Meatloaf in Manhattan (20 page)

‘Hello, Jean,' he says, ‘how are you?'

‘Ah, look, I'm fine,' she says, ‘nothing a private income wouldn't put right. And yourself?'

‘All good,' he replies, ‘and your friend?'

‘This is no friend,' says Jean with a laugh. ‘This is Grace, my intern.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Grace. I'm Steve, Detective Sergeant Steve Dickens.'

‘Not Charles?' says Grace with a grin.

‘No, and believe me you're not the first to ask,' he replies, momentarily considering a Grace Kelly response, but thinks better of it.

The door opens again and the bald head of the court usher appears like a jack-in-the-box.

‘Ten minutes and you're on, Mrs Butler.'

She nods and shuffles her papers together.

‘Jean, I want to know if you can help me with something,' says Steve.

‘Sure, what is it?' she replies, stuffing folders into her battered old briefcase, the one Adam bought her on the eve of her graduation ceremony.

‘You've got good contacts in the African community,' he says, looking at Grace and then back to Jean. ‘Well, we've had a tip-off about a groomer. All part of Operation Comb-over,' he continues, barely masking the smirk. ‘A couple of boys called from a phone box and gave us details of an Internet stalker. This one's arranged to meet an underaged African girl at Flinders Street station. We can't track the email trail, it's secured. To complicate matters the girl's not real. These kid's made her up to see what would happen.'

‘And it did?' asks Jean. ‘Happen?'

‘Yep, This guy's expecting to meet an underaged beauty. You get the scenario?'

‘Yes,' say Grace and Jean together, swapping glances, sharing sentiments.

‘So we need someone to stand in for the fictitious siren. She says she was a Somalian Princess.'

Grace stands up, tall and proud.

‘I am Somalian,' she says, ‘and all Somalian girls are princesses.'

Steve looks at Jean and shrugs his shoulders. Grace smiles.

‘The job description for an intern does have the “and whatever duties are required” clause,' says Jean.

‘Ah, the insanity clause,' says Steve, with a grin as wide as his job is sad.

Adam stands in front of the bathroom mirror, with the door uncharacteristically locked. He takes extra care shaving, then combs his unruly hair into a semblance of order. He stretches his neck then looks at his reflection from side to side. He opens his eyes wide, looking close into their depths, trying to get a sense of what is going on with him. ‘Just a harmless meeting, just a chance to meet someone interesting,' he whispers to himself. Downstairs, Jean is waiting for him to go so she can have a cigarette and a glass of whisky before the boys get back from their basketball game.

‘Cab'll be here in a minute,' she shouts up the stairs.

Adam dresses in his new Calvin Klein underpants and a shirt he bought in the sales, but has yet to wear.

‘You look great,' says his wife, as she watches him bounding down the stairs. ‘Got everything?'

‘Yep,' he says, ‘only an overnighter.'

He picks up the holdall as the doorbell rings.

‘Cab!' they say in unison, and then laugh.

‘Bye, then,' he says, kissing his wife on the cheek. ‘Take care.'

‘You too,' she says, opening the door, ‘have fun.'

Adam hardly ever goes into town these days. In fact, when he thinks of it, except for work, he hardly goes anywhere. And even then, most of his work takes place in front of his computer screen. He tries to remember the last time he and Jean came to town for dinner or a show and he can't. And the last time they made love? He can't recall that either. When the cab driver drops him at the station he is amazed at how busy it all seems. People walking in all directions, cars and bikes and trams at the intersection and the neon advertising flashing on and off at the tops of all the buildings. He walks up the steps to the station clocks. Each shows the arrival or departure of a train, but none seem to tell the hour. He turns on his phone, ignores the messages, and realises he is ten minutes early.

Waiting, alone, he feels an uncomfortableness that is unusual to him: his life is so ordered, so predictable. His stability unsettled, standing at a train station to see a strange young girl he has never met, never even talked to. He has booked a table at a restaurant in Brunswick under a false name and he knows there are hotels in town where he can hire a room, pay by the night, no credit card, no record. He feels his heart pounding as if he's on his first ever date. Looking around at the sea of faces moving up and down the steps, he feels a bit dizzy, a bit overwhelmed; unsure of himself and what he's doing. And then he sees her, getting off the tram and crossing the road from Federation Square. So like her photo. So elegant, so tall, so majestic, so young.

Adam watches her walk towards him. Grace stares straight ahead. She looks far younger than her twenty years, betraying no signs of the sights she witnessed as a child of war and worse. When their eyes meet Adam gets a sudden notion of what has been driving these events. That all he really wants is to sit with her, to feel refreshed and new, to be invigorated. Maybe even to make sense of the peculiarity of their coming together. She puts out her hand and says ‘Hello'. He moves towards her, puts out his own hand. Then, in a baffling instant, she stands aside. Two police officers appear from behind and take him firmly by his arm. Adam gulps in shock. This is not happening to him. ‘This is a mistake,' he hears himself saying, ‘a terrible mistake.'

‘The man in the checked shirt and cowboy boots,' says one, ‘But they'll be no rodeoing for this little cowboy tonight,' adds the other as he handcuffs Adam's wrists. He winces as his shoulders are twisted backwards. He hears them say something about questioning and accompanying them to the police station. The crowd, at once anonymous, forms to become a circled audience, as if Adam was a street performer about to exhibit some extraordinary feat. Grace looks him in the eye: no warmth from her; nothing to be discovered now. Then he is led to the waiting police car, his head pushed forward and down by one the officers as he is guided into the back seat. They turn on the engine and siren and then speed off. Grace stands in the midst of the crowd watching the car disappear into the traffic of St Kilda Road. As she turns to leave she is jostled by a group of young men.

‘Hey,' says one with a bottle of beer in his hand, ‘look where you're going.'

‘And while you're at it,' says another with a sneer, ‘go back to the jungle where you came from.'

The boys, in a pack, run off across the road, throwing empty bottles as they go, glass crashing and shattering in their wake.

It is well after midnight, but Jean is sitting up in bed. She is reading through the case of a heroin addicted couple from the western suburbs. They'd left their baby strapped to a cot in their boarding room while they went to the pub to score. She sighs and sips from her cup of tea as the quiet of the street is disturbed by a car that brakes and then draws up outside her house. Looking out the window she sees the flashing blue and red lights of a police car and watches a policewoman step from the vehicle and walk down the drive. A dozen thoughts flash through her mind as she pulls on her dressing gown and heads down the stairs. Adam in a plane crash? Her elderly father? Bad news from overseas? At least the boys are asleep in their bedroom, she thinks. The bell rings, ding-dong. She can see the outline of two police officers through the frosted glass. She unbolts the locks and opens the door. The night air is cold on her bare legs. The policewoman has a scar above her lip. It seems to grow longer as she opens her mouth to speak. Jean listens to the words this younger woman has to say. At first she shakes her head in disbelief. The policewoman says more.

‘We have a warrant to search the house. We are particularly interested in your husband's computer.'

Jean's hands begin to shake as she realises what has taken place this night. No tragic news from afar. No deaths in the family. No plane crash even, but surely a far greater falling off. Her mind tumbles. She looks at the policewoman, dumbfounded now, not quite sure where this may lead. The officers move into the hallway. The policewoman holds Jean's elbow to steady her.

‘I'll make sure you're okay,' she says gently. Her expression seems to be that of concern, of sympathy. But all Jean can focus on is the scar above the woman's lip and the cold air that wraps around her legs.

Then she hears a sound on the landing. Turning around she sees Jake and Alec looking over the bannisters.

‘Mum,' says Jake.

‘My sons,' she says to the policewoman, as if an explanation was needed.

‘Of course,' says the policewoman, glancing up, surprised as people always are at seeing twins.

BUFFALO BILL AND THE PSYCHIATRIST

The wedding bells pealed. The archway was formed: hockey sticks from the hockey club. Hockey was where they met. Joanne and Micky. They'd first talked to each other on the coach back from the District Play-Offs. A night at the pictures, the best Italian in town, three days in bed, a long weekend in a top hotel by the bay, and they were well on course.

Everyone agreed that it was a cracking wedding, one of the very best. The DJ got it spot on for the demographic: Indie meets soul meets new age. Music to remember. To be remembered. Indeed, it was towards the end of a Birds of Tokyo track that it all began to unravel. Much, much quicker than even the most doomed of marriages. The DJ was promising to slow things down. Most of the wedding guests had eaten too much, drunk too much; a good few had said too much. Micky was drinking a beer with his old pal Big Steve up at the bar. They were talking about Buffalo Bill and the Wild West. He took his travelling show to Paris and Rome, so Steve said, even performed in front of Queen Victoria in London. The Rolling Stones of his day, Micky said. And then Big Steve asked where was the beautiful bride? They scanned the dance floor, plenty of moves, but no Joanne. Probably taking some air, said Micky, I'll go and have a look outside.

The disco was in the hockey clubhouse and ‘outside' was the pitch, freshly manicured with the sweet smell of newly cut grass. Big moon, big sky, low horizon on account of the building regulations. Micky took a deep breath, sucking up his future, happy with what he foresaw. No sign of Joanne or anyone else for that matter. Perhaps she was powdering her nose, chatting to the bridesmaids about frocks and honeymoons. At that thought he felt for the plane tickets, the big surprise, snuggled away in his suit jacket pocket.

It was then he heard the sounds coming from the side of the building. Familiar sounds. Sounds that brought a lump to his throat, made the hair rise on the back of his neck. He edged his way to the corner, peered around the building. There she was, skirt up her back and the man Micky knew as her therapist was far closer than any psychiatrist ought to get to a patient. Unseen, Micky lent back against the wall, breathing hard and shallow, his mind racing. He could hear them still: his wife of no more than a few hours and her psychiatrist (unmistakable on account of the hair). Micky'd only seen the man once before: waiting for Joanne in the car park next to the practice. A tall man with a mane of striking white hair standing up on end: Albert Einstein meets electric shock. The psychiatrist wasn't a guest, not even a gatecrasher. More a spectre at the wedding party; lurking in the shadows.

Micky didn't wait around for long (he'd heard and seen enough). Instead he walked slowly back to the party, in a daze. When Big Steve asked if he'd found the blushing bride Micky drained the rest of his beer, stared wildly at Big Steve, and asked him why Buffalo Bill was called Buffalo Bill. Big Steve was a bit alarmed at the strange look on his friend's face. He put it down to the stress of the day. So he went on to tell Micky, in great detail, all about Bill's prowess as a buffalo hunter and how the nickname was the nineteenth century, Wild West, equivalent of the heavy-weight boxing champion of the world. Steve talked on, it was what Micky seemed to want. Buffalo Bill'd put his literal title, his name, against all comers, continued Steve. Huge dollar sums would be wagered, crowds would assemble on the plains and the man to kill the greatest number of buffaloes over an eight hour period would be the winner. Buffalo Bill never lost, said Big Steve.

But by now Micky was far away, somewhere in shock, as if Muhammad Ali had caught him with a sucker punch. Steve asked if he was alright and Micky said he needed some air, then thought better of it and said that was the last thing he needed. Maybe a sit down and a cup of coffee, suggested Big Steve. So Micky sat down and put his head between his knees. He thought he might be sick. He thought he might cry out loud. He did neither.

Joanne had first considered a psychiatrist on the recommendation of her cousin Dawn. You can put it on your health insurance, Dawn said, you'll get a referral from your doctor, easy as. Joanne had had her fill of the Prozac and really did want to stop the pattern of disastrous relationships followed by crashing depression and yet another round of medication. The next week she was at the Medical Centre. I know a great man, said her doctor, I'm sure he'll be ideal for you. An expert on relationships, she enthused. And so he turned out to be.

When, on the wedding night, Micky showed Joanne the plane tickets to Rome she was ecstatic. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the neck. What a beautiful, beautiful surprise, she chirped. He looked over her shoulder at the rose-patterned wallpaper behind the bed in the luxury suite, amazed at the game he seemed to be playing, wondering if the smell on her neck was the lick of the psychiatrist.

The honeymoon went off without a hitch. They came home. Didn't we just love Saint Peter's Square? said Joanne to Micky, eagerly looking for confirmation, as they sat down for lunch in the parlour of his mother-in-law's house by the bay. Yes, he said, I was hoping the Pope would be on the balcony, but it was a Tuesday. They had roast lamb with mint sauce and all the trimmings. Great roast potatoes MIL, said Micky (for that's what he called his mother-in-law), crispy on the edge and soft inside. Back to work, is it Micky? asked MIL, as she served up the sherry trifle. Yes. Monday morning, said Micky, I'll be on that train. Married life, eh? laughed MIL. Domestic bliss, she added, smiling across the table at her only daughter, her little princess.