22
DIRTY DEATH METAL
I begin the annoying habit of thinking of Denise a lot of the time. It is as if I have absorbed some part of her essence. As if we are joined in some way. I try to avoid it, and the nagging non-writing feeling I have, by trying to do the things that Francina would usually do. Today I’m doing the washing as I have run out of jocks. And old Metallica and Iron Maiden shirts. It takes a while to figure out how a washing machine works but in the end it isn’t so difficult. Fill the tray with a mixture of washing powder and softener (at least I think it was softener), pat it down a bit to avoid spillage, stuff the drum full of dirty Death Metal T-shirts and jack up the heat. If I am going to do the washing then I am going to do it properly! While I’m reading the paper at the kitchen table the machine jumps around a bit. I interpret that as enthusiasm and give it the thumbs-up.
An hour later when the machine stops spinning I try to wrench open the door for three full minutes before it decides to humour me. There’s obviously a trick to how you do the wrenching. Not sure how to hang clothes up on a line, I throw the lot into the tumble dryer. When I retrieve them they are hot and full of static. My silk boxers end up two sizes smaller and muddy-grey but all in all, I’m pleased with my work. I hug the warm clothes to my chest. Oh! The fulfilment of an honest day’s work! To be a common labourer!
The phone rings, snapping me out of my Yeats-like dream of romantic toil. Before thinking I pick it up.
“Hello?” I say. Damn it! I forgot that nowadays I’m not answering the phone.
It is quiet on the other end. Someone is there but they are not speaking.
“Hello?” I say again. Something flutters and the phone line goes dead.
Bad connection.
It rings again and now I know I shouldn’t pick it up. I grab the handset.
“Hello?” I say.
Shuffling of papers. An ear-swap.
“Hello,” says the person on the other side, “I’m looking for a Mister Slade Harris.”
“That’s me,” I say, wishing I hadn’t.
The voice is composed. Too composed.
“Mister Harris, good day. I’m phoning in connection with the overdue payments on your bond at 83 16th Avenue.”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“Are you aware that your payments are two months behind?” he asks, quite politely. Of course he is calm and polite. He has a job. And most likely a house. And he knows where his next pay cheque is coming from.
“No,” I say, although I did have an idea. I have stopped opening the mail since Eve died, since I started feeling vulnerable. And I stopped paying bills quite a time before that. All the post goes straight from the letterbox into the rubbish bin, with minimal handling. I now know what anthrax can do to you. And letter bombs.
“Mister Harris, please be informed that we require your urgent settlement of this debt or we will be forced to begin legal proceedings.”
“Yes,” I say, “I understand.”
“Thank you for your time,” he says, and hangs up.
Yes, hang up, I think. Hang up and go home to your wife and children and domestic worker and paid-up house. So I’m a bit behind on my bond repayments. Is it really necessary to threaten legal action? I’ll make the payments, I always have. I shake my fist at the composed caller: take that! Bugger.
The doorbell rings and for a second I think it is the bank with papers that say the house is no longer mine. I tiptoe to the peephole and see that it’s Frank. I reasoned after what happened at the funeral I would never see him again. Maybe he has come to finish me off.
I open the front door, salute him, but hesitate to buzz the pedestrian gate.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“Can I come in?”
“That depends,” I say.
He looks at me.
“On whether you’re here to have a beer or break my nose again.”
He looks sheepish. He shouldn’t. Punching me was The Right Thing To Do.
“To have a beer?” he smiles. It looks like he means it but my paranoia is hovering.
“Actually, don’t come in. I don’t have any… er… beers in the fridge. Let me grab my jacket and we’ll walk to the pub.”
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he jokes, gesturing to the broken window and faint graffiti.
There is a kind of neighbourhood pub just down the road. The Pint & Sausage. It’s the type of place you can go to alone if your friends aren’t handy. You’re bound to bump into somebody you know or meet someone interesting. They serve all manner of different beers and a mean pub lunch.
The walk over is awkward, we don’t say much; settled in a booth with a lager we seem to ease up.
“I’ve been worried about you,” Frank says.
“About my nose? It’s fine,” I say, willing to be gracious because it’s nice to sit here in this warm place with a few drops of booze in you. Besides, the swelling has gone down and the bridge isn’t too skew. I touch it for good measure.
“Not about your nose,” he says. There is clearly not going to be an apology.
“I’ve been worried because you didn’t come to soccer. And then I tried to call you a few times, to see if you were okay, and you never answered.”
He takes a long sip of his beer and I join him.
“I haven’t been going out much. And I haven’t been answering the phone.”
Frank nods his slow nod.
“The thing is, I’ve been wrecked over Eve’s death. It has completely freaked me out.”
“Yeah,” says Frank.
“And I’ve also been feeling a little… paranoid. I have this feeling that I am being monitored.”
“Cops?” he asks.
“Maybe. Or someone meaning to do me harm.”
Frank chortles at this.
“Like who?”
“I don’t know,” I say. Then he stops laughing.
“PsychoSally?” he asks. Frank is just as spooked by Sally as I am. He doesn’t like to talk about her. If I mention her he changes the subject.
“Maybe,” I say, “maybe she is upping her game. Or someone who blames me for Eve’s death. Someone like you,”
Frank licks his lips.
“Look buddy, I was mad. When I heard that Eve had been murdered I thought it must have been you.”
“It wasn’t,” I say, maybe too firmly. “For fuck’s sake Frank, do you honestly think I’m capable of killing someone? Someone I…”
“Yes?” he says.
“Well, I was fond of her,” I say.
“You’ve killed before,” he says. I can feel my face darken. I look around to make sure no one can hear our conversation. A memory taps at my skull, asking to be let in. I ignore it.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I feel like throwing him against the wall. We stare at each other.
“Angola.”
I blink, relieved.
“That’s different, Frank, you know it is.”
He softens.
“Yeah, I know it is.”
“Being an ex-soldier doesn’t mean I’m a psychopath. That I go around knocking people off. For Christ’s Sake.”
“Yeah,” says Frank. “I’m sorry I said that. I just, well, I just thought the worst when I heard.”
“Yes, well,” I say, “You’re not the only one.”
Another draught later we’re almost back to normal, but Eve’s death has changed something between us. Frank seems different. On edge. I wonder if it’s because he thinks I’m a murderer. Or if it’s because it has been him watching me. Jesus on a skateboard, I’m paranoid. Usually we’d order dinner and drink way too much and laugh about it the next time we saw each other but, while I’d like the company tonight, Frank doesn’t want to eat so we stop at a sensible number of drinks and walk back to my house, his car, without saying a word.