The Night Book (22 page)

A woman came stepping across the grass. Behind her, the drifts of light rain. She was in her forties, with a round pretty face and curly hair, wearing a boxy pin-striped skirt and jacket. Her manner was brisk, clerical, efficient. The curls shook as she nodded, holding out her hand to shake.

‘Sue, right?’

Roza said, ‘I’m sorry …?’

‘Sue, is it?’ The curly head shook. Roza looked into the woman’s face, with its bright, encouraging smile.

‘Oh yes,’ Roza said, remembering, and smiled. ‘I’m Sue.’

‘I’m Sharon Marden? Ray’s wife? Ray’s buying a coffee. Have a seat. Lovely. Awesome. ’ She looked expectantly towards the kiosk.

Ray Marden emerged, carrying takeaway coffees on a cardboard tray. He was wearing trackpants and a sweatshirt and running shoes.

‘Hello, Sue. Ray Marden.’

‘I’ll pop back to the car and leave you to it then,’ Sharon said, and crossed to a small Honda parked nearby.

Ray shook Roza’s hand. He coughed. ‘Offer you a flat white, Sue?’

‘Thanks,’ Roza said, suppressing a laugh. She felt ridiculous,
but when they’d sat down at the table under the awning and were both contemplating his manuscript, she focused. She took out her pen and he cleared his throat and frowned diligently down. His body was all muscle and his face was massive, the bone structure brutally exaggerated, so that he seemed to peer out of his own face like a man in a helmet, reminding Roza of those cartoons David’s children watched, in which bulked-up creatures called Skulkor and Terrortroid, half-man, half-robot, strode through ruined cities. Close up his skin was covered with light freckles, and his eyes were alert and intelligent, his expression pleasant. He was staring at her now, his brow furrowed.

Roza frowned and looked stern. ‘As I said, um, Ray. Can I call you Ray? As I said on the phone, no one wanted your manuscript. But I picked it up, and I thought it was … sad that no one would give you any advice. So I went through it.’

‘It’s good of you,’ he said, looking at the pages. Roza’s notes filled the margins.

She said, conscientious, ‘You’ll see I’ve covered it in my own jottings. I hope you don’t mind, but that’s just what happens when your work gets edited.’

‘It’s fine,’ he said. He lifted up a page and flinched. Roza had written in large letters, ‘No! Wrong tone!’

She leaned forward with sudden intensity. ‘See, I think you’re making a mistake,’ she said. ‘You’re striking a tone that’s all wrong. It won’t persuade anyone. There’s prejudice against you. You’re supposed to be showing people that you’re a reasonable person, that you’ve been falsely accused, and to do that you have to be … judicious, rather than angry.’

‘I … I get the idea. Yeah.’

The geese were moving in an irritable line towards the pond, squawking, stretching out their orange beaks. Roza watched. She shivered. ‘God, they’re horrible.’

He twisted round in his seat. ‘What?’

‘The geese. Why do they have those
lumps
on their heads?’

He smiled, surprised at her abrupt change in focus, but there was something sharp under the perplexity, a kind of trained vigilance. He was paying close attention. She thought his surprise was feigned — a kind of subtle encouragement to her to act up and ‘be herself’, to ‘surprise’ him further. Probably nothing could surprise him. He was encouraging her to reveal herself.

She said, ‘You’ll get the idea better from my notes. You can fix the manuscript up, then try another publisher. I don’t need to tell you any more than what I’ve written on the pages. In a way you’ve got to win a PR battle as much as anything. See here, let me show you …’ She brought out a page. ‘These bits where you let yourself go and have an absolute bitch about the government and the inquiry. You can do that, but you have to back it up with evidence and you have to sound as cool as a judge while you’re doing it …’ She stopped. ‘What?’

‘You’re Mrs Hallwright.’

She sat back.

‘I’ve just got it. Where I seen you before. You’re Mrs Hallwright. Married to
the
Hallwright.’

She laid the page down, put two fingers to the bridge of her nose. There was a silence.

‘Have you … seen me before?’

He said, ‘I dunno. Only I never forget a face. You know, cop. Sorry, are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ Roza said. She shrugged, half-laughed. ‘Oh, it’s ridiculous— I was just going to post the manuscript to you but I thought I might as well meet you to talk properly. I didn’t want to give you my real name because I’m not free. I can’t just do anything I want. I have to think of being the wife of
the
Hallwright
.
And if you could feel the
atmosphere at work. You know, at AT Press we published Shelley O’Nione’s book, and everyone’s a fan of her and thinks you’re, you know, a monster.’

‘I get it.’

Roza said, ‘Anyway, as I was saying.’ She shuffled through the pages, paused. ‘Sometimes I think I’m being followed.’

He stroked his chin and eyed her, thoughtful. ‘Who by?’

She looked around. The park was empty. Cars swished by on the road, rain fell into the brown pond. Ray’s wife was a misty shape behind the glass of the small Honda.

‘People in the party. People who look after my husband.’

He shook his head. ‘I think that’s unlikely.’

She laughed and reached for the coffee. Her hand trembled. ‘I suppose it is.’

‘Why would they follow you?’ He didn’t take his eyes off her face.

‘I don’t know. Because I do things like this, come and see a controversial person like you without telling anyone. They might think I’m a liability.’

‘I would’ve thought you’d be an asset,’ he said.

Roza smiled. ‘That’s kind of you to say.’

‘You’re kind doing this for me.’ He jerked his thumb at the mess of pages. ‘Listen, Mrs Hallwright …’

‘Roza,’ she said, biting her lip. A door slammed inside the kiosk. She gave him a quick, tense look.

‘Roza, can I say something? If you’re worried about strange things like being followed, even though I don’t personally think that’s likely, maybe you should just not do unusual things at the moment. Like coming here. Maybe you should take a break from unusual things.’

‘Unusual things,’ she repeated. What exactly was he saying? She
thought of Tamara’s stash, and felt his cop’s eyes on her.

He picked up the pen and tapped it on the wooden table. ‘Do you do a lot of unusual things?’

‘What do you mean?’ she said, rapidly patting the papers into order. ‘No. I don’t do anything. No.’

‘I’m just trying to get why you think they’d follow you.’

‘So you’re questioning me. Should I call a lawyer?’

He smiled. ‘Just trying to help.’

Roza felt weak. Should I call a lawyer? What a lame thing to say. She tried to empty her features of expression, and felt herself fail.

He leaned forward. ‘Listen, I know what it’s like to feel paranoid. When I was defending my case, I
know
I was being followed. Watched, bugged, photographed, you name it. But you, you’re not like me, public enemy number one. You’re just the wife. I don’t mean that in a bad way: I mean you shouldn’t worry. You’re just the wife, and all you need to do is keep smiling, look beautiful, keep your nose clean.’ He broke off and threw the pen on the table. ‘I mean, Jesus, if you knew what it was like to be in the shit storm I was. We couldn’t even look out the window without the media jumping on us, making something bad out of everything we did. ’

Roza said, ‘You fought it and won. There was something to fight — the criminal charge, and you beat it. I just feel … I don’t know … thousands of eyes.’

They looked around at the park. There was no one in sight.

He said, ‘I beat the criminal charge but I didn’t
win
. Everyone still thinks I’m guilty. They just say the jury got it wrong. That’s what my book’s about.’

‘Yes, the book. The book! How did we get onto me? We’re meant to be talking about you.’ Apologetic, she started turning the pages.

He said, ‘You’re much more interesting.’

She looked up. ‘Are you using your cop training on me? Some
incredibly subtle technique?’

‘What you mean?’

‘Well, I feel I might just dissolve and confess things to you. I’ve already told you I have a weird paranoia about being followed.’

He said seriously, ‘Roza. As a cop, an ex-cop, I can tell you this: don’t confess anything to anyone. I’m a stranger. How do you know you can trust me? You got to protect yourself.’

‘Should I not trust you?’

‘No. I don’t mean that. You can, actually. I’m only saying, you got to be careful in life. And in your position, don’t get free with any confessing.’

She sighed. ‘I’ve got to be careful.’

‘I should know. Bitter experience. People twist things. People pretend you can trust them and then, bang.’

‘Ray? Did you ever do anything wrong? Were any of the accusations true?’

‘No. I thought you’d accepted that if you’re helping with my book.’

‘Hmm. I do really. I do. But Ray?’

‘Yeah.’

‘This conversation has made me so paranoid that I don’t know how I’m going to get up and walk out of the park.’

‘I used to go out the back way around home, when they were all after me. Over the neighbours’ fence, down through the gardens. Park in the next street.’ He gave her a considering look. He said, ‘Probably those geese. They’re not real. They’re surveillance geese.’

Roza laughed out loud, then covered her mouth with her hand.

He added, ‘The CIA trained a surveillance cat once. They had it wired and miked. Its tail was the antenna. They let it go in a park to spy on someone, and it ran straight onto the road and got squashed by a car.’

‘No!’

‘It’s true. Look it up. It cost them millions.’

Ray’s wife had got up and wandered across the park. Now she came close, tossing her coffee cup in the bin. ‘You nearly finished, Ray? I need to get to work.’

Roza said, smiling, ‘We’re finished.’

They went to the car. Sharon Marden took the manuscript, shook Roza’s hand and drove away. Ray stared bleakly after her.

‘Where are you going now?’ Roza asked.

‘I went to the gym earlier. Now I’m going to run home.’ He picked up a piece of gravel and tossed it against a tree. ‘I can’t get used to being unemployed.’

‘Can’t you get a new job, a different one?’

‘With my baggage. It’s not easy.’

Roza said, ‘Anyway, I’d better go.’ She added with an artificial laugh, ‘By the way, all that about being followed. I hope you don’t think I’m mad. I was only joking.’

He looked at her. ‘I don’t think you were joking. If you’ve got some reason to worry, just be careful.’

‘What reason would I have?’

‘How should I know? I don’t know your secrets.’

‘I don’t have any secrets!’

‘No. Okay.’

She added, ‘Except that nobody knows I’ve met you. You could keep that quiet for me, because it’s delicate at work, and then there’s the election, which makes things …’

‘Yeah. Does your husband know you’ve met me?’

‘No. Okay?
No
.’

‘I understand.’

‘You can ring me at work if you want to. Say it’s Bruce calling. Ron. Whatever.’

He said, ‘More important, stay away from unusual things.’

‘What do you mean, unusual things?’ She stared at him with her charged eyes. He rubbed his hand over his face, laughed lightly and said, ‘I don’t know. Anything compromising. Drugs …’

She drew back. ‘Drugs? What are you talking about?’

He put up his hands. ‘Nothing.’

She said, ‘How can you say such a thing? What an amazing thing to say.’ She dug her keys into the palm of her hand. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have come here.’

‘Look Roza, I’m grateful. I’m only … wishing you well.’

‘Why would you even say such a thing?’

‘No reason. It’s the only thing I could think of you should stay away from. I could have added, I dunno, shoplifting. I just meant, go well. Take care.’

She smiled, but her eyes were troubled, dangerous. ‘Good luck with your book.’ She walked away.

‘Goodbye Roza,’ he said thoughtfully.

He picked up another piece of gravel and weighed it in his hand. Roza Hallwright. Well, well. Mrs Roza Hallwright.

He skimmed the gravel at a tree, then leaned his palms against the trunk, doing a few stretches. He turned it over in his mind. The way she’d reared up at his warning. Her sudden anger. Those searchlight eyes, the feverish, intelligent face. She looked like a woman on the brink of something. And her reaction to the hint he’d thrown out. Interesting. You pick their possible weak spot, you give it a try. He’d hit it. You say ‘drugs’ she practically has a nervous breakdown. Well. Rich jet-set type. Wife of a bigwig. Wife of
the
. She was probably addicted to valium. But there was something in her eyes, what was that look? As if she was seeing more than what was in front of them, or reacting to more than ordinary data. Like you
were seeing a parallel universe reflected, right there in her eyes.

He would run home now and look through the manuscript, which Sharon would have dropped off on her way to work. He stretched, feeling the burn deep in his muscles. He started to run slowly, warming up.

Exercise was his drug. It was the only way he’d got through the tough times. Running to the gym, working out and jogging home: this straightened out his head. If he hadn’t been able to get hard exercise he would have killed himself by now, or become a two hundred kilo junkie, or given in to anger.

He’d thought a lot about anger since he’d been falsely accused of rape. The experts said rape was all about power, but this didn’t seem quite right to Ray. If he imagined his way into it he saw it as a crime of anger. If sex and exercise were anger management, then rape was a form of losing control — to anger. Violence and sex — it would certainly blow off a bit of steam. He smiled wryly to himself. Strange thoughts. All the things you couldn’t say.

He speeded up. From the bus stop, a man and woman watched the big, muscular figure run by, his cap pulled down low over his scowling face, his body steaming. The man took a photograph of him.

The water sprayed up from puddles under his feet and the air was full of tiny fractured rainbows. He powered on through the rain, ran home.