Double Exposure (4 page)

Six
All the gory details

14 December 2002

‘Bitch!' he shouts, and raises his hand, fist clenched.

T.J. flinches against the wall, but the expected blow doesn't fall. He has her trapped in the corner of the room, and with her eyes closed she can smell her own fear gathering like a cloud in the cramped space between the walls.

‘Ian, don't!' The plea is little more than a whisper as she shrinks in anticipation, but he is already backing away, turning unsteadily and mumbling to himself.

‘Bloody stuck-up bitch …'

She slides down the wall, crouching with her spine against the corner, her arms folded protectively over her swollen belly.

No more …

The words sound in her mind and she is not sure if she has uttered them aloud. Then he turns back, and she knows she has.

‘What did you say?'

Slowly she stands, facing him but saying nothing. Something inside her has changed; a tidal shift in the pit of her stomach. She feels calmer, controlled almost, and it must show in her face, because he hesitates.

‘Well?' he mutters, uncertainly.

‘Well, what?' she replies, holding his eye.

A flash of anger, then confusion. He has never seen her like this.

‘What did you bloody say?'

Another pause, longer this time, as she gauges his reaction.

‘Nothing. Why would I bother saying anything to you?'

He advances towards her, but this time she stands her ground.

‘What are you going to do now? Hit me again? Kill the baby? Big man!'

A raw nerve.

He steps back and his fist unclenches. The confusion returns, as if he is struggling to clear the angry fog from his brain. He stares down at her stomach, then back into her eyes. And in them he sees himself reflected.

She pushes past him, heading for the door. He makes no attempt to stop her.

‘Where are you going?' The fury has dissipated and he looks drained.

She stops and looks back at him, her eyes like diamonds. Sparkling with tears, but hard. And cold.

‘What's it to you?'

As the door slams, he sinks to his knees.

‘I love you,' he whispers to the blank wood.

*

‘Finished.'

T.J. pulls the material away from the raised foot of the sewing machine, cutting the thread with her teeth. She holds up the dress and her mother looks around from feeding the boy.

An approving nod.

Over the years they have developed a technique of virtually wordless communication, a comfortable, almost telepathic understanding that sometimes allows a whole day to go by with barely a handful of actual words passing between them. It is as if they save all their words for Ty, who lives his life bathed in a sea of stories and songs and the arcane doggerel of nursery rhymes.

As she knots off the loose threads, her mother turns back to her task. Ty is watching the TV over her right shoulder and the spoon is accepted without resistance or particular interest.

‘Ian rang this morning.'

The words register subconsciously before she processes their meaning and the thread snaps as her reflex pulls too hard through the action of knotting.

T.J. looks up again, but her mother's gaze is still fixed on the boy's face.

‘He didn't say anything at first, just hung there on the line, breathing. He was drunk. Or worse. Even when he finally spoke, I couldn't make much sense of what he was saying, but it was about Ty and it scared me. Tiff, I thought it was finished. I thought …' Finally she turns to face her daughter and the fear on her face is palpable.

‘Why didn't you tell me earlier? I could have –'

‘What? Called the police? Again? You know there's nothing they can do. Unless he actually comes to the house … I wasn't even going to say anything, but …'

T.J. stands and crosses the space between them, sliding her arms around her mother's shoulders.

‘Like you said, he was just drunk. He wouldn't dare do anything. Not again …'

She moves around and takes hold of Ty, lifting him from the high chair and swinging him towards the door.

‘Come on, Sport. We'll finish feeding you outside. It's a beautiful day; no point in wasting it in here.'

*

T.J.'s story

‘I was just fifteen when my father was diagnosed. The big C.'

The conversation was quickly turning into a dramatic monologue, but there was nothing I could do about it.

Cain asked a couple of probing questions and suddenly it was pouring out and I couldn't stop it. Even though part of me was trying. At that moment I could think of no quicker way to drive a new guy away than to treat him to a list of all the gory details.

But somehow it didn't really feel like there was any danger of that. He sat across from me, with the Friday-night Fox Studio crowds moving past behind him, and his eyes never left my face. I couldn't help thinking that there was a bit of the chameleon in him. Every time I met him there was something subtly different about his manner. The way he talked – or listened – the way he joked, the light behind his eyes …

On our first date, he'd been the one who kept the conversation going, putting me at ease, filling in the awkward pauses with jokes. This time, he was more like … the audience. Or the therapist.

Believe me, I'm an expert on therapists …

Anyway, there I was sitting with the remains of my main course in front of me, pouring out my deepest secrets without a second thought. And he nodded, fed me the question, which drew out the next revelation, and never made a comment on what I was saying.

It was liberating – and terrifying. But I couldn't stop.

‘Twelve months of operations and chemo and watching his slow slide and then it was over. It was strange … All I could remember from my childhood was his strength and then it was gone. At the end, he was frail and tired, until finally the fight just drained out of him.

‘My mother was so strong while the situation still held a vague possibility of hope, but she just fell apart in the days and weeks after the funeral. At first I tried to help her, to be there for her, but I had no experience. I was barely sixteen and I was having enough trouble dealing with it myself. There was nothing I could draw on to make a difference for her. So I pulled away.

‘She never blamed me for not being there for her. There was never a word of accusation then, or later. I guess she understood how I was feeling – probably a whole lot better than I did. But sometimes I wonder how different things might have turned out if we'd been able to communicate during those months, the way we've managed to do in the time since.'

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes still fixed on mine.

‘How do you mean, “different”?'

‘Different … I was hurting and vulnerable. I was feeling guilty about my mother and I needed … someone. Anyone to fill the void. To make me feel safe.'

A laugh found its way out, but there was no humour in it. I certainly didn't feel like laughing.

I think he understood. He took hold of my hand and rubbed the backs of my knuckles gently with his thumb.

‘And you thought you'd found him …' The words fell in the gap between a question and a statement. I looked up from his gentle hand to his steady eyes and nodded.

‘Ian was strong when I needed strength. And he was good-looking. Except when he was drunk, which wasn't all that often, at first.'

I took a sip of my drink without removing my hand from his grasp. It was comforting and I was treading into dangerous territory.

‘Then suddenly I was pregnant and everything changed overnight. The first time he hit me, it was like … My God! You hit me. You actually hit me … It was the only time I could ever remember anyone physically hurting me and I didn't know how to react. I didn't fight back, I didn't yell at him. I just stood there and he hit me again. Later, he was distraught. He cried and begged me to forgive him. Which I did.

‘It was the drink. He didn't mean it. He
couldn't
have meant it. I mean, if he did, what did that say about me – about the baby? It's easy to rationalise, at first.'

‘But he did it again.'

‘That and worse. And it wasn't just the drink … By the time I discovered the needles it was already over. I tried, but I couldn't make a clean break. He wouldn't let me.'

In the restaurant opposite, a small crowd was celebrating and they launched suddenly into ‘Happy Birthday to You'. The interruption gave me time to gather my thoughts. Cain didn't speak, but his gaze remained fixed on me, waiting.

‘My mother was amazing, of course. The moment I told her about the baby she seemed to snap out of her depression. I was worried that it would drive her further down and I hadn't told her when I first found out, but she was brilliant. When he came around looking for me, she told him to piss off or she'd call the police. I don't think I'd ever heard her swear before, so it was particularly impressive. She said that her pregnant daughter needed peace and rest – and that the last thing she needed was a junkie dickhead boyfriend, even if he was the father.'

This time when I paused, he must have sensed something.

‘Go on,' he encouraged, but for a moment I couldn't. I felt I'd probably gone too far, revealed way too much. What's the rule for sordid details on a second date?

But hell, one way or the other it was already too late.

‘The next time it wasn't quite so impressive. She managed to slam the door in his face, but he kicked it in before she could close the deadlock. If it hadn't been for one of the neighbours coming to help, I don't know what might have happened. That was when we went to the cops and took out the AVO …'

Finally, I trailed off.

‘I think that's enough. More than enough. It's beginning to sound like a bad soap – without the commercials. Tell me something about you.'

I can't explain the smile he gave me at that moment, but it fired something inside me. His fingers squeezed my hand, and he leaned across the table and kissed me.

‘After the movie, I promise. It's ten past already. If we don't get the check now, we're going to miss the opening credits.'

Surprised, I looked down at my watch. Two hours we'd been there and it felt like minutes.

I was about to apologise, but he was already heading for the counter. Which I guessed meant we weren't going Dutch.

His keys were on the table next to his empty plate. I picked them up and ran the tip of my finger over the medal at the end of the chain.

C.E.

The initials were cast in an imitation of Old English lettering, and on the ring next to the keys was a small enamelled badge.
Inferno Dance Club.
The letters were flames against a black background and there was a phone number across the bottom. I closed my hand around the keys and made my way to where he was standing waiting for me.

Seven
Images

Cain stares up at the banner strung across the gallery entrance.

Beside him, T.J. is concentrating her attention on one of the huge black-and-white portraits which fill the wall opposite the entrance. The magnification has produced a curiously effective graininess in the study and he wonders if the artist considered the enlargement effect when she originally took the picture.

Chris would know.

T.J. has drifted towards one of the artificial divider walls thrusting out from the central wall of the gallery.

West Africa- 2001.

The photo that has drawn her has captured a mother and child in a moment of frozen communion, gazes locked, light reflected from the depths of eyes that remain unaware of the intrusion of the camera and the consciousness behind it. The child has a finger curled beneath the thin strap of its mother's threadbare dress and the mother's hand curves protectively around the girl's naked shoulder.

There are no smiles, but the joy in the face of the mother and the trust in the child's eyes shine from behind the barrier of glass and transcend the dusty squalor of the drought-ravaged landscape in which they stand. Beauty in the face of hardship. The triumph of the human spirit. Themes that infuse the pictures on the wall.

Half an hour later, standing before the winter images of street people on a wall headed
New York-New Year's Eve, 1999,
she shakes her head and wipes a hand across her face
.
Behind her, Cain studies the image of an old man, breath pluming in the freezing air, fingerless gloves unravelling on his hands, a forgotten inhabitant of the world's wealthiest society. The weathered face stares directly into the lens, expressionless except for the weight of years.

‘Chris said he cried the first time he saw the exhibition. Actually cried. He thinks she's a genius and that isn't a word he throws around lightly. What do you think?'

‘I think … I should meet this brother of yours.'

She turns back to the picture and touches the glass lightly with her fingertips.

‘I can see why he cried … To tell you the truth, it scares me. She can create such incredible … beauty in the most unlikely environments, but when you look at certain pictures it's like she slips beneath the surface and touches something deep and dark in you that's maybe better left untouched.'

Standing behind her, he slips his arms around her waist and kisses her hair, staring into the eyes of the picture.

‘Chris?'

A voice behind him startles him and he turns to find an attractive young woman reaching out a hand.

‘Libby Fielding, remember? We talked last week at the opening. I don't know what you said to Maxine, but she's mentioned you twice in the last couple of days – so you must have made an impression. She's waiting for the portfolio you promised her.'

‘I'm sorry, Libby, is it? I'm not Chris. He's my brother.' He watches the moment of embarrassment and her quick recovery. ‘Twins,' he adds superfluously. ‘He told me this was one exhibition I just had to see. And he was right. It's a knockout.'

Beside him, T.J. moves a little impatiently.

‘I'm sorry. This is my friend T.J.' An exchanged nod. ‘I didn't know Chris had talked to you about his own work. He didn't mention anything to me.'

The young woman smiles.

‘Perhaps he was waiting to gauge the reaction.' A pause. She looks at the picture on the wall, as if ordering her words. He senses that she is not someone who allows for the possibility of an unguarded word, but there is something that she wants to say. ‘He can certainly talk the talk. Maxine's been in the business since before I was born and she can smell a phoney at a hundred paces, but he managed to impress her – and without showing her a single picture … I just hope he can walk the walk, too.'

Cain holds her gaze, serious suddenly.

‘I don't think you have to worry. He's been walking the walk since he was four years old.'

‘A prodigy, eh?'

He nods. ‘So they said.' Standing slightly back from the exchange, T.J. weighs the words for a trace of jealousy, but his tone reveals nothing. ‘I'm glad to see he's finally planning on doing something serious with all that talent.'

The words sound odd in his mouth, as if they belong to someone else. She makes a mental note to ask him about it later.

Libby looks around until she locates the small group into which Margot Tredennick has melted.

‘Would you like to meet the artist? She's here tonight. I know she has to leave soon, but I can give you a quick introduction.'

As they move across the space, Cain looks up at one of the giant portraits that dwarf the room. An old man's eyes stare down at him, huge in their scale and grave in their experience. In spite of the knowing eyes, something in that face reminds him of his father and he looks away.

*

Cain's story

‘Your father would rather not talk about it, Cain. Can we change the subject?'

Can we change the subject?

I swear, just one time I'd like to grab him around the neck and keep squeezing, just to see if she'd keep the same tone.

‘Your father would rather not be strangled, Cain. Please stop it…'

‘They're interested in his work, Momma. In him. Do you realise what that means? It's one of the most influential galleries in the country and he's managed to talk his way into –'

‘Talk is cheap.' Finally the great Abraham Eveson speaks. ‘It doesn't prove anything. All that talent and he's never made anything of it.'

And finally I explode.

‘For Christ's sake! Have you seen anything he's produced in the past three years? Do you have a clue what he's done with ‘all that talent'? At least he isn't playing it safe, putting up with this … crap!'

‘Cain! Your father was just saying –'

‘I
know
what my father was saying, Momma. I don't need a bloody translator. And I don't need to be told what's an acceptable topic for conversation. Not by you and certainly not by
him.
Chris is my brother. I should be able to mention his name without bringing the censorship board down on my neck.'

My mother places her cutlery neatly on her plate and leans forward slightly. The conciliator.

‘He hurt us deeply when he left, Cain. You have to understand. It's not easy for your father –'

‘Newsflash, mother. He didn't hurt
you.
He was defending you. Right up until you sided with
him.
'

I punctuate the word by jabbing the air in my father's direction with my fork.

‘And
he
wasn't hurt at all.
He
didn't give a damn. The only thing that hurt him was the fact that someone had finally called his bluff.' Suddenly my father is standing, slamming his hands down onto the table. His chair tips back on its hind legs then falls forward, coming to rest against the backs of his legs. He is rigid, staring down at me.

And I remember the impact of his belt – the burning sting and the humiliation. And Chris staring back at him, unbowed and unrepentant.

While I crawled away into a corner with my arms over my head, crying like a baby.

This time I hold his gaze and stare back at him. I stand and we face off across the table. I'm not seven years old any more and his eyes are looking up at mine. Just a fraction, but enough. They dart away, then back. He struggles to maintain the stare, but he has weakened for once.

He knows it and he knows I know it.

‘Well, maybe you should call my bluff too,' he counters, weakly. ‘Get out of the house and see if your dead-end job can support you in the real world.'

Is that the best you can do?

He looks … old.

‘Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Leave you here with Momma, so you can bully her into submission without anyone to stop you. You'd better get used to it, General. I'm not going anywhere. Unless you think you're strong enough to throw me out.'

He stares at me for a moment longer, then turns and leaves the room.

My mother stands looking at me, shaking her head.

‘Oh, Cain,' she whispers, then follows him out of the room.

The clock in the hall chimes seven, and in the street outside, Dusan's SX squeals to a halt. I listen to the engine bubbling and the music thumping until he kills the ignition. The car-door slams and the alarm activates.

I grab my jacket from the coat-rack by the front door as I leave the house.