Wood Green

by Sean Rabin

  You can’t smoke in here. Sorry. House rules.

  That must be fun for you.

  I quit. Three weeks tomorrow. Michael had not expected Rachel to knock so early and began to shuffle together the papers scattered about the ornamental writer’s desk that stood against the wall.

  Nice view you’ve got here.

  Yeah. It can be distracting sometimes though.

  What’s that over there?

  Michael pushed the pages of his novel beneath Lucian’s copy of B. Traven’s The Death Ship. No idea.

  Well you’re not much of a tour guide, are you?

  Haven’t had a chance to do any sightseeing yet.

  Too busy working.

  You might say that.

  I assume you haven’t had breakfast. Do you want to go out and get something together?

  Sure. Just let me take a shower.

  Rachel glanced through the handwritten pages Michael had so unsuccessfully attempted to conceal and was surprised to discover they were fiction. Her assumption had been that he had disappeared to Tasmania to write another book on Lucian Clarke. Of course she knew about his ambitions to one day publish a novel, but it had always seemed as likely as her own dream to someday grow an inch taller. Immediately she identified Lucian’s influence and wondered if Michael was aware of how derivative he was being. Rachel put the papers back and glanced around the room. Besides a few of Michael’s possessions, there was nothing in it she recognised, and the idea that he had established a different life in her absence began to offend her self-esteem. Quickly she discarded her clothes. The bathroom was small and cramped, and more than likely they made too much noise, but the hard clean surfaces seemed to encourage a sense of play reminiscent of what they had enjoyed at the beginning of their relationship.

  As she dressed, Rachel made sure that Michael was watching. He had always been fascinated by the process; enthralled by the mysterious reconstruction of a feminine mystique that minutes before had been utterly unveiled. They then walked downstairs side by side, and Rachel waited on the footpath while Michael informed Andrew that he would be going out for breakfast today.

  How did he take it? she asked as they began to look for a café.

  Like an evil stepmother.

  Were there tears?

  Almost.

  You’ve certainly got yourself a dedicated new friend. Couldn’t you have adopted a pit bull instead?

  It’s a small price to pay for the deal I’m getting on the room.

  Well it is pleasant, I’ll give you that.

  And Andrew is okay once you know how to manage him.

  You mean with a feather boa and whip?

  Hardly. He just wants to talk.

  But you hate talking in the morning.

  Well luckily Andrew only needs me to listen. So it all becomes white noise after a while.

  And the rest of the day you get to enjoy your room.

  Exactly. You see, a small price to pay.

  Until you have to go to work.

  That’s not until the afternoon.

  Sounds cushy.

  Most of the time it is. Hey, you still haven’t told me how you tracked me down.

  Buy me breakfast and I’ll consider revealing my sources.

  I bet it was Brian. I swear that man could never keep a secret.

  Who’s Brian?

  My old neighbour in the apartment across the hall. I’m sure I introduced you to him.

  Rachel opened the café door and felt the warm air relax the skin of her face. The room was busy, and the table where they sat down needed to be cleared of plates and cups.

  Wait a minute, Michael asked as he watched the waitress work. What do you mean I look older?

  48.

  Rachel focussed on her dinner as she tried to avoid Michael’s eyes. The realisation that they had exhausted their conversation left her embarrassed, and confused as to why had she come so far for someone she had so little in common with. And why on earth had she exerted so much energy worrying about him? Rachel was sure that in Sydney the flow of their talk had never stalled. But since moving to Hobart Michael seemed to be different somehow. Quieter. More at ease in his own skin. Less willing to participate in their little games of sarcasm and contempt. But perhaps she was just tired. Visiting the local museum, browsing book stores, eating a lunch of battered seafood, and catching a movie in an attempt to stay warm was hardly the busiest day she had ever experienced. Yet Hobart was such a baffling place that Rachel found it taxing just walking around. To her, the streets seemed altogether too wide and too clean. And where was all the traffic? Was that why there were so many vacant parking places? And who paid so little for parking in the middle of a city? The shops also seemed to have too much stock. Rachel had found a pair of stockings that had been sold out in Sydney for weeks, and a new cardigan that fit her perfectly. But the experience was so lacking in the anxiety and disappointment and frustration she normally associated with shopping that it completely undermined the pleasure of her success. The cakes in the cafés were enormous, but the people serving them needed to back off. What did they want? Why were they being so nice? What was their problem? The coffee was shit, but Rachel could never find a decent cup outside of Sydney. Even in Paris or New York. Hobart reminded her of a country town more than a city. No matter where you looked there were mountains or trees or the water. And everyone was so white. So hetero. Rachel was sure they would not be able to get a table at the restaurant she had read about online, but they had walked in off the street and been seated immediately. And the food was delicious. Generously portioned. Fairly priced. The whole place unnerved her.

  Michael unnerved her. All day he had acted as if everything in Hobart was perfectly normal. And there was nothing unusual about him buying a fruit cake from the Country Women’s Association shop. Or describing a place that sold work boots as the most wonderful shoe store he had ever visited. Who was this guy? And where had he hidden the real Michael Pollard? The man seated opposite her at dinner seemed so changed from the one she remembered. And not just because he had ordered eel for his entrée and roasted goat for his main, or suggested they indulge in a second bottle of wine. It wasn’t even the whiskers, or giving up cigarettes, or his decision to write fiction. It was the little things that disturbed her. Like Michael’s sudden awareness of the music playing in every place they visited; the way his walking pace had slowed down, and the attention he seemed to give to every dog they passed on the street. And in the shower that morning there had been moves that Michael had never made before. Predilections that caught Rachel by surprise. The memory made her a little ashamed, and worried it might have been a mistake. What would her friends say if they knew? After all the trouble Michael had caused her, after all the worry. Rachel had just wanted things back to how they had once been. For Michael’s attention to again be turned in her direction. But after a day spent in his company she was no longer certain if she even wanted him to come back to Sydney.

  49.

  The vibrations of Michael slamming the front door reverberated along the walls of the house as Lucian stood in the kitchen struggling to calm down. For the past fifteen minutes the two men had stood shouting at one another, with Lucian insisting he had absolutely no recollection of receiving any letter enquiring about Michael’s whereabouts, or replying to it with details of the B&B where he was staying. Internally, Lucian admitted that it sounded exactly like something he might do. Just to stir things up and check if Michael’s commitment could resist the pull of his former life. But it did not mean that Michael was entitled to give himself the day off to show his girlfriend around Hobart. Why the hell would he consent to something like that? He was paying Michael to work seven days a week, and he expected to get seven days in return. Lucian knew there was no time to lose. Winter was almost upon them. For a moment he feared he had chosen unwisely. Perhaps Michael was the wrong person for the job. Was he nothing more than an opportunist? Ready to steal whatever he could lay his hands on, even if i
t was only a day that had been paid for in advance? Lucian felt his trouser pocket for the shape of his billfold. Looked to his CDs for any unusual gaps in his collection. Hurried down the hall and locked the front door. Pulled back the hall rug and pried up a loose floorboard. His secret stash of cash and marijuana did not appear to have been tampered with, so next he checked his bedroom and Michael’s office. But who would want to steal newspaper clippings and old clothes? Books, however, were an entirely different matter and Lucian was shocked to discover the number of gaps in the shelves of his library. It was not ordered alphabetically. More a system of French here and American there. German and Italian together. Icelandic and Irish. South American, Eastern European and Japanese all had shelves of their own, while English and Australian were over there. And everything else wherever it might fit. But where the hell was Céline? Lucian checked the small piles of books that had been left around the room, but Journey to the End of the Night was nowhere to be found. He put Owen Glendower, Clarice Lispector, Sadegh Hedayat, Elizabeth Smart, Felix Krull and Halldór Laxness back in their proper places, though Lucian could see there was still something missing from the Germanic section. Finally it dawned on him. No Thomas Bernhard. Lucian wondered if Maureen had borrowed them. But she was usually so good about returning books. Being a reader Maureen understood they were more than just objects or possessions. Books were friends. Companions for life. And what type of person steals someone else’s friends? The gaps in the shelves appeared to Lucian like holes in a brain, and moments later his vision blurred with tears. His memory was getting worse. He was running out of time. What did it matter if Michael stole his books? What did it matter if Michael stole everything in the house? Soon enough none of it would mean anything to him. He could not take his possessions where he was going. Everything he had enjoyed in life was about to end. Only the novels he had written would remain behind. Lucian pulled a copy of Dismantling Ivan’s Circus from the shelves. Had his most recent novel successfully conveyed everything he wanted to say about the weakness of the male mind? The ability of men to delude themselves at the expense of the people around them? Lucian flicked through the pages, intending to refamiliarise himself with what he had written. But after one or two sentences he hurriedly returned the book to its place. If something was wrong or lacking from the story it was too late to fix it now. Better not to know. Much better not to know.

  50.

  So is it true?

  Tim looked up from his newspaper and saw Paul on the other side of the counter holding a tube of toothpaste and a bottle of bath salts. What’s that?

  You and Maureen are selling the business?

  For a moment Tim considered lying. He had wanted to keep the sale private for at least another week, if not two, but Paul seemed already in possession of the facts and to be seeking only a nod of confirmation.

  When did this happen?

  It’s been on the market for a couple of years now.

  But I thought you two loved it up here.

  Let’s just say our priorities have changed. Tim was unwilling to publically discuss the reasons for his marriage breakdown. It’s hard running a business together.

  You should try running one on your own.

  Good point. You see, you never know what it’s like for the other person. Look, if you wouldn’t mind, I was hoping to keep this quiet for as long as possible. Otherwise I’ll be fielding the same questions for the next month and a half. Everyone will learn about it soon enough when they see us start to pack up.

  You mean you’ve found a buyer? I thought it was just on the market.

  Tim squirmed. He had always had an unfortunately big mouth. Someone made us an offer and we’ve decided to take it.

  The South African?

  His name is Carl.

  Paul detected a ripple of excitement at learning the handsome stranger’s name. So how much longer do we have you for?

  If everything goes smoothly with the exchange of contracts, we should be out of here in just over five weeks.

  I can’t believe it. Wood Green won’t be the same without you and Maureen. Do you know where you’re going to go, or what you’re going to do? Are you going to buy another business together?

  I doubt it, said Tim as he closed his newspaper and started to ring up Paul’s groceries. We haven’t really made any plans yet. But look, don’t let it worry you. Carl seems like he’s really keen to make a life for himself up here. And the shop is pretty successful, so I don’t imagine he’ll try to change it too much. That’ll be $9.50.

  Paul unfolded his wallet. I bet he can’t make coffee and croissants as good as Maureen. Where is she? Out the back? Can I go through and say hello?

  No, she’s in town at the moment.

  Well tell her I want to see her for a drink as soon as possible.

  Will do. And like I said, it would be great if we could keep this quiet for a couple more weeks. You know what people around here are like. As soon as they learn we’re leaving they’ll all start acting as if we’ve betrayed them.

  51.

  Maureen lowered the venetian blinds and angled their dusty slats so the hotel room was striped with sunlight. The blue bedspread she threw inside the cupboard, followed by the two cheap prints hanging on the walls, and the kettle provided for complimentary tea and coffee. The room had only one chair, and Maureen faced it towards the door. Her dark green coat reached to her knees, but when she sat down and crossed her legs it became clear that she was wearing nothing underneath. Maybe sitting wasn’t the right position. Maureen wanted her unveiling to be a surprise. Perhaps she should wait in the bathroom. Or just ditch the drama and slip between the sheets. Maureen was aware that the scene she had constructed was a cliché, but so long as it worked she didn’t give a damn. Her time in Wood Green was running out, and she was determined to spend as much of it as she could in Lucian’s company. Hopefully he would turn up. There was always a chance the note she had pushed under his front door earlier that day had not been found in time. Or he had decided he was not in the mood for an afternoon rendezvous in North Hobart. Maureen regretted the ‘please’ she had written as part of her message. It made her sound too needy. Too easy. She rolled her eyes. How much easier could she get? Maureen admired the skin of her thigh and thought of Lucian’s fingers moving across it. Around it. Underneath it. She stood up to cool her desires. There was no need to rush the afternoon. Tim could take care of the shop. She could stay out all night if she wanted to. After dabbing water behind her ears Maureen inspected herself in the bathroom mirror. Thick eyeliner and red lipstick were not her usual style, and neither was allowing her hair to fall loose about her face. But she thought it softened the lines at the side of her mouth, the same way a turned up collar seemed to shade the wrinkled skin at the front of her neck. Maureen opened her coat and leaned her pelvis against the cold porcelain of the sink. But rather than temper her lust it seemed to heighten it. Where the hell was Lucian? she thought. Seconds later the hotel door swung open. Lucian’s woollen beanie and brown cords made Maureen feel ridiculous, but it was too late to stop the show now. She offered no greeting, just dragged the chair across the room and wedged it forcefully beneath the door handle. The buckle of her coat easily unfastened, and in a single swift movement the garment dropped to the floor. Maureen waited for Lucian to scan her figure, then pulled off his beanie and loosened his trousers. She could feel him growing hard in her hand. It’s working she thought. She crawled slowly across the bed, arranged the pillows into a pile, and lay on top of them. Only then did she look back at Lucian undressing. His jacket, shirt, socks. Lucian raised his singlet above his head, but when his face reappeared it was covered with red.

  You’re bleeding, cried Maureen as she ran to the bathroom for toilet paper.

  Lucian watched large droplets of blood splatter onto the bathroom tiles. I didn’t even feel it.

  52.

  Thanks for coming to see me off. I know how much planes make you nervous.

  Michael sl
id his hand across the back seat of the taxi and linked his smallest finger with Rachel’s. It’s the least I can do after you came all this way.

  It won’t make you late for work?

  No. I’m taking another day off.

  I thought that was against the rules. I don’t want to get you into trouble again.

  Since when?

  Rachel lifted her hand from Michael’s so she could raise her sunglasses and admire the midday sky. It had given a idyllic hue to the fields around the airport, and helped diminish the sense of frustration she had felt for much of her time in Hobart. It’s so pretty down here. I can understand how the place grows on you. A few more weeks and I might stay myself.

  Michael doubted it was true, but left Rachel’s moment of self-deception unchallenged as he tried to comprehend why his hands were dry and his heart was not racing. Yes, he understood he was not boarding a plane, but there had been too many moments of terror at too many airports for him not to have developed a Pavlovian response to even the sight of a terminal. Michael’s chest, however, did not feel tight at all.

  Rachel’s overnight bag was small enough to be carried on board, and her phone held the details of her boarding pass, so the two of them joined the queue for the security checkpoint. Rachel watched her bag disappear inside the X-ray machine and walked through the electronic doorway to the departure lounge. Michael followed but was stopped by a security guard. After emptying his pockets of change, and removing his shoes and belt, he walked through the metal detector for a second time. But the alarm went off again.

  Any metal pins for broken bones? the security guard enquired as her hand-held device continued to beep.

  No.

  Nothing sewn into the lining of your trousers?

  Of course not.

  Could you step inside this room for a moment please sir.