my dad knew. Sylvia’s. And she smiled, displaying two rows of neat and perfect teeth. Rolled him out the car with a suitcase of cash.

  Why the hell would you do that?

  Look. Stay away from us. You got what you want, now leave us alone. Leave us alone. You got what you need.

  You dumped him with the money?

  Yes.

  Then another voice and the shape of a man emerged from the shadows of the hallway behind the woman. What’s going on, is that Carlo at last?

  Go back inside, Dad, the woman said, not taking her eyes off Josef.

  Oh no, Stella said, pressing his palms to his cheeks.

  Go back inside. This man was just leaving. I’m sorting this out.

  Stella swore in some foreign language and threw his hands up like an old woman. Fucking Jew. There was a high-pitched squeal from the depths of the apartment and a toddler ran into the entrance hall. Stella cut it off and hoisted it into his arms.

  A light came on. Then the silhouette of an older woman stepped into the hallway and enquired after the child. She favoured one leg as she walked. A flash flood of domesticity. Curious glances, whispers. Who’s at the door?

  Josef was unsure where to look. I should take my chances, he thought. Just shoot this blonde bitch. Get off a shot and run. For being smart. Shoot her in the face. Although he was looking past her, he knew her eyes were on him.

  Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. You’ll never get away with it if you shoot me here, she said in a whisper.

  And as if on cue, there came the sounds of a group of people entering the apartment block and mounting the stairs. There was the rustle of shopping bags and laughter.

  Josef paused for long enough to let this bitch know that he could still do it just for the hell of it, that she was lucky, that he might come back for her later. He lowered his gun and removed his foot. The woman winked at him and slammed the door. He heard the sharp scrabble of the chain slotting across. In a futile gesture, he kicked at the door before spinning on his heel and stalking down the stairs into the windy street.

  Outside, he walked quickly, smoking furiously. Crisp, brown autumn leaves eddied in the air and crunched beneath his feet like the skeletons of birds. Standing in a phone box, he located Sylvia’s phone number in his notebook and dialled. At least she would be able to help him. If that blonde was telling the truth, Lee would be there. The money would be there.

  But there was nothing. Just the dull tone of a broken line. His coins were not refunded. He threw his cigarette onto the floor and crushed it beneath his heel. The phone box stank of stale piss and wintry metal. He redialled, with the same result. Nothing. Nothing was working. Nothing was fucking working. And that fucking woman, winking. Winking at him.

  With the phone in one hand, he braced himself and smashed the black plastic receiver repeatedly into the bulk of the mounted phone, against the cradle and circle of numbers that made a useless ching under each blow—against the rounded corners and metal phone-book rack until all that was left was a mess of wires and shards of plastic in his fist. A couple hurrying past, hunched against the cold, averted their eyes. Josef tried to rip the phone wires free, but they were as tough as sinew. As a young man, he could lift great weights, knock out men in higher weight divisions, extract almost anything from almost anyone. When he was a boy, he hefted a rose bush clear from the reluctant earth with just one hand, a feat that earned him the extravagant applause of his father. But now, in the tiny phone box, he gave the wires a final useless yank before shouldering out the door. Enough fooling around.

  10

  Josef parked across the road from Sylvia’s. Parkview Motel. Formally the Cabana Inn. Cheap rates clean Tv
in most rooms v cancy. Nothing about the fact that there was no park and no view, unless you counted the road out front and the empty lot at the back.

  The Parkview was like prison: most people he knew passed through at some stage of their careers. Although called a motel, the function of Sylvia’s was altogether more oblique; part halfway house, part detox, part brothel. Stray members of the general public who turned up in search of a room were likely to be turned away with a surly Sorry, no vacant rooms today. It was for their own good as much as anything.

  He scratched at his chin and picked fluff from his shabby suit. He wondered if Lee was really trying to get away, like Marcel seemed to think. He had thought about it himself once upon a time; contemplated what it would be like to get a real job, pay taxes, listen to the football on the radio. Be upstanding, write cheques and remember to collect the dry-cleaning on a Friday evening. But what would he do? Live one kind of life for long enough and it becomes a sort of destiny, where the future is just a version of the past. It was too late for him and he didn’t see why that little prick Lee should get away. He wondered idly if he would have to kill Lee. His heart squirmed at the prospect.

  He sucked at his capped tooth and observed an ambulance moving silently through the traffic, like a shark. He touched a button on his coat, a sort of genuflection, to ensure he wouldn’t be the next person to travel in it—another superstition inherited from his aunt.

  Josef met Lee just a few months ago. The kid was fresh out of jail. Josef had heard about him through the grapevine. Someone always heard something about someone. But he seemed a good kid, capable. Had killed a bloke in jail over something or other but was never fingered. Josef set about luring the kid. He poured good liquor and put him at ease, painted a version of life involving large sums of cash, working outside the system, not being like every other dickhead out in the suburbs. Can always use a bloke like that, Marcel had said when Josef mentioned him. It wasn’t only that Lee had killed someone, but how he did it. We can always use a bloke like that.