The Low Road

by Chris Womersley

  He shook away the memory, then imagined Claire currently going out of her mind, ringing his house and rolling her eyes. I knew it. I knew it! Graeme would say nothing. After all, I told you so doesn’t always need actual words. He’d show the little prick. Appear with a suitcase filled with money. Hunker down and get a job. Stay out of trouble. Maybe learn a trade, become an electrician or something. A mechanic. Pick apples at McClaren’s orchard. Do regular stuff.

  Let’s just say I don’t plan to be doing this forever, mate.

  He knew their house of course, had grown up there. A large place near a lake plopping with frogs. The air was oily with eucalyptus and in summer he swam into the darkest part of the lake and dived down to scoop handfuls of silky mud that would drain away by the time he surfaced. The hum of cicadas, morning frost on the laundry hung out overnight to dry.

  Outside, the thin branches of a tree scratched against the window. There came a sound from a nearby room, like something scrabbling for purchase. It sounded like a group of small people. Children. The sudden slap of a screen door. Local teenagers or something. Whoever they were, they were inside the house. He shoved the suitcase of money under the bed with his foot. Then the sound of Wild grumbling and muttering. Shit. Lee looked around for his jacket, for his gun, but remembered—Shit—that he’d thrown it away back on that road, and before he could think what to do, Wild burst into the room with arms flailing and face halved by a huge grin. His hair was damp with rain and the front of his overcoat was stained with dirt. Frayed rope was looped around a fist.

  Look what I found! And tumbling in stubbornly behind him was a skinny, black goat secured around its neck by a length of rope. The goat had a melancholy look. It was a boiled-down thing, the up-and-down action of its shanks apparent when it moved, so its haunches resembled a black sack of knives. The creature bleated sadly, looked around with its crazed eyes and shook its head as if expressing severe disapproval.

  Wild was raving. Damn thing nearly scared me to death. An attack goat. A guard goat. Can you believe it? Vegetables. We can live here for ages. Chickens out the back as well. A whole menagerie.

  A what?

  A . . . Forget it.

  Lee winced. Did you get it out?

  What?

  The bullet. Is it gone?

  Wild nodded. Yes.

  In the evening they sat on either side of a small wooden table in the dingy kitchen. Inside it was warm. Although there was no gas for the stove, a wood-fired plate in the fireplace still functioned, on which a pot of vegetable stew now bubbled. Steam softened the windows and obscured the outside world. It felt almost hearty. Not quite.

  Lee was wearing a dark shirt he’d found hanging in a wardrobe. It had presumably belonged to Doctor Sherman. It was too large for him and the sleeves flapped uncomfortably around his wrists. Still, at least it was warm. He tried to sit straight-backed, but kept having to alter his position for comfort.

  He had inspected the wound earlier in the afternoon when changing his dressing. It looked a brutal thing. His skin was folded like doughy bread and stitched together with thick, black thread. A crust of dried blood. Bizarre to see such a new addition to one’s own body. What are you going to do now? he asked.

  Wild looked perplexed. Now? Probably just sit here. Try and stay warm and dry. That’s all I plan to do.

  I don’t mean right now. I mean in general.

  That’s what I’m talking about. Just sit right here in this kitchen for a few months. Lie low. See what happens. In this very chair.

  Lee looked at the old guy, but could detect no sign of a joke. You can’t stay here.

  Why not?

  What about . . .? I don’t know. What about your family? Alice?

  Wild looked up. What?

  Isn’t that your daughter’s name?

  I know who Alice is. How do you know who she is?

  You talked about her.

  I talked about her?

  Lee pointed to his torso. When you were operating . . . You know, getting the bullet out. The other night, whenever it was. About when she was born or something.

  And you remember?

  I remember everything.

  I thought you were—

  I was conscious. More or less.

  But you barely moved.

  Lee shrugged and lit a cigarette. He shuddered at the thought of Wild’s finger probing beneath the meat of his body. I was tired.

  Tired? Lee, you were dying. I was cutting into you.

  Lee didn’t respond.

  You heard everything? Wild chewed on a thumbnail and rearranged himself within the folds of his overcoat. He wore that dirty coat all the time now, as if expecting to have to leave at short notice. In combination with his rangy beard and wayward hair, he resembled some explorer just returned from a polar expedition. Alice is gone, he said at last. Well, I mean . . . Jane left me. My wife, that is. Took Alice as well, of course. So there’s not much to go back to in that department, so perhaps I’ll just stay here.

  Why?

  Only someone as young as you would ask that question. People leave each other all the time. It’s what happens. As for my career. That is—how should I put it?—I’m not allowed to be a doctor anymore. Probably never will be. In fact, I’d be in all sorts of bother if anyone found out I’d operated on you. Although, of course, I’m already in all sorts of bother, so . . . Wild chuckled unconvincingly and looked out the window.

  Despite the bulky clothing, he looked frail, as if he’d become less substantial in the past few days. If indeed he did stay here in this strange house, Lee thought he might whittle away to nothing, that coat across his shoulders like a corpse.

  Lee shifted in his seat. Was it true, that story about the woman and the nail? The woman who came into your office or whatever with a nail in her eye?

  Wild’s eyes were wide and round, like two dark and shining stones in the pale putty of his face. Of course it was true. He scratched at his throat. What else did I say?

  Lee thought. Just stuff. You never answered my question, anyway. What are you going to do now? Really.

  I told you. Stay here. Eat vegetable stew. Really.

  Right. And take morphine or whatever that stuff is.

  Yes. Eat stew and take bloody morphine. Life of Riley, old chum. The life of Riley.

  Won’t it run out?

  Wild winked and gestured expansively towards the back door. There’s a lot of garden out there. A lot of vegetables. I’m planning an entire crop. A lifetime’s supply of stew if we want it. Kill a few of those chickens. Raise some goats or something. There’s one already. We could live here happily ever after. You and me. Get all self-sufficient.

  Maybe you should give up?

  Oh. I have given up, my boy. I have.

  You know what I mean.

  Do I?

  Lee took a breath. I knew a guy in prison. He was using a fair bit of that shit. Smack, I guess. We cuffed him to the bunk for four days, by his hands. We shared a cell so I happened to be around when he wanted to try and stop taking it. So we cuffed him to the metal frame, you know, of the bed. Nearly dragged the whole thing off the tier when he tried to go and find some drugs. Begged us. Tried to snap his own wrists to get free. Thought he might be able to slip away. Yelled out at night, calling out to one of the dealers. Crying and groaning. Said he was dying. But he—

  Why are you telling me this?

  Lee shrugged.

  You trying to help me?

  I don’t know. Just felt like I owed you, that’s all. You did save my life. But, you know, forget it.

  They sat in an embarrassed silence for several minutes. Wild drummed his fingers on his knee and got up and stoked the small stove. His face was shiny and orange in the fire’s light.

  Listen, he said when he sat down again. Don’t worry about me. I’ve been doing this for a long time now. Ten years or more. It’s all I got left. My old man was the same, had the same . . . compulsions, just a different way of going about it. A dr
unk. Dead at sixty. Runs in the family, this kind of thing. Genetics. Dopamine receptors and all that. Some would say that I’m predisposed to addiction. You could even say that it’s destiny. Or that I’m spending my inheritance, I suppose. That might be one way to put it. I’ve given up on giving up. It’s my destiny.

  Fuck destiny.

  Wild studied him for several seconds. You really believe that, don’t you?

  Lee ignored the question and rearranged himself on the hard wooden chair.

  It’ll get you in the end. Try as you might.

  Lee met Wild’s blue-eyed gaze. I’m already out.

  You’re an idealist, then?

  Lee blushed under the accusation. Anyway, is that why you’re not allowed to be a doctor? Because of taking dope?

  Wild hesitated, as if deciding whether to allow this change of subject to pass. More or less. I can’t go back. I jumped bail, actually. I couldn’t face it. Can’t face jail.

  You jumped bail? Really? For what? You rob the hospital cupboard or something?

  Wild sat forward with his elbows on his knees as if trying to fold himself into an even smaller shape. A flop of greying hair unfurled across his eyes. Something sizzled on the stovetop. I wish that was all, he said at last in a small voice, and then in an even smaller one: Manslaughter. Criminal negligence.

  Manslaughter? You? You’re kidding, right?

  Oh yeah. Great joke.

  What do you mean? You kill someone?

  Wild nodded without looking up. Just the very outline of his profile was discernible, a flame-hued thread from his high forehead down to his curling nose and throat. A sound like a moan, but darker still.

  Lee sat back in his chair and regarded Wild anew. His lips pursed to whistle, although no sound came out. Well. That explains a lot.

  Maybe to you it does.

  That guard, I mean. Back at the railway yard. The fat guard.

  Wild got to his feet and went to the stove. He doled out two portions of a shapeless stew from the saucepan into bowls. Yes, he said when he had placed the meals on the table. I’m a wanted man, believe it or not.

  The chipped bowls of steaming food sat between them. Although it smelled edible, the uncertain colour and consistency reminded Lee of prison food. He felt slightly ill. He was never hungry anymore. The idea of food was foreign to him. Eating was something other people did.

  I’m not hungry.

  Wild gestured to the food. You should eat. Good for you after all that’s happened. Help you heal. Keep you strong.

  When Lee didn’t answer, Wild sat back and rubbed his hands together. I was supposed to be in court a week ago. Answering my charges, but I couldn’t face it. It wasn’t looking very good for me, so I made a run for it. The thought of jail is . . . I just couldn’t face the whole thing. Cowardly, really. Everyone had left me. My wife, friends. A disaster.

  Wild coughed into his fist, then reached out with a wetted thumb to rub dirt from the scuffed toe of one black shoe. There was a long and restless pause. I was a GP. In practice a long time. Just the usual stuff in the suburbs. Kids with broken arms and vaccinations and women with arthritis. It’s a good life for the most part. Good money, but sort of boring. I started taking a bit of morphine, for the thrill, you know? Just to see what it would be like, and one thing led to another, and there comes the day when you realise it’s completely out of your hands. Doesn’t take long. A couple of weeks and you wake up sniffling and aching and jangling and it’s almost impossible to get off. It’s always just there. Wild dug at the palm of his left hand with the thumb of his right. This is all by the by, really.

  Anyway. I got called out to a woman having a baby very suddenly. Unexpectedly. Early, you know? They were actually friends of ours, of my wife and I. A young couple, Louise and Frank. Although I didn’t have much to do with her pregnancy, there was a sudden complication. She began going into labour very prematurely, middle of the night. Contractions and all, just pre-labour. But Louise was anxious and they called me out as a precaution more than anything. I think I was there as a sort of calming influence or something. Just to tell them that everything was alright and not to worry and go back to sleep. And I was stoned of course, and everything was sort of happening very quickly, as it sometimes does. The husband was panicking and the woman was struggling. I think the husband called an ambulance, but it became clear that we had to deliver the baby right there and then, on the damn bedroom floor. Prematurely. The whole thing was just not right. This was in their house, about two years ago. Three a.m. or something. I was completely out of it. Away with the fairies. In fact when they’d called me I was in my study in darkness, staring. Totally absorbed in the darkness. Completely irresponsible, but sometimes, in the midst of a binge, you feel so . . . I don’t know.

  Anyway. There’s a drug which is used in childbirth. It causes the muscles of the womb to contract very strongly. Wild rubbed again at his shoe and fingered a crust of mud at the hem of his trousers. And it’s administered when the baby is nearly born and it helps with the delivery of the placenta, but this particular night I administered the drug too soon, when the child’s head wasn’t crowned properly yet, when . . . the head wasn’t out enough. Wild held his large hands out in front of himself as if cradling some small, invisible thing. His breathing was shallow and he sat up straighter in his chair.

  And what happens if you do that?

  Wild brought his hands together slowly with a soft, hollow clap. His gaze was fixed on some point on the wooden table. What happens? What happens is that the child—the boy—is crushed in the contraction. Suffocates. And dies.

  Shit.

  Right there in the bedroom. Everyone is crying at this stage, can you imagine? Frank with a hand across his mouth. And I say to him, to Frank, this young man of—I don’t know—twenty-eight or something, maybe even younger, I say: What should I do? The baby is in my hands like a wet kitten. The ambulance comes and these guys take over. Just shove me out of the way and . . . But the boy is dead. It’s terrible. What should I do? Still can’t believe I said that. Really can’t believe it.

  A dead baby is the worst possible thing. Their first child, can you imagine? Couple didn’t survive after all that. Broke up. Takes it out of you, that kind of thing. Sometimes a death in the family is like a bomb. Everyone gets caught up. The family is ruined. All that love gone to waste. The kid would be walking now if it wasn’t for me. An entirely new person—what should have been the best thing in their lives. Actually, I think I’m more afraid of seeing Louise and Frank again than I am of jail. I assume they would have come. To court, I mean. They would have come to court and sat there chewing over that terrible night.

  Lee felt sorry for Wild. If he was expected to offer some sort of consolation, however, he didn’t know what on earth it could be. What are you looking at?

  What?

  In jail.

  Wild laughed humourlessly. I suspect it doesn’t matter. One year, ten years. A hundred. Any time in jail is too much for someone like me. I can’t do it. Not to mention the fact that I’ll never work again.

  And you got nowhere else to go?

  Wild picked up a spoon and folded it through the stew several times. No. Nowhere. Left my own house the day before I was meant to be in court. Just packed and got in the car and drove away. So, you see, staying here is about as good an option as I have at the moment, at least for the time being. Stay out of sight. Wait for something to happen. God knows what.

  Wild began to eat without enthusiasm and for some time the only sound was of his chewing. What are you going to do? he asked when he had almost finished his meal.

  Lee shrugged. Stick with the plan, I guess. Take the money and go to my sister’s place. Stay with her for a while. Get a job. Try and go straight. Get away from here. It was strange to hear himself saying it out loud and he almost wished he hadn’t spoken at all. It seemed stark.

  Won’t they come after you? Wild asked. After their precious money?

  He preferr
ed not to talk about Josef. I don’t see how they can find me.

  Won’t they just look for your sister or your parents? Track you down?

  Lee shook his head. They don’t know anything about me. Probably think everyone is dead.

  Why would they think that?

  No reason.

  Wild nodded slowly. I see. When exactly are you thinking of leaving?

  In a few days, I guess. Soon as I’m up to moving again.

  There’s probably still bullet shards in you.

  Lee grimaced. Really?

  You’ll have to get yourself checked out as soon as you can. Watch those ribs, as well. You need to be careful. You’re not out of the woods yet, as they say. Keep the dressing fresh and clean.

  OK. I’ll remember that. Thanks.

  Yes. Apparently you remember everything.

  It’s true, I do have a great memory.

  Well. You haven’t lived very long. You’ve got less to remember than some of us.

  Lee thought with distaste of the pieces of the world he now carried within him. He had a sudden thought. Why don’t you come with me?

  Go with you?

  Yeah.

  To live with your sister?

  Well. For a while, at least. Could be a good chance to get away. We can both lie low. Try and stay out of trouble. In the country. By the lake.

  By the lake?

  Yeah. By the lake. Where they live. It’s beautiful there. Nobody would know we were there. It’s perfect.

  Wild said nothing, just crouched over the table and continued to eat, hurriedly, as if afraid his meal would soon try to escape.

  22

  The sound was barely audible, a small mewling somewhere nearby. It soaked into Wild’s sleep like water into a sponge, deeper and deeper until he awoke. He shifted heavily and pulled the blankets over his head. The smell of his body was thick under their soft weight; the flavours of sweat, of warm skin and stale breath. Disgusting.

  He had taken to sleeping on one of the couches in the lounge room, from where he could stare out the large bay windows throughout the insomniac night and observe the relentless progress of the stars, the rise and fall of the moon. In addition, there was the company of the open fire.