‘Cough, you weak bastard. Cough your fucking guts up.’
We were heading towards Norton Street, going much too fast, but not impeded by anything. I had to decide whether to let her make the turn or not. She swivelled her head, pressed down on the accelerator and spat at me, ‘Scared, tough guy?’
She increased speed and swung the wheel carelessly. I knocked her hands down, gripped the wheel and kicked her foot away from the gas pedal. The Pulsar slowed but fishtailed, narrowly missed the traffic light and almost collected a car making a late left turn. The front left wheel mounted the footpath, grazed a lamppost and I hauled it back, touching the brake, ready to steer into the skid. It took only split seconds but seemed to last an age. An awning post flashed past me and then the car was back on the road, slowing, steadying, straightening. My arm felt as if it had been loosened in the socket and I was grinding my teeth with the tension and effort.
I drew into the kerb and stopped with the rear end still sticking out into the street. Sweat was running off me and my vision was starred and blurred as I looked out through the windscreen at the moving lights and shapes. Vita Drewe was almost crouched in her seat, pressed back towards the door, arms wrapped across her body, legs drawn up. She was staring fixedly at my hand which was locked on the steering wheel. Suddenly, she lashed out at my face, whipping her left arm around, flailing wildly. I blocked the blow, she whimpered and her head sunk onto her chest.
I got out of the car, opened her door and eased her across into the passenger seat. She didn’t resist-just as well because I couldn’t have lifted her. I started the motor, employed my right-hand-across technique and drove slowly to Lilyfield. She sat bolt upright in the seat and didn’t say a word. I stopped in the lane outside the gate. Dylan padded down the yard and stuck his nose through the bars. I opened my door.
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ she snapped.
‘I just want to make sure you’re all right.’
She threw open the door, banging it on one of the heavy garbage bins in the lane. ‘What you can do is fuck off.’
‘Vi, I… ‘
She fished in her purse and for a moment I thought she was going to pull out the gun, but she came up with a key. ‘Get going, or I’ll tell Dylan to take a chunk out of your miserable hide.’
She unlocked the gate, went through and slammed it after her. I heard her heels clicking on the path and waited until I saw a light come on in the flat. Dylan came back to the gate and looked through it at me, growling. I drove slowly down the lane, partly dazed by the violence of her reactions, partly puzzled about what had set her off. The car steered oddly and I got out to look. The front bumper bar had twisted when it had hit the lamppost and part of it was brushing against the tyre. I straightened it with my right hand. But the panel above it was buckled and the radiator grill had also taken a knock.
I got going again and hadn’t covered more than half a kilometre when a police car drew up alongside me and waved me to the kerb. The policeman approached cautiously.
‘Are you all right, sir? You seem to be driving very slowly.’
‘I’ve had an argument with someone,’ I said. ‘She smashed the car a bit in the front. Just being cautious.’
He went forward and examined the damage. ‘Could I see your licence, please?’
I showed it to him and he looked in closely at me. He would have seen a lot of strain, some facial bruising, lipstick, sweat and a bow tie very askew.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take a breathalyser test. If you’ve no objection?’
I did a rapid calculation: two glasses of champagne some hours back, a double bourbon and two beers on top of a pretty light meal. It’d be touch and go. I climbed out of the car. ‘No objection.’
He went back to his car and he and his partner prepared the machine and registered the time, date and place of the test on a form. I blew into the tube and watched their expressions.
‘Had a bit to drink tonight, sir?’ one of them said.
‘A little. Not a great deal. I wasn’t expecting to be driving.’
‘Probably shouldn’t be. You look pretty crook.’
‘It’s been an upsetting night.’
‘You just sneak in. How far do you have to go?’
I told him and he said I could go, advising me to be careful and instructing me to get the damage to the car attended to immediately. I drove away with exaggerated care. I could see their headlights in my rear vision mirror and it seemed like an age before I could make a turn to get away from them. I went through Annandale, picked up Wigram Road and went up the hill into Glebe. I was driving on automatic pilot, still numbed by the recent events, resisting the impulse to analyse them until I was out of the car. I turned into my street and narrowly missed a taxi that was just pulling out.
Its lights dazzled me briefly and when I recovered I saw Glen Withers standing with her bags at her feet outside the house, shielding her eyes against the headlights as the battered front end of her precious car came towards her.
15
Glen’s welcoming, but slightly surprised, smile faded as she saw the state of her car. I sat behind the wheel, dazed and confused by guilt and apprehension. She approached the open window and looked in at me.
‘Cliff, are you all right?’
I nodded.
I saw her take in the dinner suit, the lipstick on my face. She could probably smell the liquor on my breath and Vita Drewe’s perfume and the casino smoke in my hair and on my clothes. I opened the door slightly but just sat, saying nothing and her eyes drifted over the inside of the car. Opening the door was a mistake; the interior light let her see the crumpled corsage lying on the back seat.
She went back to the kerb, lifted her bags and dumped them on the bonnet. ‘Please get out and leave the keys.’
I climbed out and she looked me up and down. ‘I’ve never seen you looking so handsome, Cliff. Or so bloody ridiculous.’
She brushed past me, got in, started the engine and drove off. I hadn’t said a word. The brain behaves in a crazy way at these moments. All I could think of was what’s a Montana massage?
Somehow, I dragged myself inside, yanking off the tie and jacket as I went. I ripped open the shirt and stepped out of the pants. I took off the shoes and socks and dumped the whole outfit at the foot of the stairs. Then I went through to the bathroom and had a shower, scrubbing hard, washing all over, letting the hot water loosen my stiff shoulder and using the left arm almost as normal. It hurt like hell, but I told myself I deserved to hurt and didn’t spare it.
I wrapped a towel around my waist and went into the kitchen. The cat had had a big tin of tuna before I’d left on my big night out and it wouldn’t reappear for at least twenty-four hours. Fitting, somehow. I wanted oblivion and all I could find to help me get it was a half-bottle of gin, left over from a night when Glen and I had set up the TV and VCR at the foot of the bed, hired a pornographic video and drunk gin and tonic while we watched. The results had been highly satisfactory-multiple orgasms and a lot of fun and we’d resolved to do it again but hadn’t yet found the time and mood. I was out of tonic. I put a big measure of gin in a tall glass and added a few furry ice cubes and a couple of chunks of over-hard lemon. I took a big drink and tried to let the alcohol loosen the tightness I felt in every nerve and sinew.
The gin loosened my tongue. ‘You fuckwit,’ I said aloud. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ After another drink, I felt emboldened enough to pull the phone towards me and dial Glen’s number in Petersham. When she answered I’d think of something to say. I was the charm king-the man who’d beaten the breathalyser and steered the crippled ship back to safe harbour. The phone rang and rang with the tone that convinces you that the party is home but isn’t going to answer. More gin, definitely.