The Colour of the Night Read online

  In the gallery, they stepped graciously around his room-sized pile of windscreen glass that glittered under an array of spotlights. In truth, it was a cone of styrene foam with the glass chips on the outside but no one was the wiser – it was the effect that mattered. At times, Adele and he walked arm-in-arm, at others they moved apart, an indication of their comfortable relationship. Much later, when they were in the cab, Simon put his hand on her knee. She did not draw away.

  ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ he asked, in what he imagined were seductive tones.

  ‘Yes! Though I’d have been uncomfortable without you. The art and the gallery and the special guests; I enjoyed it all but only because I had someone to steer me through it.’

  Simon smiled. ‘You looked very beautiful tonight.’ For a second his words kindled other memories. In some region of his hippocampus a few neurons connected and the image of a very young Stefanie Mitchell involuntarily appeared. Simon quickly dismissed it and concentrated on the woman beside him. As the cab progressed, the street lights strobed across her profile magnifying her allure. He singled out her full lips and leaned towards them. Adele kindly turned to face him, their noses centimetres apart, their eyes meeting.

  ‘In fairness we should discuss business, Simon. Then we can relax. Does twelve hundred sound reasonable?’

  ‘Perfectly, Christina,’ he purred, and placed his lips on hers.

  At the Regent things went smoothly. There seemed no reason for urgent grasping or sudden passionate embraces or a frenzied collapse on the bed. Simon faced Adele and took off his shoes, coat and trousers. She in turn stepped out of her dress and hung it up. She removed her stockings and he took off his shirt. Then they silently approached each other.

  JESS PHONED Elton. You promised to show me the Atreyu CD, she said, archly. The boy slumped back in his swivel chair and spun away from the monitor. Why had he given her his phone number? But the call was no surprise. The American metalcore band had just released a new video game to promote their latest single, ‘Gallows’, and Elton knew Jess would have seen it on Facebook. The game was called Metalhead Zombies and was styled after the popular Call of Duty series. Elton knew there were forty million people using Call of Duty and he was among them, regarding it the best first-person shooter game available. There, he could participate in modern warfare, immersing himself in the frontline action of any of the world’s actual wars. He’d driven tanks, flown choppers, infiltrated hostile territory and annihilated the enemy; he’d seen the terror in their eyes and spilled blood for the good of his country. Now, Atreyu had introduced their own version of the game and Elton would fall into it like a dolphin returning to the sea.

  He could hear Jess breathing on the other end of the phone.

  ‘How come you haven’t come over,’ she said. ’How come you haven’t lent me the CD, Lead Sails Paper Anchor? You don’t even have it, do you,’ she added accusingly.

  Elton needed none of it. What had he started? One root and he was stuck more emphatically than a Magnataur in quicksand. He liked her, he felt sure; he was overawed by her and they did have certain things in common, the metalcore band for one. But was actual contact necessary? He was in the middle of telling her that he might put the CD in her letterbox, when she unexpectedly hung up. What was wrong with her?

  JAMES LEANED forward and peered into the depths of Nikos’s extravagant project, an artwork in itself. He had become something of an expert in holes in the ground, though he was beginning to doubt the merits of such knowledge. Alone, he stood at the gaping recess, hands in pockets, and surveyed the damage. Clearly, at some stage far back in history, a cellar had once existed, and the bluestone blocks crusted with earth were again exposed, extending all the way down to a muddy cobblestone base. Nikos had excelled himself. With most of the earth removed, he must have shovelled away the remaining clay and lifted it out one plastic bucket at a time. Unfortunately, a yellow ooze now leaked from between the bluestone blocks. It seemed there was some sort of underground watercourse and the seepage was threatening the project. At this rate, James mused, the cellar might be better utilised as a swimming pool, though the stinking sludge might not appeal to paddlers.

  He recognised a particularly huge block of stone that protruded further than the others. It was on the far side, under the party wall adjoining Elton and Adele’s. He assessed it carefully; could it have always been like that or had it moved? He took off his shoes and socks, stepped through the window opening and climbed down the aluminium ladder. He crossed to the far wall, the soupy clay coating his feet like primitive slippers. There seemed no doubt: the bluestone blocks were collapsing. Again he climbed the ladder and trotted round to number 42.

  When Elton heard the bell, he felt sure it was Jess: she wants the CD. Bells and rings were a disconcerting thing for the boy, filling him with a disturbing sense of unease. The incessancy seemed less a beckoning and more a panic alert signalling, at the very least, some impending obligation. It was for this reason that the ringtone on his iPhone was the hiphop tune ‘Here We Go, Baby’.

  He leaned into the spyhole and was alarmed to see James’s head filling the viewfinder. He opened the door and recoiled as if challenged by one of his gaming monsters. His neighbour stood with pants rolled up, clay on his face and yellow smudges half-way up to his knees. There were muddy footprints all along the concrete.

  ‘Is your mother in?’

  Elton could not raise his eyes from the man’s filthy clothing. ‘No, she’s not.’

  ‘When will she be back?’

  ‘Don’t know. Tomorrow. She’s gone interstate.’

  James remembered that Jess had said she’d gone with their father.

  ‘Do you have her number? I need to speak to her. Your wall’s –’

  ‘You can’t ring her. She’s busy. I told you, she’ll be back tomorrow.’

  James explained the problem next door, that the foundations were in jeopardy and the wall might collapse. ‘It’s the party wall, the one between you and the Greek guy,’ he said. ‘Tell your mother to talk to him – the man doing all the digging. And pronto.’

  Elton had experienced the disruption all week: the irritating revs of the excavator, the shudder in the building, the bump and grind of skips being filled, taken way and replaced with new ones. For the large part he’d put on his headphones and tuned out; the amazing sound-effects of Battlefield 3 easily outstripping the noisy machinery – everything in fact from the outside world. But the man’s incessant digging and now James’s presence on the doorstep was evidence once more that no one could escape the ceaseless intrusions.

  ON THE FLIGHT back to Melbourne, Simon felt comfortably pleased with himself even though he never flew Business Class and was wasting his precious inheritance doing so. A glance towards the plane’s cloud-filled portal meant taking in the profile of a woman who had just given him two and a half days of undivided attention, along with pleasures he hadn’t known since 1998 or thereabouts. He felt younger and rejuvenated.

  How proud he’d been on that first night to have an attractive stranger hanging onto his arm as he moved confidently around his own installation in one of Australia’s most prestigious galleries. He’d drawn considerable attention and observed, with some pleasure, that some he knew took particular notice, probably recognising in him the qualities befitting his profession: maverick, mysterious (who was that woman?), unconventional and risqué (it clearly wasn’t his wife).

  The sex had been above expectations, although not immediately, not the first night. Simon had stood opposite Adele, both in their underwear, and for some reason his resolve had faded in the deluxe suite’s atmospheric glow like a badly-fixed photograph. Perhaps it was the alcohol – or the importance of the evening, as Adele suggested. But it was his nerves that attacked him, rendering his vital organ useless. Adele reassured him; she made him feel proud to be mature enough not to succumb to the boy’s rush for gratification. She sat astride him and massaged his greying torso with delicate perfume di
rectly from her own body. She kissed every part of him, bestowing affection more ardently than a honeymoon bride. But still the crucial aspect of his masculinity failed to respond. They slept then, Adele quite peacefully, with the trace of a smile on her full lips moisturised with Lancôme gel.

  The second night proved much better. Adele urged him on while conveying the impression that he was leading the way, taking him deep into realms of unbridled salaciousness, and when the moment finally arrived, he exploded with the accelerated force of a bursting plum. He’d never felt such elation, such relief.

  For Adele, it was an interesting exercise. She was pleased to find herself so capable, in part because of the availability of pornography. Upon taking up her new occupation, it seemed imperative that she bring herself up to speed with modern ideas about sex. In her younger days with Randall, the things they got up to behind closed doors had seemed like wicked transgressions, but in contemporary terms they were actually quite mundane. Adele now felt that her experience should be updated, in the same way that she’d kept abreast of fashion through style magazines. She might never require such carnal skills but the knowledge was necessary, just as a nurse needs to understand surgical procedure. The internet – as her son Elton knew very well – could provide rivers of information with little more than a few hours’ browsing. But in the end, the porno research left only two things obvious: 1. Men were more perverse than she imagined. 2. Nothing was regarded by them, as too vulgar.

  Waking that second morning, she looked at Simon as though he’d just opened her handbag and filled it with diamonds. In reality he’d only given her two, one for each ear, another extravagance that would require a discreet transference from the joint account. He smiled and a thought abruptly materialised, the same one he’d had the night before, just seconds after his climax: was it worth it?

  They touched down in Melbourne, and each wisely took a separate cab, arriving home ten minutes and ten metres apart, mutually satisfied with an agreement ably transacted. But as Simon pushed his key into the front-door lock, that same thought arrived a third time: had it been worth it? What had he forfeited? How strange that the chance for a sexual encounter could encourage the abandonment of all else that one might hold dear. For such an opportunity, a male mantis will have its head bitten off – which, as Simon now feared, might not be unknown in the human world either.

  EARLY ON the following morning, an earth tremor of seismic proportions struck the premises. Arman felt it and was awake first, then Adele, Jess and Stefanie, who immediately woke Simon. Elton heard it and the shudder also awakened one his monitors, bathing his chequered bedcover in blue light. He went to his mother’s room.

  ‘I think there’s been an earthquake,’ he groaned, crustily.

  ‘An earthquake?’ Adele sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. It was 6.05 a.m. Elton hit the main switch and the gritty sound of falling mortar drew their attention to the wall. A crack had appeared wide enough to insert a human hand and it ran from the ceiling to the floor, tearing old wallpaper under layers of paint, passing diagonally behind a wall-mounted mirror and reappearing beneath it. Another clump of sand and stone spilled onto the carpet.

  Adele knew the cause immediately. Upon arriving home from Sydney she had gone upstairs to rest while Elton slept, and late in the afternoon they’d both emerged. Elton mentioned that Shaun had phoned again, though he hadn’t picked up. There was a message on the machine he told his mother, and they were in the process of arguing the pros and cons of a visit from the boy when Elton suddenly remembered the conversation with James. He explained it as best he could and Adele immediately went round to inspect the excavation. She decided to talk to Nikos at the first opportunity. Now, at six in the morning, she knew the ideal time to discuss it had already passed.

  She slipped into her dressing-gown and ran down the stairs with Elton behind her. They stepped out onto the footpath just as Simon and Stef appeared, and Adele approached them.

  ‘The foundations are collapsing! There’s a huge crack in my wall!’

  Simon looked up at the building. ‘Where?’

  ‘My bedroom wall, on our neighbour’s side.’

  Jess stayed in bed, refusing to react to some impending doom. Then she thought of James and decided to go and warn him. Looks like whole building’s coming down, she said with fabricated apathy. James jumped to his feet and ran out the back way. Jess strode after him – it was not her style to run.

  They assembled in the side street just as the sun raised its languid dial between the suburb’s backyard trees. Benton and Arman emerged from the grey door in Ward Street, and as soon as he realised what had happened, Benton went back inside to phone Nikos. He returned with a plastic flashlight and carried it to the odd assortment of neighbours gathered around the void that was once a window. They allowed the tall Englishman to press through and shine his torch all over the sunken interior where it easily picked up the collapse of bluestone blocks in the opposite wall.

  ‘It’s Nick’s handiwork,’ he stated, emphatically. ‘Nothing to do with us, is it Arman?’

  The Afghan looked into his housemate’s reddened eyes. ‘Nick does not live here,’ he said.

  ‘But I’ve phoned him,’ Benton added. ‘He’s coming over.’ He glanced at Adele and she smiled, recalling the day he’d installed her TV.

  All of them took turns to assess the collapsing party wall; there was little else they could do. Simon and Adele were at pains not to recognise each other, but at one point when they were standing close Arman approached them.

  ‘Hello, mister and missus,’ he chirped. Through his raven black beard he smiled generously, his strong white teeth exposed. ‘Remember me? I drive your cab into the airport. I hope you had a happy honeymoon trip.’

  The two eyed him intently and, as he moved away, Simon tried not to notice his wife’s perplexed expression. But Stef’s glare had settled firmly on him.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Jess spun into action. ‘Yes you do, Dad. Fess up.’

  James’s jaw dropped. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jess? Mind your own business.’

  ‘It is my business.’

  ‘It’s not!’

  Elton squirmed towards the back of the gathering but Jess spotted him. ‘Elton,’ she called, ‘where’re you going? How come you never lent me Atreyu?’

  Stef faced her daughter. ‘You know him?’

  ‘’Course! We’ve screwed each other, haven’t we, Elt?’

  ‘You’ve what?’ It was Adele’s turn now but she wished she hadn’t spoken, acutely aware of the other woman’s barbed scrutiny.

  ‘Do you know my husband, by chance?’ Stef was fairly certain of the answer.

  ‘Look, Stefanie,’ Simon said sternly. ‘Leave Christina out of this, we have another issue here that –’

  ‘Christina?’ Jess laughed. ‘Whaoo – gotta love it: Christina – she’s Adele!’

  ‘Shut up, Jess,’ yelped Elton. ‘Shut up!’

  ‘You shut up!’

  Stefanie scanned the group. ‘Would someone please explain what’s going on? How come you all know each other?’ She glared at Adele and then at her husband. ‘Simon. Do you know this person? What’s that guy talking about?’

  Arman did his best to appear inconspicuous. What had he started? The woman and the man, the boy and the girl, were they all … adulterers? Zina was punishable by death.

  Simon tried not to catch his wife’s eye. ‘It’s a misunderstanding, that’s all.’

  ‘A misunderstanding?’ Jess was in front of them and her father fixed her with a savage look.

  ‘Jess, will you please keep out of this?’

  James addressed both his parents. ‘How about you two sort out your problems in private?’ he said, but his mother was having none of it.

  ‘Simon, what are they talking about? Is there something going on between you and this woman?’ She rammed her knuckles firmly onto her hi
ps. ‘Simon?’

  ‘Go on, Dad,’ Jess needled. ‘Answer her.’

  Benton tuned in carefully. He was used to accusations; he was familiar with the role of third parties, the way they stepped up bravely to condemn others of whom they had no real knowledge. It was a phenomenon he understood and it had irredeemably changed his life.

  Just then Nick’s Toyota ute turned into the side street and pulled up a dozen metres away. He left the car door open and marched towards them.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  Arman saw his opportunity. ‘I woke up and heard it. Then I went –’

  ‘The wall!’ Benton spouted. ‘Your cellar’s collapsing.’

  Arman gave him a sour look – as if he should be the one to tell of it. Ben might still be sleeping away his hangover if he hadn’t roused him.

  Benton led Nikos to the hole and pointed his torch.

  ‘Bugger me! The wall’s fallen in!’ Nikos turned to face the group and saw James among them. He stabbed his finger. ‘It might not have happened if he’d helped me when I asked him to.’

  ‘You’re blaming me? For fuck’s sake!’

  Stef, still flushed from the other issue, snapped at her son. ‘Watch your mouth, James!’

  ‘Give me a break! I’ve got nothing to do with it. In fact, I saw there was gonna be a problem yesterday, before it even happened. That’s why I –’

  ‘You saw it and din’ tell me?’ Nikos’s face reddened. ‘Then it is your fault!’

  ‘This will cost you, mate!’ Simon glared at Nikos, pleased to have the focus redirected. ‘This could have ramifications for the whole building. You get a proper contractor over here immediately, before the entire wall comes down!’