The Low Road (30 page)

Lee waited for the shot, alone in his immense, private darkness. He waited for the sound and the sensation, for whatever would happen after that. He imagined tumbling end over end for a thousand years, as if through space. He felt his heart quivering against his ribcage and was surprised it seemed to make no sound. One blistered hand gripped the smooth wooden spade handle while his other arm instinctively crossed his chest. Otherwise, he made no movement to protect himself. Inexplicably, he recalled the warm smells of fresh laundry and toast, the sound of a springtime wind. He recalled hanging like a monkey from the bough of a tree and he remembered the scratch of his father's unshaven kiss upon his cheek. Just small things.

He clenched his teeth and pursed his mouth. At last, he thought. His neck shrank into the curling wings of his shoulders. The earth at least would be warm. At long last. But there was no sound. In fact, the silence became larger and more austere; a cathedral, a city, a kingdom. After a while, Lee opened his eyes again. He looked up and saw that nothing had changed and wondered if, in fact, he had merely blinked. The cold sang right through him. His teeth and gums felt like thick wadding. With difficulty, he swallowed. Was this relief or despair? He exhaled a pale cloud of his breath.

He and Josef observed each other for a long minute. Josef inspected Lee closely, probably trying to determine whether or not he was armed. Even with the gun, Josef looked different, more frail perhaps than the last time they had met at Lee's apartment. He was hunched against the cold. His trousers were ripped partway down, revealing a bony knee. It began to snow once more. Flakes drifted into the garden, making white again the area where Lee had been digging, which had become grey and sludgy.

Josef smiled his thin smile. Got to say, cold weather doesn't really agree with me, but I like this snow. It's . . . pretty. He approached, looked into the grave and then at the shape of Wild beneath the blanket. Oh, I see. Planting a
person
. I tried that once. What do you think will sprout?

Lee said nothing. He slowly straightened. Snowflakes caught in his hair. His body ached and was sluggish with exhaustion.

Not quite a gardener, Josef went on. More like a . . . sexton, I think it's called. A sexton. Again he peered into the grave. He sniggered and sucked at his gold tooth. Not burying any money, are you? It won't grow like that, you know. Doesn't, you know, grow on trees.

There's no money. You've wasted your time.

Josef pulled up the collar of his coat and hugged himself, evidently pleased with his own uncharacteristic wit. He indicated the house with his gun. Let's go inside, alright.

Lee hesitated. He pointed at Wild. What about him? I've got to . . . I've got to . . . Give me a hand, will you?

Josef's surprised gaze flickered between Lee and the shape under the blanket. He blinked and licked his lips before kicking back the blanket to reveal Wild's pallid face with its dark-blue mouth agape. This your doctor friend?

Lee averted his gaze. Wild. Yes.

You kill him?

No. Course not.

Yeah. Course not. What happened to him?

Killed himself, I think. Drugs. Overdose. Last night.

Josef nodded and looked almost pityingly down at Wild. Well, he's not going anywhere for now. Go inside, alright. We need to chat. Leave the spade.

I'm not armed, you know.

Where's the gun I gave you?

Threw it away.

Josef nodded. Get up here, slowly.

Lee allowed the spade to fall from his grasp, then hauled himself from the shallow grave on wet and muddy knees and allowed himself to be frisked. They went into the house.

32

T
rembling with cold, Josef directed the dishevelled Lee to sit at the kitchen table and stood nearby with his gun trained on him. He clutched the collar of his jacket to his throat, but it was fruitless; this was not the kind of cold to be put off so easily. Thankfully, a fire burned in the stove. He stood next to it and shook snowflakes from his hair. They fell about his shoes and dissolved into dirty puddles. What a dump. After all this, to come out to a mouldy, old dump like this. For a few grand. Now that he had finally found Lee, Josef was unsure what to do, or couldn't be bothered doing what he was supposed to. Lee slumped with his blistered hands resting upon the wooden table like a pathetic schoolboy. The kid looked almost dead, like he was just going to let happen whatever was going to happen. His clothes were bloody and his hands were muddy. He stank like a butcher shop.

Had a good chat to your
sister
the other day, Josef said after a few minutes.

That got the punk's attention.

Lee looked up through his little black eyes. There were smears of blood and dirt over his face. My sister?

Yeah. On the phone. I was surprised to talk to someone who was supposed to be dead. She was surprised at the news, too. Seemed . . . put out, I guess you could say. Put out at the news. Sounded pretty hale and hearty to me, for now at least—

What's that supposed to mean?

Josef paused. You had all this planned, didn't you? Ditch us and make a run for it? Is that what you thought you'd do? Go and live your other life, the
honest
version?

Lee shrugged and inspected his right shoe where there was a hole in the leather sole the size and shape of a fifty-cent coin. The stitching on one side of the shoe was also coming away. It made Josef aware of his own cold feet. The kitchen had the old-dog smell of drying clothes. It was growing dark. It seemed to him that the dark was always closing in. The days lately were like heartbeats or breaths, they passed almost without registering. Another symptom of age.

For what? Josef added. Eight grand?

Lee let his foot go and stared at some point on the floor.

Might be worth it for a bit more, but eight grand? I had high hopes for you. Put my neck on the line for you, you know. Brought you in and talked you up. Marcel had to be convinced, Lee. It's not a game, you know. You can't—

Maybe you're losing your touch.

Despite himself, Josef started. Maybe he should just shoot the little bastard right now? Get it over and done with. If Lee still had it, the money must be here somewhere in the house. He sighed and scratched his tattoo. I been around a long time. I'm a pretty good judge of horseflesh.

Maybe not this time.

We chose you.
I
chose you.

You got it wrong, old man. And Lee finally looked up at him. His lips were blue and his eyes were damp and red. I'm not like you.

Josef smiled. What we heard. What we heard was you set a man on fire when you were in prison. Lee opened his mouth to speak, but Josef shook his head and kept talking. You set your fucking
friend
on fire, Lee. That's no insignificant thing. You can't pretend that didn't happen. You blew it. Anyway, you got nowhere else to go now. Your sister won't have you back if you tell her what happened. Nobody will have you. Except us.

They were going to fucking kill me. I had to do something. He wasn't my friend, anyway.

Josef grunted and took out his tobacco. Careful to stand back slightly in case Lee should try anything, he jammed his gun under one arm and began to roll a cigarette. With his now clumsy, numb fingers, it took some time. The thin paper was uncooperative and the nub of tobacco lolled about in the groove. This cold was incredible, prehistoric. The ride on the old man's cart had taken him an hour or so over rutted roads. His bony arse was sore and when he licked the gum of the cigarette paper, he could smell the sour leather of the reins on his hands. He felt miles from anywhere, marooned in a stranger's dream. He looked around. Whatever happened, he would have to stay in this dump tonight.

Is it true what they say about your tattoo? Lee asked.

Josef completed the lumpy cigarette. He lit up and the kitchen filled with pungent smoke. He coughed. Depends. What do they say?

That you were . . . born with it.

He picked a shred of tobacco from his bottom lip. Once he had delighted in this story but now he was appalled by it. Automatically he reached for his left forearm, feeling for the tattoo's soft thread. Don't believe everything you hear, alright.

Looks old anyway.

Well. I am old by now.

It's been there a long time, then?

Josef paused. Long as I remember, but then again, my memory's not too great.

Maybe it chose you?

Josef waved his gun to indicate the unseen parts of the house somewhere behind them. He was getting impatient. Where's the money? I'll find it anyway, so you might as well tell me, alright.

From his chair, Lee stared up at him. Why don't you kill me now then, if that's what's going to happen?

You in a hurry? Want to join your little friend out there in his snowy grave?

Isn't that the way you animals work? Just, you know, fucking kill whoever you need to?

Well, you'd know, wouldn't you?

Lee looked like he was going to cry. The fingers of one hand opened and closed. I told you, there's no money.

Josef raised the gun. Come on. What do you take me for? I went to see Stella. I went to see Sylvia. I heard a police report on you and your dead mate from some railway guard. I'm connected, Lee. Two men and a suitcase. Ring any bells? A
suitcase
, Lee. A suitcase of money.

But Lee didn't budge. Josef had to hand it to him; the kid had balls. And it was then he realised, as though the thought had all along been a bud within him now flowering under the heat of this exchange, that he didn't really intend to kill Lee. Maybe Marcel and Lee were right. Maybe he was losing his touch. He stared at Lee's ravaged face. Like a dog. He looked like a dog who didn't even know enough to cower. Despite himself, he admired Lee's—what? Innocence?

They remained unspeaking. Josef looked through the frosty kitchen window at the snowflakes tumbling past. Each one unique, apparently. He thought of the grave outside filling with soft, white snow. The kitchen was as grey and dim as a cave. It would be dark in another hour or two. Soon, the entire day would pass from view and never return. There was this, and nothing more. It was a cold and lonely thought. He stood back and lowered the gun. Make us some tea.

What?

Tea. Make some tea, alright. I see some on the shelf up there. Over the stove.

Lee sighed but did as he was told. He winced with obvious discomfort as he moved about the kitchen, and returned sullenly to the table when he was done.

Almost thawed out at last, Josef sat opposite. He sipped his mug of tea, felt the hot liquid descend into his frozen guts. That quack fix you up? Take out the bullet?

Lee nodded and moved a hand to his bloody side.

Josef watched him. He felt sorry for him. The kid looked like shit, like he wasn't going to last very long. I been shot twice, he volunteered, surprised at the companionable words coming from his mouth. Once in the leg and once up here, at my collarbone. Seventeen years ago. Broke it all over the place. It was like being punched by a fucking truck. Nearly killed me, thought I … Thought that was it.

Lee coughed. I know how you feel.

Thought for a long time I was dead—for a few hours, I mean. Maybe a whole day. I thought I'd died. Everything was different, washed out or something. People seemed far away. Took me a long time to get over that. Weeks in bed. He shook his head at the memory.

Lee was staring at him quizzically. Josef felt embarrassed. Another silence. Where did the doctor come from? He always part of the plan?

Wild?

Yes.

I don't know. He was at the motel, I think. Staying at that crappy motel. What do you care?

No reason. Just wondered.

They sat again in silence, not really looking at each other. Josef fingered the chipped mug in front of him. Idly, he ran a thumb across his tattoo and detected its mournful thrum. His clothes prickled his skin as they dried. The fire in the grate was burning low, so he reached across and tossed in several lengths of wood.

My aunt could dream other people's dreams for them, he said when he sat back. Said people in dreams were sometimes people who'd died and were coming around asking for things and you just had to know how to talk to them properly. Not be afraid. She reckoned you could . . . bargain with them. Give them food or something, gifts. And that sometimes they had information for you.

Food?

Yes. Cakes and things. Something for the—you know—the journey.

Lee sighed and rolled his eyes. You think I give a shit about your crazy aunt?

Josef sipped his tea. God knows why he was telling Lee any of this. I got a proposition for you, he said finally. He tasted the word in his mouth.
Proposition
.

Lee bent forward and took a gulp of his tea, barely raising the mug from the table. Oh yeah?

Yeah.

What kind of proposition?

Give me the money and I'll let you go to your sister's place or wherever you want to go. I don't care.

You don't care?