The Colour of the Night Page 8

  ‘What’s it matter? What do you care?’

  Jess decided to take a gamble. She had no facts, but she’d once seen a lawyer use a similar tactic in the absence of any actual evidence.

  ‘She’s dating my dad.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘James saw them out on the footpath; out the front, the other night.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘No bullshit. They know each other. Bet you didn’t know that?’

  Elton felt his blood pressure rising. Could it be true? Of course it was possible. But while he knew everything about Jess, including her tendency towards asthma, her preference for ice over speed and her toying with anorexia, he did not want her or anybody else, inside the secret chambers of his life – especially when it involved the occupation of his mother. Online, he could be anyone, look like anyone, act like anyone, but it was not so easy in real life.

  Jess was grinning now. She was wearing a short black skirt and she sat on the bed with bare legs slightly parted, pointing her dark recesses at him. It was all too much and Elton sensed something ominous closing around him. He rose from the floor, announced an important engagement elsewhere, scurried down the stairs and launched himself back into the street.

  ‘CHRISTINA? I’d like to see you again – is that possible?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Simon hesitated. Standing in the bedroom he thought he heard someone on the stairs and held the phone, but detected nothing but the TV. He explained how being neighbours meant a little more discretion was required, but he had so enjoyed her refreshing company; couldn’t they arrange another … appointment? The silence that followed suggested he was awaiting the reply of an intelligent woman.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Would you come to Sydney with me?’

  ‘Sydney?’

  He was leaving on Tuesday, he said. The Art Gallery of New South Wales had taken a work of his out of storage and installed it. There was going to be an important opening. He hoped she might be free to fly up with him. They would be back on Thursday.

  ‘Simon, I do business transactions; I wouldn’t go as a dalliance.’

  ‘No, of course not. Do you have a special rate for three days?’ He tried to make it sound jovial.

  ‘I would want to keep this very discreet.’

  ‘Of course. The flight leaves at 3 p.m. I’ll be at my studio so you could get a cab and pick me up from there … around one?’

  Simon smiled as Adele confirmed the details. He closed his phone and stood silently by the bed. His heart raced at the thought of an art event that he might actually enjoy – apart from the rest of it. Engaged with these thoughts, he did not realise that behind him and just outside the door, Jess was backing towards the banister. She stepped lightly down the stairs to where her mother sat watching the news. She looked up as Jess approached.

  ‘Hi love, what’s new?’

  ‘Not much,’ her daughter replied.

  A LARGE BROWN box arrived and Benton knew immediately what was in it. It was addressed to the woman next door but the delivery man said no one was answering at that address. Benton kindly took possession of it and parked the carton in his own passageway.

  That evening after work he went to number 42 and rang the bell. An attractive woman answered and followed him around to his own door. Between the two, they managed to lug the big cardboard container back to her living room.

  Benton immediately warmed to Adele. She seemed pleasant and relaxed, and gave no indication of censure or evaluation. Even so, he was surprised to find himself volunteering to unpack and set up her new LCD television.

  ‘Please don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I have someone else who can do it.’

  ‘Are you sure? I’d be honoured to help. It’s my occupation, you know – for the moment at least. The right man for the right job, eh? What about you let me show off my expertise?’

  Adele helped strip away the packaging and looked on while the tall Englishman confidently put everything in place, his nimble fingers fiddling with the leads and the settings until a good picture appeared on each channel. Adele asked him to stay for a cup of tea and Benton graciously accepted.

  On the comfortable couches he told her something of his life story, particularly of his aristocratic ancestry. He told how it had all gone terribly awry when he was just a boy, how his grandfather had died when he was seven. His father? Never knew him, Benton said, and Adele felt drawn to the man. She explained how her own family had originated outside of Liverpool and that she had once returned there on holiday. Elton had been named after a small hamlet nearby.

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘No, my son. Grown up now. He’s normally here but God knows what he’s up to.’

  ‘Boys, eh? An unusual species; a rare breed; unclassifiable.’

  She laughed amiably and Benton laughed with her. And when he finally left she found herself pleasantly heartened by her kind neighbour.

  Benton arrived back to find Arman fussing in the kitchen. Things had improved between them. The Afghan had consulted Muhammad: None truly believes until he wishes for his brother what he wishes for himself, and when Benton was at his best he still held Arman transfixed.

  ‘My grandfather spoke five languages,’ he’d declared one morning. ‘Spanish, French, a little German – and Latin of course. Lingua Latina. You know Latin? The building blocks of English, Arman. My grandfather used to quote Latin as we walked by the old Oakham Canal. I can still see that shimmering waterway. One afternoon the little pond-nymphs began to hatch, the brisk air suffused with sunlight, and it teemed with tiny mahogany mayflies rising like the dust from an old wood-lathe.’ Arman tried to compare such an extraordinary event with his own world, where something as gnarly as an old olive tree might not endure.

  He listened to these daylight dissertations with admiring interest and averted his eyes in the evenings when Benton angled past the door; a different, unrecognisable man. Benton himself contributed to the harmony by adopting the habit of isolation. When things looked critical he closed his door, shutting himself up in the whisky-fuelled unmediated realm of the internet where no one, not even his pious, God fearing fellow renter, could censor him.

  NIKOS FIRED up the excavator at 7.30 a.m. A minute earlier it would have been illegal, but even so, the operation of heavy equipment on Saturday mornings was hardly appreciated. It stirred James from a deep sleep. He’d been out until a little after three and expected to remain comatose until noon. But now the thrum of a big diesel engine came reverberating through his bedroom wall and he snapped awake as readily as a mother responding to an infant’s bleat. In his mind’s eye he could easily see Nikos manoeuvring the machine in stop-start jerky motions up and down the side street, raising the bucket, working the levers to alter its angle before dropping it again. He listened to him ease forward, reverse back and ease forward again. He imagined the man’s thoughts: Piece of fuckin’ cake.

  On the footpath, Arman observed the progress with some interest – it took his mind off his fellow renter who would still be surfacing from the fug that followed his inebriation. With confidence building, Nikos poked the bucket on its mechanical arm through the side window of the building and rested it on the dirt floor. A pull of a lever and it dug into the earth. With some trouble he managed to curve the bucket and lift it, a jerk forth and a jolt back, until at last he was reversing out of the hole. At this point he turned a little hastily and took from the wall a chunk of brick and mortar the size of a small suitcase. As the dust settled Nikos cut the motor and climbed down to inspect the damage.

  Just then James emerged from the back lane walking his shiny black pushbike. Nikos caught sight of him. ‘Ah, jus’ the man I wanted to see! Could you work this thing for me? Just a few goes; show me how it’s done?’

  ‘Sorry, I have to go,’ James told him, averting his gaze from the damaged wall; it hurt his sensibilities.

  ‘Just tell us: what’s dis thing?’ the Greek gestured i
nto the cabin. ‘Dis thing here, dis lever?’ He urged James to take a closer look.

  ‘The locking lever. It locks the boom, arm and bucket. And the swing function. I think you better get yourself a proper contractor.’

  ‘You do a few scoops for me, eh? Show me how it’s done.’

  James explained that Nikos should hire someone with insurance. It’s too tricky for me, he added, finally. It was better to pretend a lack of skill than be drawn into the project. Nikos started the machine again, lifted the bucket, and as he emptied the first load of dirt into the skip, James pedalled off down the street. Professionalism was something he admired – just as his father did – but Nikos was no specialist. And his approach to this current task had all the hallmarks of a weekend do-it-yourselfer tinkering on the edge of a major catastrophe.

  STEF SPIED Simon’s black jacket hanging over a chair by the window. She noted a long black hair curiously suspended from it, a single strand caught in the morning light. She did not suspect infidelity but all week she’d felt that something was up: the way Simon marched around the house, lightly nervous. It was not his style. It wouldn’t be the Sydney trip. Even though she wasn’t accompanying him, it was more typical of Simon to act casual about such excursions, even careless. But sitting without a glass of wine in front of the TV, rising again for no good reason, fiddling with the remote and switching channels and suddenly stretching; it just wasn’t like him. Mid-life crisis, she suspected.

  She saw it again on Tuesday morning as he fumbled with his suitcase, packing shoes before exchanging them for a different pair. Perhaps, with age, he was succumbing to nerves, as many people did; she’d watched her own father’s confidence slowly deteriorate in the way that others lost their memories. She dropped her husband at his studio as usual, wished him luck and continued on her way.

  Simon was indeed nervous. He wasn’t quite sure why, except that he’d made a commitment: he’d guaranteed an attractive, intelligent woman, whom he didn’t really know, a good time over a period of days – and at some cost. Why he was doing it was anyone’s guess. Still, he was paying so she shouldn’t complain. Yet his reputation as a dynamic, engaging, desirable man was now put on notice by none other than himself – and Christina was no pushover.

  Around noon, while he fussed unproductively in the studio, Adele phoned for a cab. Arman had just left home when the call came in. He had agreed to take an extra shift and, upon giving the taxi-seats a wipe over, had barely entered Frederick Street when he was summoned – he was the nearest cab without a fare. He made a U-turn and stopped outside his neighbour’s house, pleased with his ability to attract such good fortune. Adele emerged and Arman placed her suitcase in the boot.

  ‘Hello again!’ he said, but Adele seemed not to catch it. They drove to Simon’s studio where he was waiting on the steps. Simon climbed in beside Adele and the Arman launched the cab towards the airport.

  Simon leaned towards his companion as he clipped the seatbelt. ‘How are you?’ he asked with exaggerated affection.

  ‘Great. What about you?’

  ‘Top shape. I must admit I don’t particularly like these gallery events, even with my own work on show, but I’m looking forward to this one.’

  And I’m looking forward to being with you. You must be pleased that you’re getting the acknowledgment?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am. And pleased that we could go together.’

  Boldly, he leaned across and kissed Adele’s cheek and Arman saw it in the mirror. What funny people these Westerners were. Still behaving like newlyweds. As Simon paid the fare outside the Qantas terminal, Arman looked for traces of the henna that might still stain his little finger. Of course it didn’t, that was reserved for the very young, and it was unlikely that his passengers were recently married. But he had to admit, their public intimacy in middle-age was a Western trait not common among Afghan couples.

  JAMES STOOD motionless in his kitchen. From the table he picked up a fermenting orange and threw it forcefully into the bin. He touched the bruising down the right side of his body, a painful plum-coloured blaze that graphically confirmed a range of troubling issues. First, the light was dimming on his career as a council worker. Old George had said, You’re not cut out for this work, son. I ended up here because there weren’t no other choices. But you’re smarter, boy. So why the hell are you here? James was realising it was a fair question.

  Second, he had just returned from a night out with some graf boys. He usually identified with them, but tonight, that had all changed when they’d deftly and comprehensively kicked his head in. Zoon, Zexta and Spink – or whatever their fucking street names were – had surrounded him in an alley well-known for its brick façades reworked many times by graffiti artists. James equated those marked walls with the renderings in prehistoric caves; surfaces that revealed a significant narrative of the age. Why should he not contribute?

  Even in the poor street-light, he’d recognised the three teenagers the moment their silhouettes loomed. But it was their silence that alarmed him and, as he greeted them cordially, one boy parked a sidekick somewhere near his spleen sending shockwaves to his fingertips. He went down immediately. They leered menacingly and kicked his plastic bag of spraycans along the cobblestones. The ting and tong of bouncing canisters, seemed to precipitate a second assault, and now they really started in on him, booting his alarmed anatomy in the same general direction as his pressure packs. It wasn’t until his limp form slumped neatly into the irregular contours of the alley that one of them finally spoke.

  ‘What you doin’ on our turf, boy?’

  James didn’t answer.

  ‘You hear me? You lucky I don’t shank you in the eye with me fuckin’ house keys. You don’t belong here, kid. Get off the fuckin’ tarmac! You wiv me?’ James managed a grunt and when he finally opened his eyes they were gone. He staggered to his feet, found his bike and wobbled home.

  In the morning his eyelids parted to a spattering of crimson on the pillow. He went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Returning to the bedroom mirror, he was inspecting his bruises when Jess bounced in.

  ‘Got some big news, Jimmy …’ Her eyes widened. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Got done over by some kids in Harper Lane. Three of ’em.’

  ‘Gross! Did it hurt?’

  ‘No, Jess, it was a remedial massage.’

  ‘They shoulda hit me; I’m immune to pain.’

  ‘You’re not immune to anything, Jess. Stop with the bullshit, will you?’

  ‘What the fuck would you know?’

  ‘Stop thinking about yourself all the time, okay?’

  ‘Oh, here we go, take sides with Mum and Dad why don’t you.’

  ‘I’m not taking sides with anyone. I’ve just had it up to here with … with all the crap around this place. With all the crap around everywhere.’

  Jess studied him. ‘Welcome to my world, Jimmy. At last my own brother is –’

  ‘I’m not interested in your world! I’m not interested in all the shit you wallow in, and I hate the way you slope around feeling sorry for yourself. Just fuck off, Jess.’ He opened a chest of drawers in search of a shirt.

  Jess sat down on his bed. ‘The mugging scattered your brains.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I got some news.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  James sighed. ‘You found a job.’

  ‘Fuck with the job. I found out about Dad. He’s definitely on with the woman next door. He’s paying for it. She’s a sex worker.’

  James pulled a T-shirt over his head. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Heard Dad on the phone. They’ve gone to Sydney for three days.’

  ‘Does Mum know?’

  ‘Course not, dummy. What’s the point if she knows?’

  ‘Well, I don’t care. It’s his business. If he wants to wreck his marriage it has nothi
ng to do with me.’

  Jess could think of nothing further to add. She’d thought it might be fun to engage conspiratorially with her brother, but his battered torso seemed to have torpedoed that. She suddenly had the urge to see Elton again. Maybe he would side with her.

  SHAUN GOOGLED Elton on the internet – and there he was. The boy wasn’t allowed to use Facebook but he found his older cousin easily enough. Elton contributed to conversations on dozens of sites: You ask why I fight. Like asking why leaves fall. That’s what a warrior is. Elsewhere he said, I don’t kill animals for no reason. But if necessary I will rip out a Murloc’s organs and trade them to goblins for gold and explosives.

  Shaun gazed over the laptop to the kitchen window and thought of the Scarlet Robin that had dashed itself upon the glass earlier in the day. He saw that incident as an unhappy clash between the human world and the little bird’s. If it was his choice, he’d eliminate windows, then all the birds could pass through unhindered and he himself would feel a little closer to them, to their way of life. That morning he’d carried the little bird, still warm, back to the forest and with his hands dug a shallow resting-place in the leaf litter beneath the massive gums. Fortunately the breeding season was over so there was no need to be concerned for nestlings. Even so, as he sat at the kitchen table now, Shaun wondered where the robin’s life partner might be. And he wondered why his city cousin hadn’t returned his calls.

  People lead busy lives, his mother had told him, which the boy interpreted to mean: they are unable to add to their crowded calendars, one more activity, conversation, or phone call. What must that feel like? Would his own life eventually fill up as well, leaving no room for anything new? And what was a Murloc? He found it described on a website: a humanoid fish creature with sharp fangs and a slime-coated skin with uncanny fighting abilities suggesting a sinister intelligence.

  THROUGH THE spyhole Elton saw Jess on the footpath. He liked it; he didn’t like it; he felt threatened and flattered and scared. He tried to think.

  ‘I know you’re in there, Elton – open up.’