Harlequin Rex (27 page)

Neither
of
them
said
much
about
prison
at
all,
even
when
their
conversation
took
place
within
one.
They
spoke
of
school,
sport,
Sharkey
and
Sneaky
Pete:
they
spoke
of
over
seas
,
women
and
whether
Wellington
would
be
a
good
place
to
live.
They
said
nothing
directly
of
friendship,
or
obligation,
nothing
of
fear,
remorse
or
apprehension.
The
bounds
of
their
friendship
had
been
prescribed
a
long
time
ago,
and
they
never
thought
to
alter
them.
Chris's
hair
was
still
short
from
his
time
inside,
and
his
neck
had
the
beginning
of
habitual
creases.
He
talked
with
very
little
movement
of
his
lips.
For
the
first
time
David
realised
that
he
and
Chris
weren't
young
any
more
—
not
old,
not
even
close
to
middle
age,
but
not
young
any
more,
and
the
thought
was
a
sour
one.
He
wasn't
where
he
wanted
to
be
by
that
time
in
his
life.

‘You
keep
your
pecker
up,'
said
Chris.
‘You
haven't
got
that
long
here
now
yourself.
'

‘I'll
be
okay.'

‘We're
not
finished
yet,
don't
you
worry.
A
year
or
so
to
set
up,
and
I
intend
to
be
away
laughing,'
Chris
said.
What
had
happened
to
his
art
skills,
his
love
of
Modigliani,
whom
he
used
to
call
the
brightest
alcoholic
of
them
all?
What
had
happened
to
his
pinch
of
Asia
looks,
and
his
strut
before
the
world?

The
other
visits
were
from
his
mother,
who
came
all
the
way
from
Auckland.
She
told
him
again
that
she
wanted
that
clean
break
with
the
south.
‘I
wanted
a
complete
change,
otherwise
I'd
make
no
effort
to
start
again,'
she
said.
His
father
had
made
a
clean
break
too,
hadn't
he,
without
ever
leaving
Beth
Car.

Against
logic,
his
mother
was
growing
taller
and
thinner
with
age.
You
can't
fatten
a
thoroughbred,
was
his
father's
saying.
Her
shins
were
all
soup
bone,
her
neck
soaring,
her
hands
and
wrists
such
obvious
articulation,
even
her
teeth
seemingly
enlarged
and
packing
out
her
mouth.
It
meant
she
was
able
to
wear
clothes
with
style,
despite
her
age.
On
her
second
visit,
in
the
July
cold,
she
wore
a
black
suit
and
a
cherry
red
cape.

‘Let's
not
talk
of
your
father,'
she
said
when
pressed.
‘He's
gone.
A
good
father
and
provider,
but
he's
gone,
David.
Don't
sadden
yourself
with
comparisons
between
then
and
now.'

She
showed
no
embarrassment
to
be
in
the
prison;
no
doubt
she
would
have
come
more
often
if
she'd
lived
closer.
There
was
no
thought
to
deny
him.
She
had
come
to
terms
with
her
disappointment
in
a
practical
way.
David's
criminality
was
like
polio,
or
retardation:
it
had
to
be
acquiesced
in.
She
must
accept
also
that
because
of
it
he'd
never
have
the
same
opportunities
and
attainments
as
other
people.
Love
and
allegiance
were
still
there,
but
also
disappointment
that
he
was
weak,
lacking
in
judgement
and
responsibility.
‘Can
I
help
in
any
plans
you
have
for
your
release?'
she
said.

No
interest
in
his
life
in
the
place
itself:
how
the
long
nights
might
be
passed,
whether
he
gagged
on
the
fatty
chops.
No
interest
in
his
fears
and
apprehensions,
which
motherhood
might
encompass
even
if
male
friendship
did
not,
because
after
all
he'd
chosen
his
own
way.
No
interest
 
in
his
work
with
Wiremu
among
the
younger
prisoners.
No
interest,
above
all,
in
the
guilt
he
bore
drawn
tight
like
catgut
around
his
heart,
the
origin
of
all
the
things
he
was.
Guilt
that
lay
further
back
than
anything
which
he'd
done
wrong;
the
powerful,
grieving
guilt
that
comes
from
divided
love.

Guilt's
consequence
is
the
failure
to
any
more
see
yourself
as
deserving.

‘I'll
just
keep
my
head
down
for
a
while
when
I
come
out,'
he
said.
‘Get
some
simple
nine
to
fiver
for
a
living.'

‘Come
and
live
with
me
if
you
wish.'
What
more
pelican
flesh
did
she
have
to
give
from
that
spare
frame?
‘I
mean
it.
Come
if it's
any
help
to
you.
There's
a
spare
bedroom
and
a
view
across
the
sea.'
Love
is
never
quite
burnt
out,
no
matter
what
is
lost
to
age,
to
sickness,
to
disappointment,
to
years
apart.
And
when
he
asked
about
her
own
life
she
said,
‘Things
must
be
let
go,
or
they
tear
out
by
the
roots.
All
my
good
friends
are
dead.
'
He
was
sure
she
intended
the
second
sentence
to
defuse
the
first.
Her
cheeks
were
concave,
as
if
the
pressure
within
what
little
cavity
her
body
held,
was
less
than
on
the
outside.
Her
black
and
red
were
in
defiance
of
the
visiting
room's
regulation
furniture,
and
the
display
of
convict
art
at
$250
a
pop.
The
pictures
were
painted
by
Turtle
Watts
who
jerked
off
into
the
mixed
colours
of
his
palette
because
the
woman
instructor
told
him
to
put
more
of
himself
into
his
work.
As
a
result
of
a
petition
from
the
local
arts
society,
Turtle
was
allowed
to
paint
in
his
cell.
He
tore
out
magazine
landscape
photographs
and
set
them
up
by
his
easel
to
copy.

What
was
permitted
in
the
visiting
room
was
defined
by
exclusion
—
no
smoking,
no
liquor,
no
cellphones,
no
groups
larger
than
three,
no
eating,
no
exchange
of
clothing,
no
carrybags
beyond
the
door.
But
presumably
you
could
be
operated
on
for
piles,
or
form
barber-shop
quartets.
‘Are
you
happy
at
Herne
Bay,
Mum?'
he'd
asked.
The
thick
hem
of
her
cherry
coat
trembled
as
she
sat
in
the
tubular
chair, 
and
her
hands
shook
slightly
although
her
voice
was
strong.
‘I'm
on
the
committee
of
seven
organisations,'
she
said.