Chapter 74
The neighbours were not a worry. I had put the fire out in time. If they were spying from their curtains they must have thought we’d taken to having barbecues indoors. Tilda was the problem. She was downstairs dialling the phone with a stabbing finger. She kept getting the number wrong she was stabbing so hard and furiously. She must have reached innocent people more than once because when I arrived she swore ‘Fuck, not again!’ into the receiver. She poked her fingernail into the back of the phone book where we jotted numbers. She recited Donna’s number with seething slowness.
I ran up to her, snatched the receiver. ‘What are you doing? Give it to me! Give it here!’ She snatched it back and hissed and elbowed my jaw to keep possession. Donna had answered. I could hear her saying ‘Hello. Donna speaking’ down the line.
Tilda let fly: ‘Slut. You fucking slut whore. You betraying slutty bitch. How could you? How could you touch my husband, you fucking lowest form of life?’
I made another snatching attempt. Tilda grunted and gave me a shove, shouting, ‘Watch my arm! Don’t you dare hurt my arm.’
I wasn’t hurting her arm. I had my hand on hard phone plastic, not her, but I retreated anyway to stop her accusing me. I tucked my chin to my chest to beg a truce but she jabbed the receiver into my cheek. I hunched to deflect another hit but bang came one on the bone behind my left ear. Ding on bone higher on my head. White wires of electric water fizzed across my vision. My skull went numb, then seared. Ding again between my shoulder blades. The cord had pulled out from the wall. Tilda followed, swinging the phone like she was batting.
I took each blow, resigned to deserving them. What else could I do? I couldn’t retaliate—my size against hers? I would break her in half. So I took the hiding. Walked up the stairs more proud than defeated. The white wires and the searing were punishments I accepted. I withstood them. They were worth it to be able to be with Donna. They helped drive me towards Donna. I would be with her tonight. I was getting my belongings and leaving.
Chapter 75
I came back down the stairs, backpack on shoulder and reached for the Commodore keys on the hook beside the back door. They weren’t there. They should have been my priority, the first belongings I packed. Instead they were in Tilda’s fingers and she wasn’t about to let them go.
‘You are not going anywhere.’
‘Oh yes I am.’
‘Oh no you’re not.’
‘Give me the keys.’
‘No.’
I reminded her that the keys were the property of the Wimmera Wheatman.
‘So?’
I put my hand on the doorknob to keep my leaving flowing. I turned the knob. The door was locked. I had no way to open it—my house key was on the Commodore ring. ‘Hand it over, Tilda.’
‘You are not leaving me.’
‘I am.’
‘You are not leaving me and going to that fucking slut.’
‘Give me the keys.’
‘This is where you live. You are my husband. You are to take me upstairs and congress with me like my husband.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘Take me upstairs, Colin. Show me that you are my husband. Because that is exactly who you are. You are not leaving me. You are not going to that filthy piece of shit. Take me upstairs. I said upstairs. Now.’
‘What would that prove?’
‘It will remind you that I am the only woman in your life. By law.’
If she had locked me in a tiny cell she could not have suffocated me more. Not being allowed to go here or there. Not being able to seize a key because of the grabbing and tearing and hitting I might have to do. I shouldered my backpack and said, ‘Okay. Okay. Let’s go upstairs.’
‘Good,’ she grinned. She nodded for me to go ahead of her so she could keep an eye on me.
At the bedroom she ordered me to cover my eyes while she decided where to hide the keys. She checked that the window latches were closed. As if I was going to jump out! It was straight down two storeys with no pipes to climb on. The bathroom window was a different matter. It had a drainpipe against the bricks and was still wide open from the fire. Tilda seemed to think the bedroom was her cage for keeping me in and nothing else existed outside it, least of all the bathroom. She pulled down the blinds. She slipped the keys somewhere—under the mattress or a flap of carpet. Keys were not my focus now. The bathroom was.
‘You can open your eyes,’ Tilda said. ‘Take off your clothes. Do it please. Now.’
I unbuttoned my shirt. Tilda unclipped her overalls and peeled off her sleeve. ‘Take your pants off, please. Now, please. Then lie on the bed and invite me to bed with you. I want you to hold out your hand and invite me properly and formally as your wife.’
I unfastened the tongue of my belt but did not unfasten the belt altogether.
‘I said, hold out your hand and invite me to bed as your wife.’
I distracted Tilda from demanding I get undressed by taking her good hand’s fingers to my lips and kissing them. She knelt on the bed and I distracted her more with kisses on her cheek and chin. I said, ‘Please come to bed with me properly and formally as my wife.’
‘Thank you. I shall.’
I lifted her shirt to remove it over her head and get her naked. Nakedness would slow her running after me when I upped and dashed to the bathroom window, shimmied down the drainpipe to be gone.
‘Not so rushed,’ Tilda frowned, using her elbows to block the shirt’s removal. ‘Properly. Do it properly, like you adore me.’
It took more kisses than I could stand. It took an effort of open-mouth ones. It took some biting of her neck and making breathy carried-away noises to get her bra and body part from her. I managed to keep my belt buckle clasped. My own shirt was still on, and most importantly so were my runners. I pretended I was trying to heel-to-toe them from my feet but that my passion was so great it was affecting my co-ordination. Tilda smiled, eyes closed, surrendering to my performance.
As she eased her knickers down over her knees and said, ‘You may touch me and enter me,’ I ran. I scooped up the backpack and ran. Tilda screamed for me to stop. She hopped after me, pulling her knickers on, but I had already thrown the backpack out the window and was negotiating the pipe before she could cover herself. My only problem was thorns of pipe paint, years of them formed from undisturbed peeling. They stuck in my palms on the way sliding down and made me jump the last six feet and hurt my ankle.
I didn’t care. I had the open air and no locked door or Tilda. I sprinted for a second, west up Main Street, then jogged so as not to attract attention. Just going for his usual exercise was the dignified impression I wanted people to get.
Chapter 76
My plan was to run to Donna’s, the entire ninety-five kilometres to Watercook. I would cover ten kilometres every hour, sticking to the highway for a smooth surface. I hoped the stars stayed unclouded to light the way.
It was a bad plan. Nine hours of running? Not with my ankle starting to throb. I decided to call Donna to come and get me. I turned left off Main, ran across Kitten Lane—the little street we used to access our back drive. I was headed for the Scintilla forest. I intended to take a breather there, elevate my ankle before walking east to Hastings Road, using the forest leaves to hide. The cover of leaves seemed sensible because I expected Tilda would be after me, searching the streets in a desperate temper.