Harlequin Rex (36 page)

The
pleasure
was
greater
than
he'd
anticipated:
but
then
it
always
was.
Such
joy
exits
only
in
the
moment
of
attainment.

‘Did
I
see
the
man
bringing
me
a
dinner?'

‘I'll
get
you
something
in
a
minute,
Nan,
when
I'm
finished
here.
'

Had
a
Basque
with
a
bomb,
a
serial
garrotter,
a
charismatic
evangelist,
the
ghost
of
Christmas
past,
come
in
to
do
the
three
of
them
mortal
harm,
they
could
not
have
broken
from
their
preoccupations
—
David
and
Rebecca
striking
the
sparks
of
life
itself,
and
Nan
sifting
the
embers.

‘Alan
never
writes
to
me
at
all,
'
said
the
old
woman
firmly.

‘He
does,
Nan.
You
know
he
does.'
Rebecca's
breasts
were
impressive,
covering
all
of
her
chest,
even
when
she
was
underneath.
David
tried
to
wrestle
her
on
top
so
that
gravity
would
show
them
to
best
advantage.

‘Junk
mail's
all
I
get.
Nothing
personal
at
all.
Stuff
you're
supposed
to
spend
money
on.
Nothing
from
people
you
really
know.'

The
walking
stick
smartly
struck
the
moments
and 
movements
of
the
struggle,
many
more
than
a
grandfather's
twelve,
until
they
were
locked
together,
quite
still,
in
that
instant
which
the
French
call
the
little
death,
and
the
only
sound
was
Rebecca's
sigh
and
his
deep
breathing.

They
dressed
with
difficulty
in
the
ditch
between
bed
and
wall,
and
then
went
back
into
the
living
room,
waking
Nan
so
that
she
started
in
the
chair.
‘My
goodness,
where
did
you
come
from,
Rebecca?
How
long
have
you
been
in
there?'

‘I
was
making
your
bed,
Nan.
You
know.'
Rebecca
went
to
the
kitchenette
and
began
to
make
a
cup
of
tea
for
all
three.

Nan
put
her
hand
on
David's
with
surprising
speed.
‘Not
out
on
the
boat
today?'
she
said.
‘That's
nice.
You
should
have
more
time
with
Rebecca.
'

‘I'm
late
for
the
salon
as
it
is,'
said
Rebecca.

David
just
smiled.
To
find
pleasure
in
life
was
quite
enough
without
expecting
logic
with
it.
When
reason
can't
be
found,
rhyme
is
some
satisfaction.

‘What
was
it
I
was
saying?'
asked
Nan.

‘Don't
think
that
you're
going
to
get
that
out
of
me
again,
'
said
Rebecca,
giving
him
his
cup.
‘I'm
happily
married.'

‘Do
you
think
the
postman's
been?'
asked
Nan.

He
did,
though.
Not
every
time
that
he
made
the
round
trip,
not
as
often
as
he
wished,
but
on
occasions
enough
to
keep
him
hopeful,
she
agreed
to
his
suggestion
that
they
should
visit
her
Nan
in
the
lunch
hour.
Tidying
the
bedroom,
Rebecca
said,
and
through
the
partly
open
door
she
would
maintain
a
sort
of
desultory
parallel
conversation
with
the
old
woman,
both
of
them
caring
little
for
the
words
they
used,
and
with
their
interest
elsewhere.
Each
time
there
was
the
same
ritual.
He
would
snare
her
in
the
confined
margins
of
the
Deep
Heat
room:
each
time
her
small
resistance
to
support
the
pretence
that
his
intention
was
unexpected,
each
time
the
faded
salon
smock
removed
to
show
the
large
nipples,
darkly 
compressed
beneath
the
fabric
of
the
cups.
She
grappled
him
in
the
same
way
each
time,
no
interest
in
variety,
until
the
expanse
of
her
white
belly
had
a
thick
sheen
of
sweat
and
their
thighs
smacked
like
paddles.
No
tender
and
mutual
absorption,
but
instead
straining
face
to
face
as
if
in
dispute
concerning
his
cock
between
them.

It
was
what
he
deserved,
wasn't
it?
It
was
all
that
he
was
capable
of
offering.
He
had
given
up
any
idea
of
love
in
regard
to
a
woman:
that
far
place
in
poetry
and
homily,
which
continued
to
recede.
Love
wasn't
for
the
likes
of
him,
was
it?
And
always
close
behind
love
was
the
pain
of
its
betrayal.
Family
had
taught
David
that.

They
were
at
it
when
the
crayfish
husband
came
one
sunny
lunchtime,
when
the
sea
had
let
him
down
perhaps,
and
he
heard
the
noises
even
before
he
began
to
talk
to
Nan,
and
walked
straight
on
by
before
she
could
begin
to
wonder
how
he
managed
to
arrive
twice
—
right
into
the
bedroom
with
so
little
space
to
stand
that
he
climbed
onto
the
bed
with
them
in
his
amazement
and
anger.
A
fisherman
knows
how
to
use
his
hands
and,
even
in
the
tumult
of
the
struggle
the
three
of
them
made,
there
on
Nan's
marriage
bed,
he
wasted
only
a
few
blows
on
David
before
concen
trating
on
his
wife.
David
ran
in
shirt
and
boxer
shorts
past
Nan,
put
on
his
trousers
in
the
confined
porch
—
where
he
could
hear
the
noises
from
the
bedroom
—
ran
three
blocks
more
to
his
truck.
Tears
of
fear
and
remorse
were
driven
back
towards
his
ears.
‘Turn
the
television
down,'
complained
Nan
in
the
empty
sitting
room.
‘How
can
I
hear
myself
think
with
such
a
racket.'

All
the
way
back
to
Gore
Bay,
David
disciplined
himself
to
keep
within
the
speed
limit,
and
he
spent
just
long
enough
at
the
bach
to
lift
his
cash
and
stash
of
shit,
a
few
personal
things
that
had
survived
prison,
and
leave
a
note
for
Samuels
Bros,
that
he'd
been
called
away
by
sudden
family
illness.
He
then
began
hitching
back
the
way
he'd
come,
hoping
to
confuse
anyone
interested
in
his
movements.
He
passed 
through
Kaikoura
before
dark
with
a
refrigeration
engineer
and
his
family,
already
becoming
accustomed
to
a
new
name,
and
oblivious
to
the
children's
game
of
guessing
the
colours
of
oncoming
vehicles.
The
through
road
to
Blenheim
didn't
pass
the
salon,
where
Jeanne
still
told
of
the
helicopter
wedding
perhaps,
or
the
unit
by
the
over
bridge
where
Nan's
incapacity
for
short-term
memory
would
surely
save
her
from
everything
except
the
first
shock.