The Low Road (13 page)

Now he took the crowbar from beneath his coat and applied it to the thick iron of the chemist shop's rear door. A loose fan of calling cards from a security firm was stuck in the jamb. A balloon of urgency swelled within him. His nose and eyes were running and his hands were moist and sensitive. It was as if his body were dissolving into some former evolutionary state. He edged the clawed end between the door and the jamb and leaned with his body until he heard the mournful crack of the physical world giving way.

Even in the dim, angular light, locating the storeroom was routine. A brickwork of pale cartons and bags on low metal shelves. The dry smell of chalk and bleach. Gloves and powders, the stuff of quiet salvation. It didn't take long to locate what he wanted.

The once-tender crook of his left arm was clouded with bruises and fresh needle marks where he'd been striking at his ever-reliable median cubital vein for so long. With pursed lips, he regarded the wreckage in the shallow light, deciding where to try first. By now the desire or need had become something else entirely: a vast, unfed tenant pressing against his interior, pounding at the walls of his body.

Wild knew about veins, venules and arteries; about the systems that carried his blood, about their layers, how veins had valves but arteries didn't. About the hepatic portal system that ferried blood from the spleen to the liver. Basic stuff, really, first-year medicine, but it still managed to amaze and frighten him. He knew the map of the human circulatory system from
Gray's Anatomy
, the illustration like that of a leafless tree.

He had studied the body and its workings for years, but it was still largely a mystery to him. Like remote African tribes, his organs went about their business regardless of his knowledge of them. The
why
was always elusive. In Renaissance Europe, theatres of anatomy were established in the belief that such visceral exploration had a moral imperative, like colonising savage lands. The body as a map of God's very own making. Anatomists were not dissimilar to priests, interpreting the divine as they found it in human form. The title-page woodcut of Andreas Vesalius's sixteenth-century
De Humani Corporis Fabrica
features a crowd of men, a hundred or more, jostling for a better view of one such examination. The men are bearded and robed, their mouths agape with wonder at the sight of the organs of the unfortunate woman on the table, whose skin is folded back like a curtain. One can imagine the collective inhalation of breath, the murmurs of incredulity and horror. And in the centre of the crowd is Vesalius himself, gesturing serenely towards the cadaver's inner world. The same year, whatever year it was, Copernicus published his treatise on the solar system. All this artful investigation, of worlds inner and outer, to no great end.

Wild decided to try an entry point elsewhere, and tapped at the vein curling from his elbow across his wrist. The radial vein, closer to the surface. He flexed his fingers until the blueish worm swelled, vaguely erotic. He felt sorry for it as he angled the needle in low under the skin until, striking the vein, a thread of blood blossomed into the liquid.
Hypo
means under.
Dermis
means skin. Holding his breath, he depressed the plunger until the full amount had vanished. In this fashion he ushered portions of the world into himself.

With his back against the cold wall of the chemist storeroom he monitored the drug's rapid progress through his body, warming first his heart then flooding outwards until the medicinal flavour stung the back of his throat a second or two later. His frame sagged and his bones softened as the opiate exerted its primary effects on his central nervous system. His cough reflex was suppressed and he imagined he could feel his pupils contracting to the size of pinpricks. He didn't really feel much. After all, that was the whole point. He cast the plastic syringe aside. His breathing became long and deep, and his body became loose and habitable again, a place to set up home.

Addiction is a concentrated form of futility; it was always almost worth it, never quite so. A former friend used to say with a mocking laugh:
Why do we like beating our heads against a wall? Because it feels so good when we stop.
Wild exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. He rolled the empty morphine ampoule between thumb and forefinger, detecting writing on its otherwise smooth surface; tiny words, possessing secret meanings.
Morphine. 120mg/2mL Btch 24060G.
Isolated in the early nineteenth century by a German pharmacist with a long and complicated name—Friedrich something or other—and named after Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams. Chemical formula C
₁₇
H
₁₉
NO
₃
. The only thing between himself and oblivion.

Wild stretched out his long legs and concentrated on shucking off his humanness. One of his shoelaces was undone. Later. He would fix it later. It was dangerous to stay here longer than absolutely necessary, but he resolved to do so for a little while at least. He stared at the tiled floor and imagined it would be strangely pleasurable to run the nail of his little finger along the grouting. It looked perfect for such an action, and the combination of the rough grout and the smooth tile would certainly be pleasing. He was tempted to lean forward and try it, to see if he had been right, but was reluctant to disturb his newly established balance. There would be time for that later.

He thought about his life, the remains of which were a long way away, many continents from here. His house, the bony winter jasmine clutching at flaking weatherboard, how the slab of sunlight fell upon the carpet each morning. What he felt was something akin to nostalgia, not for the past but for an unlived version of his present, the life he could have led. It was a condition of his exile, this feeling.

He sat for some time preoccupied with himself. On the storeroom floor beside him was a cardboard box of morphine ampoules and another box of syringes. He rubbed his nose with a palm. The empty ampoule tumbled to the floor where it jangled and rolled until it came to a halt against the wall. It seemed a meaningless thing, remote, like the bark of a neighbour's dog.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there when he heard the back door being shoved open. Metal squawked on wood, followed by silence. Strange how one could sense the small shift in the quality of the air that suggested a person listening. Wild struggled to his feet in stages, like a camel, and turned off the light. Everything was slow and unwieldy. Too late. The silhouette of a figure appeared in the doorway, standing awkwardly, a suitcase in one hand. Wild stayed still, just breathing, flat against a shelf, willing himself invisible. The figure was wearing a suit, like a detective. He reached about for his crowbar. A stupid thought. As if he'd do anything like that.

A whispered voice. Wild?

Wild paused. Lee? Is that you? You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing? How did you find me?

We have to get out of here.

What are you wearing? A
suit
?

Yeah.

Very nice. You look very nice. But I got to say, you scared the hell out of me. Please don't do that. I thought you were the police.

The sudden movement had unsettled Wild and he stood and steadied himself against the wall. Bile rose in his throat and he assumed a vomiting stance, hands braced against his knees. His skin was cool and slick with sweat.

Lee indicated the boxes shipwrecked on the linoleum floor. Take your dope and let's go, he said. The jacks are outside.

Wild jerked to attention. The police? They're here? Oh no. Damn. We've got to get out of here. He gathered his boxes and followed Lee into the alleyway. He made to return in the direction of the motel, but Lee grabbed at his arm. The cardboard side of one of the boxes came loose and a handful of ampoules clattered to the cobbled ground. He squatted and began scooping them up.

We need to go another way, Lee whispered. His face had a lunar shine in the alleyway light.

But the car?

They know the car. That's how they found us. Those kids from the crash must have told the cops. They seemed to know the licence number and everything. I should have … I don't know, but it was a mistake.

Wild stood up and adjusted his hold on the boxes. His thoughts were cumbersome, not suited to comprehension. Even things happening immediately around him seemed to be a long way away, the sounds and implications taking some time to reach him. He looked at Lee and when he spoke his breath smudged the damp night air. They didn't follow you, did they? The police?

No.

You sure?

Lee nodded. Yeah, I'm sure.

It had begun to rain, a thin drizzle visible as a halo around the streetlight at the alleyway corner. Tiny drops trembled on Lee's eyelashes and jewelled in his hair.

Anyway, Lee said at last. Let's go. We got to go. We got to move somewhere.

Wild stood where he was and gathered his boxes to his chest. They were awkward to handle, like small, squirming animals. He looked about. We can't go on foot.

Lee slumped against a crumpled corrugated-iron fence. He grimaced and pulled his collar about his throat. Well. What are we going to do, then? How are we going to get out of here?

Wild could detect the thick stink of blood on Lee. It reminded him of surgery. At this rate the boy wasn't going to last much longer. Water overflowed from a nearby gutter and spattered onto the ground. It looked almost beautiful in the low light. A row of rubbish bins huddled against a wall. A train's whistle sounded. Then again, this time closer, accompanied by a chugging sound. The two men looked questioningly at each other. In silent agreement, they moved through the sodden air towards the railway yard.

14

L
ee followed Wild across the railway tracks and the blockish sleepers. Everything shone with water. The silent shapes of train carriages were visible in the half-light and rainwater dripped from the carriages' metallic handles and the skeletal undercarriages. Lee moved in a half-crouch, his torso almost parallel to the ground, his left hand pressing against his left side. In his other hand, growing heavier, was the suitcase of money. It banged against his leg with each step. His jaw ached from gritting his teeth. Mindlessly, he tailed Wild, unsure of what else to do.

They kept close to a wire fence and picked their way among empty beer cans and food wrappers and shitty nappies and bottles. A hundred yards ahead were the lights and dark mass of the railway station. A man stood under the conical penumbra of the platform light and exhaled a pale plume of cigarette smoke.

They stopped some distance away and squatted in the shadows. The air stank of animal piss and wet metal. Wild struggled with the sodden boxes and turned to face him. What should we do?

I thought you had a plan?

Well, we can't just go up and buy a ticket.

The old guy was right.

Could we . . . jump on one?

On a train?

Yes.

Like bums?

Wild laughed. Yes. Like hobos. Then he looked around, placed his boxes on the wet ground and stood up. Wait here.

Lee panicked. What? Where are you going?

It's easier if I go alone first.

Lee paused and swallowed. That taste again. Will you come back? How do I know you'll come back? He sounded pathetic. He knew he sounded pathetic.

Wild put a hand on his shoulder and indicated the boxes on the ground. I'll be back in ten minutes. Don't worry. Wait here.

Only partly reassured, Lee watched Wild bob through the darkness with his coat flapping about his knees. He gripped his own new coat more tightly around himself and slumped with his chin on his knees. He wondered how he could possibly describe these past few days. What would he say to someone, to Claire? What could he say when he saw her? He imagined her rebuking him even as she pulled him to her, the way she would shake her head and wind a strand of hair behind one ear. Supposing he made it to her house at all. He didn't seem to be getting any closer. Would it be raining there, at the foot of the mountain range? Would the creek be full and plopping with bullfrogs? Would they be thinking of him, or would he already have been dismissed as screwing up again? He thought about lying down here and falling asleep, or dying, or whatever. Just to pass into some other place would be enough. Any other place.

A rat scrambled over some nearby stones. The creature paused and gave him a cool, appraising look before scurrying away, as if committing his whereabouts to memory, as if to say
I'll be back for you later when this rain has stopped.
This place of silent trains and silvery clouds, with its line of narrow trees. This jagged place, was this as far as he would come?

A whistle sounded and a train trundled past. From his vantage point by the fence, he could see passengers settling in for their journey, standing on tiptoes to stuff coats and bags into overhead racks. They grinned with expectation and shook out their umbrellas. The train looked warm and cosy. A round-faced boy gazed out a window like a patient moon, but if he happened to see Lee in the drizzling darkness, he gave no indication. Just some lucky boy being borne away.