The Night Book (25 page)

‘Well, toodle-oo,’ Clarice said. She shouldered her bag and clicked off out the door.

He picked up Roza’s blank file. He would have to make notes, so invented some very vague symptoms and possible minor problems, followed by emphatic question marks. He replaced the file, took the stairs down to the car park two at a time, drove out and parked in the Domain, turning on the Concert Programme in an effort to order his thoughts. But as he waited his anxiety grew until he couldn’t sit any longer. He got out of the car and walked over the hill, down
towards the soccer fields.

There were too many questions. He regretted that he hadn’t got Roza’s mobile number, but of course she wouldn’t want that — wouldn’t want him calling. She’d said people were worried about her, watching her. It was just possible, he supposed: they were on the brink of an election and she was in a very public position. It was also possible she was mad. If she was mad, what would that do for David Hallwright? Simon leaned against a tree and put his head in his hands.

It was too difficult to think about Elke. He tried to consider the problem from other angles. This was the thing to do; to look at it from a long way off and assess it like an abstract question. He tried, he tried. But all avenues led to pain.

His phone rang. She said, ‘It’s Roza.’

He stared at the line of windblown trees, clenched his fist, lifted his thumb and said, ‘When we first met, did you know Elke lived with Karen and me?’

‘Yes. I’d found out a long time before. I’d left it alone — it was something distant, something I knew in theory. But then we were introduced at the National Party dinner, the night you were mugged, remember? And ever since then I’ve been trying to carry on as normal and I can’t.’

He extended his index finger from his balled fist. ‘Does anyone else know?’

‘No. No. Only us …’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Roza?’

‘I found out from a … it doesn’t matter. A sort of investigator. But no one’s going to tell.’

He extended his middle finger. Three. ‘Did you give Elke any idea of who you were when you talked to her?’

‘No, none at all.’ She was crying again.

He abandoned his mental list of questions and paced across the grass. ‘Roza, this isn’t feasible. We can’t talk properly unless we meet. We can’t sort it out over the phone.’

She said urgently, ‘I have to go. I’ll try to think how we can meet. Please, just let me work it out. Please. Soon.’

‘Roza. Wait. No.’

She had hung up. He turned back towards the car, wanting to shake her until her teeth rattled. He wanted her
here
, right here, right now. He suddenly wondered whether he’d shouted at her, but there was no one around to hear in the empty park, in the weekday afternoon, as he toiled back up the grassy hill.   

He couldn’t calm down, couldn’t imagine going home in this state. His clinic had ended late, but he remembered that Karen had talked about taking all three children to an event at the girls’ school that evening, and would be late back herself. It seemed as though the decision had been made for him: there was nothing else to be done but to get in the car and speed out south to Mereana’s.

He drove along the street, slamming on the brakes as a small child veered out from the kerb. An even smaller toddler stood at an open gate wearing a nappy and a T-shirt. The obvious neglect made him angry. These people. Where were the parents? They would be inside, in front of the TV, stoned, as their children tottered about on the road. He realised he was grinding his teeth, and knew he shouldn’t have come out here in this frame of mind, but anxiety drove him forward. He parked and knocked on her door, and his mind was blank, black.

Mereana called out. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me.’

She opened the door and her face split into a smile. ‘Simon!’

He pushed in past her and chucked himself down on the couch.

She said, ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I’ve had some bad news. You got a beer or something?’

She looked at him, slowly putting her hands on her hips.

He tried to moderate his tone. ‘Sorry to come by unannounced, but can you spare a beer? I’ve had a very bad day.’

There was a brief silence. Mereana circled him.

‘Unannounced? Since when did you ever
announce
?’

He stared. What was she doing? She was striking a pose out of TV. She was doing the thing black women do in the movies when they’re about to
kick ass
— a kind of hand on hip, finger-wagging routine, mocking and dangerous. Some sassy, sideways waggle of the head as she went on, ‘Sure, you didn’t call, no you’re not in my diary, no I don’t have you
pencilled in.
But hell, have a beer. No sweat.’ Wrenching a can out of the fridge, she tossed it at him, hard, and he caught it just in front of his face.

She watched, flouncing, and he felt a corresponding self rise in him, one that might just slap her in the mouth and yell at her to cook some eggs, bitch.

He swilled down cold beer, drinking fast so it would hit him.

She opened a beer for herself and said, spitefully, provokingly, ‘Well. It must have been a
very
bad day.’

Sour with irritation and tension, he caught her wrist and pulled her down beside him. And who was this strange other self? Not kind, considerate Simon Lampton, the one the ladies all trusted as ‘nice’ and ‘considerate’ and ‘open’; this was some low and mean type who crumpled the beer can loutishly and grabbed her other wrist in a hurting grip. His grasp made her wince; she twisted her arm against his gouging fingers, but he held her; their eyes locked and there was lust and something angry between them, as if each wanted the other to suffer and to pay, but for what? For what?

She said slowly, ‘You only come here when something’s gone
wrong. When you can’t take it home and unload it on your wife. You come out here instead.’

He said, ‘Yeah. That’s right.’

‘You come out here so you can fuck me.’

‘Yeah. That’s right.’ His breathing was harsh. He felt like an animal, heedless and amoral, and had the sense of his pupils dilating, his face growing slack.

She swivelled her leg over so she was sitting astride his lap, facing him. Leaning down, grinding into his crotch, she picked up her beer can and took a swig.

The light pressure on his groin became unbearable, and he rocked himself up off the soft old couch, tipping her sideways. He dragged her up and pushed her against the wall, his mouth on hers, tasting beer on her lips. How small she was against his chest as she squirmed and pushed against him, sliding along the wall, grabbing his hand and towing him towards the bedroom.

At one point, lying on the bed, he turned his head and saw the reflection in the aquarium, Mereana sitting up straight on top of him, ghostly in the glass, cool skin, flying hair amid flashes of gold and feathery green, all sunk in the swirls and ripples, watery spangles and silver stars. His splayed hands grasping her hips, his white face turned to the side. His mouth open in an O of surprise. His dark shock of wavy hair, the pearls that were his eyes.

She said, ‘Stay the night. Stay.’

‘I can’t.’

He put on his clothes. The room was lit up with golden light from the low sun. The shadows were growing dark at the edge of the field and Mereana sat in a last shaft of yellow light, the dust motes revolving above her.

He put on his clothes, stood at the kitchen bench and drank a
glass of water, thinking about her sitting on his lap.
You only come
out here to fuck me.
And he’d said, his voice thick with desire,
Yeah.
That’s right.

Now the anger and desire were gone, and he was sorry and sad, and just as lost as ever. If you were a different person from one moment to the next, then how could you ever sort anything out? A childish protest, that — something Claire might come out with. Or Elke. He sighed.

A movement caught his eye and he turned to see a jagged patch of light moving across the sitting-room wall. It danced, traced spirals, then drew a long straight line.

He watched, puzzled, as the bright shape made its way over the furniture, then began to move against the wall in quick loops and curls that could have been writing. Simon opened the back door, waded through the long grass around the side of the house, and drew up short at the sight of the crazy neighbour, the Nelf, standing at Mereana’s sitting-room window, angling a small mirror to the sun and sending the beam of light through to the wall inside. His expression was intent, fixed and inward. He saw Simon and went still, the hand with the mirror raised in the air. Deliberately, his eyes fixed on Simon, like a movie villain lowering his gun, he brought the hand down and held the mirror in front of him.

Simon stared back, his skin prickling. The man’s face was eerie up close; it was more canine than elfin, like one of those dogs that are all long, questing, pointy muzzle.

The man raised his chin, looking sideways at Simon. ‘Eh boss.’

‘What are you doing?’

The man shrugged, began to edge away, still looking sideways,circling.

It was very quiet in the field. A car droned far away.

Simon said, hearing the witless squeak in his voice, ‘What were
you doing?’ His tone — so indignant, so respectable — carried an assumption: that he was dealing with normality. But there was nothing normal in that feral, cunning, misaligned face.

‘What are
you
doing?’ the man asked.

A good question, Simon thought. A very good question. He stepped back — a mistake. The man marked his retreat, briefly grinned and came nearer.

‘I’m visiting the person who lives here. And just wondering why you’re peering in her window.’

There began to be the distant sound of a plane coming in. Simon looked at the horizon, and a tiny insect flew into his eye. He squinted, rubbing away the tears. ‘I don’t imagine you want the police.’

The man laughed softly. ‘The pigs. The rapists. No one wants them. You want them here?’

‘Look. You can’t go staring in people’s windows. People’s private …’

He suddenly wondered how much the man had seen. Was he looking in the window while he and Mereana were on the bed?

The man read his mind. His eyes lit up. ‘Yeah, I seen you together. I seen it all.’

‘Right. I’m calling the cops.’

‘Sure. Whatever. Good for you. But your girlfriend in there, she’s my friend too.’

He walked away across the field. Turning, he made a threatening signal with his hand, a clenched fist, thumb and little finger extended. The sudden fury in the gesture alarmed Simon and he hurried back inside.

Mereana was coming out if the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel.

He said, ‘That nutcase from next door was looking in that window there. He had his little mirror, shining it on the wall.’

She said vaguely, ‘Oh? Bruno?’

‘The Nelf, as you call him. He was right outside, looking in the window. But get this: he said he’d seen us. On the bed.’

‘How could he of?’

‘He must have looked through the bedroom window.’

She bent down and looked in the fridge. ‘He’s harmless.’ She took out a can of beer.

‘Harmless? How can you say that? He’s a menace, a peeping Tom.’

‘What am I going to do about it?’ She faced him calmly, peeling the ring tab off the beer can.

He hesitated. ‘You could ring the police.’

She laughed. ‘What are they going to do? Tell him off? He’s a bit beyond that.’

‘Well then, you need to move. Find a place where you’re not by yourself, where you’re not isolated.’

‘I told you, I’m from the country. I like space.’

‘But this is the city. It’s full of nutters.’

She shrugged. ‘So’s the country.’

He paced, took the can off her, sipped it and gave it back. ‘After I confronted him he was angry. I can’t explain … He made a sort of gang gesture. It suggested violence, it worried me. You’ll have to move. You can go to a motel. I’ll pay for it. We’ll take whatever stuff you need tonight, and then you find a flat tomorrow. Or however long it takes.’

‘
What
?’

‘Mereana. I think this man is potentially dangerous.’

‘Bruno? Nah. Don’t worry. He’s fine.’

He raised his voice. ‘You’re not being realistic. Your bloody back door doesn’t even lock properly. There’s no one close enough to get here quick if you scream. You live by yourself. And you’ve got a
mad, violent gang member peering in the windows.’

Slowly, deliberately, she put down the can. ‘Oh, I’m very realistic. I’ve lived here for a year. You pop in every now and then for a quick fuck. That’s how much you know about what happens
around here.
Then you decide I should move out of my house, in one evening, because you think I should? Because of my neighbour? Because of that poor idiot?
That
is a fucking fantasy.’

‘You’re not being reasonable.’

‘Okay, if I’m in this “great danger”, why don’t you stay the night? Hole up on the front porch with a shotgun on your knees.’

‘You know I can’t stay the night. I can pay for a motel, though.’

She laughed and slammed the can down on the bench.

He said, ‘I can only do what I can do. Mereana, please. I don’t like leaving you here.’

‘You’ll get over it. You’ve done it before.’ She went into the bedroom and put on her clothes.

He rubbed his stinging eyes. ‘Christ. What a day.’

She came out, wearing a white shirt and tight black skirt, and pulled her black tights off the back of the chair where they’d been drying. He watched her put them on, rolling them up over her slender legs. It struck him how orderly she was, and it touched him, it pierced his heart. Her clothes were neat, her laundry was always laid out in fresh piles; the house was tiny and shabby but clean. In the cupboards her tins of food were set in neat rows, labels facing forward. His trips out here were wildness and recklessness to him, but her life, to
her
, was tidy and organised. It made her seem less alien and then more so, as if she lived in a parallel universe, like his own but utterly different.