Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

There was a downside to this scenario. If they caught Buchanan, there would be a media frenzy. Justine might flee from the press that would be sure to hound Paradine Park. Once Buchanan was caught, there would be nothing keeping her here. She’d simply leave. That was the last thing he wanted.

  Two: he could send the letter back to her. This was quite a delicious idea, actually. It should be intensely fascinating to observe. What would her reaction be?

  And what a heady rush knowing he had the power to impact so powerfully on these two people’s lives. A man who had fascinated him for almost a decade. And the woman who intrigued him as no other person ever had. His decision could change their very existence.

  He looked at the letter again. The urge to send it back to her was strong. It would be truly enthralling to observe how she handled something as weirdly wonderful as this in her life. Would she embrace it? Or shrink from it?

  But what if the letter caused her to leave Paradine Park and go to look for Adam Buchanan? Come to think of it, she might just do that. If he ever received a letter like this—so passionate, so filled with need—he certainly wouldn’t hang around. Not that something like this was ever likely to happen to him, of course.

  No doubt about it, she’d go looking for the man.

  He was suddenly consumed with a ridiculous feeling of dread. This letter must never, ever reach her. In fact, it would be best if he destroyed it.

  He opened the drawer of his desk and took out his cigarette lighter. He had given up smoking years ago but it was a gift from his mother and she was not a generous gift-giver.

  He snapped the lighter and held the letter to the tiny flame. The paper curled and singed, the passionate, vibrant words fading into a brown haze. He held the letter closer to the flame until the page disintegrated and fluttered to the surface of the desk in thick, black flakes. Now that it was done, he felt an enormous sense of relief.

  He got up from his chair and walked to the window. It was late and Ainstey’s streets were empty. He opened the window and leaned out. The lemon verbena growing in the garden outside scented the air. As he stared out at the night sky there was a brief exploding streak of light on the horizon. A shooting star.

  He placed both hands on his chest and with all his heart he made a wish.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE PURPLE PALACE was packed with bodies. It was the end of the month and everyone with money to spend had congregated underneath its roof. Cigarette smoke hung white in the air. At the bar, men with sun-wrinkled faces and calloused palms stood shoulder to shoulder. There was not a single chair available at any of the rickety tables. Above the deafening noise of voices shouting, arguing, laughing, pulsed a Springsteen anthem. The Boss proclaiming his heritage. Born in the USA.

  Most of the customers were male but, as Adam’s eyes scanned the room, he could see that many of Kepler’s Bay’s ladies of the night were present as well. One of the prostitutes, a redhead with a fresh smile, slid her arm around his waist.

  ‘Adam. I haven’t seen you forever. Why have you abandoned me?’

  He brought her hand to his lips. ‘I yearn from afar, fair lady.’

  ‘Like a knight in armour.’ She giggled tipsily.

  He smiled at her. ‘I’m looking for Mark. Have you seen him?’

  ‘Sure. He’s over there.’ She pointed to a table in the far corner squashed in between a coat rack and a pillar from which drooped a grimy Jolly Roger. ‘He’s on to his second bottle already.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Adam started to push his way through the throng of bodies, the smell of sweat, dust, and alcohol filling his nose. On his way, he grabbed a miraculously vacant chair and held it above his head as he moved through the crowd to where Mark was sitting at a tiny table, staring at the glass in his hand with a beatific smile.

  ‘Hey.’ Adam lowered himself onto his chair.

  ‘Hey.’ Mark stared at him hazily. ‘Have some,’ he said, picking up the bottle of whisky with the clear intention of pouring the liquid into Adam’s non-existent glass.

  ‘OK. Wait, steady there.’ Adam removed the bottle from Mark’s fist. ‘I see you started without me.’

  ‘Well, you were late,’ Mark said, sounding perfectly reasonable. His speech was clear and only the constant smile and cloudy gaze showed that he was, in fact, terrifically drunk. Adam watched him take another swig, eyes half-closed, mouth just a little slack, so that the liquid dribbled in a thin stream down his chin. Adam was always amused and bemused by this monthly ritual of his friend. Mark, the most sober-minded man of his acquaintance, a man who lived a life so exemplary and commendable, had one vice. Once every four weeks he went on a binge. A massive binge. An epic drinking spree that usually ended in a sad epilogue of vomit, shaking hands and a shuddering headache. Rita had long since made peace with this state of affairs.

  Mark squinted at him. ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘Thanks. So do you.’

  ‘It’s because she hasn’t replied, isn’t it, oh friend of mine? I told you. Didn’t I tell you she wouldn’t respond?’ Mark paused and picked up a soggy chip dripping with oily cheese from a small basket in front of him. He popped it into his mouth and, after munching noisily, continued. ‘She thinks you’re a sicko. A madman. A madman. A me-me-mad-man.’ Mark repeated the syllables, seemingly fascinated by the alliteration.

  ‘Maybe this isn’t the place to talk about it, what do you say?’

  ‘What do I say? I say she thinks you’re cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cu—’

  ‘I get it. I think it’s time for you to head back home. Come on, I’ll walk you.’

  ‘No.’ Mark pushed out his lower lip petulantly. ‘Don’t want to. Besides, I love this song. Love it.’

  ‘This song?’ It’s the end of the world as we know it. And I feel fine.

  ‘And I feel fine,’ Mark reiterated, singing along with gusto.

  ‘Mark, come on. Enough’s enough.’ Adam placed his hand on Mark’s wrist, but Mark shook it off with a sudden twist of the arm, in the process knocking over the basket of chips, as well as his glass, onto Adam’s lap.

  ‘Shit.’ Adam looked down. A large wet patch was spreading across his thigh. Yellow cheese streaks stained his crotch. He looked up at Mark, who had started to laugh, mirth nearly closing his eyes. ‘I’m pleased you’re amused. Now, I’m going to the bathroom to take care of this. You sit here and wait for me, OK? And then I’m taking you home. No arguments.’

  He got to his feet. After cadging a bottle of soda water from the barman, he walked to the men’s toilets at the end of a dimly lit passage next to the kitchen.

  The toilet walls were scribbled over with graffiti. As the place hadn’t been painted in decades, some of the slogans were of great antiquity. A lady by the name of Tina—obviously a flame that had burned with some brilliance—was remembered fondly and figured prominently among the various inscriptions.

  He poured the soda water over the stain, rubbing at it with his handkerchief. The dark patch was now even bigger. No doubt when he left the toilet, people outside were going to think he had an embarrassing accident, but what the hell.

  He looked up and into the mirror that was set into the wall above the dirty washbasin. It was a shock to see his own face. He avoided mirrors. He had even become expert at wielding a razor without a mirror to assist him. It wasn’t that he had forgotten what he looked like, but it was as though, in some deeper sense, he didn’t have a memory of himself any longer.

  For a long moment he stared into his own eyes. They looked back at him, inscrutable. He couldn’t read their expression. He turned his head slowly, first to one side, then to the other, keeping his eye on the mirror. There was a line running across his forehead. He never even knew it was there. His skin, grazed by the wind and darkened by the sun, seemed yellow in the blue light coming from the stuttering strip of fluorescent tubing attached to the ceiling. He couldn’t remember his hair being this dark.

  The face of a killer. Or a madman. That’s what Mark had said. She thought he
was a madman. When she had read his letter, had that been her first reaction? Did she believe she was reading a letter produced by a deranged mind? It was a letter in which white-hot longing and hopeless yearning burned through every word. A terrifying letter, perhaps. Yes, that was it. She was afraid. He had scared her. The letter had been too desperate; too needy by far.

  Five weeks since he had written to her and not a word from her in return. Every day he came into town and checked his mailbox at the post office and every day the box was empty. He knew he had taken a tremendous risk writing to her, signing it with his real name, giving away the location where he had found refuge from the law. But the highest reward required the highest commitment.

  Maybe she had found the letter funny, something to dine out on. He could picture it. Sitting in some chi-chi restaurant in London, showing the letter to her friends. ‘You won’t believe what’s happened…’ And all of them speculating and laughing and picking out phrases they found particularly amusing.

  God, how could he have been so naive. But he had truly believed that she would know. That her heart was tired with his constant presence shadowing her thoughts so that his words would make immediate sense; provide sudden balm to the incessant irritation of an inexplicable longing. ‘I recognise you,’ she’d say. ‘You’re the one I’ve been waiting for.’

  Behind him the door suddenly flew open and a man dressed in cut-off jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘Mamma’s Boy’ staggered in. Adam recognised him; Dirk Pottas, a crayfisher. He looked decidedly the worse for wear. With a sigh of relief, Pottas unzipped his trousers and, with eyes blissfully closed, commenced to relieve himself in the urinal.

  After a few moments he opened his eyes and focused on Adam, who had finished washing his hands and was now trying to dry them on his handkerchief.

  ‘It may be time for you to go back in there, Adam.’ He jerked his head toward the door.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The doctor. I think he’s in trouble.’

  ‘Oh hell. Has he started throwing up?’

  Dirk Pottas stepped back and zipped up his trousers. ‘No. But by the time Yuri Grachikov’s finished with him, he may feel like it.’

  ‘Shit.’ Adam turned around and opened the door violently. As he walked quickly down the corridor toward the front room, he realised how quiet it suddenly was. The noise of voices had died down. And someone had killed the music.

  Mark was sitting where he had left him, hands clutching the edge of the table. The expression on his face showed drunken outrage and the beginnings of real fear. Sitting next to him on the chair vacated by Adam was Grachikov. He was smiling. One massive forearm rested on the table. Behind him stood five men whom Adam recognised as Grachikov’s constant companions. They were watching Mark with expressions of contemptuous amusement. The other people in the room looked uneasy, but it was also clear that no one felt like getting involved in this particular showdown.

  ‘A doctor’s hands are important, yes?’ Grachikov reached out and touched Mark’s clenched fingers. ‘You should take care of them, my friend. Accidents, they happen very easy.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ Mark’s voice was high.

  ‘Threaten a doctor? A healer of the people?’ Grachikov shook his head sadly. ‘Of course not. I’m just saying. It is good to take care, yes? I’ve seen it happen before. One stupid move and pfft—you lose a finger. A hand is crushed. It happens.’

  Mark tried to speak, but his voice seemed to fail him. The tip of his nose was glowing. His eyes were watery.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  Grachikov turned around in his chair and for one moment a look of pure annoyance swept across his face. But the next moment he was smiling again. ‘Mr Williams. I did not see you here before. How are you?’

  Adam walked over to Grachikov slowly. When he reached the table, he stopped and placed his hands palms down on the surface. He leaned over and brought his face close to Grachikov’s; as close as if they were about to kiss.

  He could see the sheen of sweat on the man’s cheekbones, the pores on his nose. He could smell him—the sweetish odour of his skin, the oiliness of his scalp. Grachikov didn’t move, but his lips pulled away from his teeth, just slightly.

  ‘My friend does not like you.’ Adam paused. ‘I do not like you.’

  Silence. It was quiet enough in the room that you could hear a pin drop.

  He leaned in even closer. ‘Do not talk to him. Do not talk to me. Ever.’

  Grachikov pushed his chair away from the table with a violent screech. He got to his feet, his body coiled, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable.

  ‘No.’ Adam spoke succinctly. ‘Walk. Away.’

  Grachikov flushed. The two men kept their eyes locked, the moment dragging on and on. Someone laughed nervously.

  A flick of an eyelid. Grachikov looked away.

  ‘Adam.’ Mark’s voice was desperate. ‘I feel sick. I need to get home.’

  Adam felt his breath leave his body with an explosive gasp. He looked down at Mark. His friend was deathly white and his lips appeared almost blue. As Mark tried to get to his feet, he stumbled. Adam stepped forward quickly, propping him up.

  And suddenly, as though someone had flipped a switch, people were drifting back to their tables and the sound of voices in conversation filled the air. From the speakers came the voice of Shania Twain saying, ‘Let’s go, girls.’ No one even seemed to be discussing what had just happened. It was eerie, as though what had taken place had left no dent in the memories of those who had witnessed the scene.

  Adam looked back at Grachikov. The man had stepped back and was talking to one of his friends, his voice low. But Adam knew he was watching them from the corner of his eye.

  He placed his arm firmly around Mark’s waist. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  • • •

  AFTER HE HAD dropped Mark off at his house, depositing him into Rita’s waiting arms, Adam collected his bike from their back yard and headed for home. He had a throbbing headache and the confrontation with Grachikov had left him with a bad taste in his mouth.

  The wind was exceptionally strong tonight, forcing him to drive slowly, his head pulled into his shoulders, the desert sand blinding against his goggles. The wind sighed, moaned, crept into the ridges and hollows. It was a relief when the first of the deserted houses loomed up from behind a sand dune, the sweep of the roof black against the windy sky.

  The sudden quiet as he closed the door of his house behind him was almost disconcerting. For a moment he stood in the darkness, sensing the pupils of his eyes widening and adapting to the gloom.

  His eyes could now make out the outlines of the furniture in the room. He walked toward the fireplace and sank to his knees. The logs and paper were already stacked into a pile and it only needed the flick of a match to set it alight.

  He walked to the desk and picked up the magazine that lay spread-eagled.

  How focused she looked as she worked. How filled with purpose. Her face was set in an expression of stern serenity. There is beauty in concentration, in a mind fixed with scalpel-like precision. His thumb stroked lightly down the line of her jaw. She had a lovely neck. Her hands were quite large.

  He sat down at the desk, opened the drawer and took out a blank piece of paper. He unscrewed the top of the pot of ink, dipped the nib of his pen into its oily depths.

  Dear Justine,

  You never responded to my first letter. It was not my intention to scare you.

  He lifted the nib from the paper. For a moment he sat motionless, trying to find within him the words that would cause her to catch her breath, lift her hand to her throat.

  Every night I dream of you. You come to me, driven by a knowledge of what might have been, seduced by a sense of what is yet to be. If only I could wake inside my dream come true. Your breath on my cheek. Your heart underneath my hand.

  He closed his eyes, suddenly swept by a fee
ling of such hopelessness he thought his body might shut down from the awful despair. He looked down at what he had written. His fist closed on the sheet of paper, crushing it between his fingers violently, the paper leaving a thin line of blood welling through the broken skin.

  In the corner of the room was the tall medicine chest with its many drawers. Inside that chest were hundreds of letters he had written to her during so many empty nights, through so many empty years. They were all still sealed in their envelopes, waiting for her to read them.

  He pulled open one of the tiny drawers and removed a letter at random, ripping open the envelope. He looked at the date. He had written this letter fully six years ago. His eyes moved over the closely spaced lines:

  I am troubled by the sense that somehow, in my mind, I have divorced myself from the act of murder. I feel myself to be the snail, not the disgusting smear he left behind… but at the same time I am fully aware that only a snail can leave a trail of slime in its wake.

  If only I could talk to you. If only you could come to me…

  His vision was blurred and he felt nauseous. He rammed the letter back into the envelope. He was a fool. Of course she wouldn’t come to him. Even though it was meant to be, he had destroyed any chance they might have of being together in this life. He had killed his brother. He did not deserve to find her. And she would not want him. Why would she wish to walk with a murderer?

  His eye fell on a large cardboard box that was shoved up against the wall. He pulled open the drawers of the medicine chest haphazardly, grabbing letters and dropping them into the empty box. With the box balanced in his arms, he unhooked the front door and walked into the night.

  The box was large and awkward to carry, and the wind was very strong, but he did not stop until he found himself surrounded by dunes and night sky, his house vanished from his sight and around him only emptiness. The wind raced across the sand, plucked at his shirt, narrowed his eyes. There was a full moon tonight and the lunar light seemed chaste and cold.