Opportunity (3 page)

I researched Martin afterwards. He went for women who
weren't available. A classic type. I raged at him. I had dreams
in which I punched him until I was exhausted. In my dreams
I scorned and sneered and jeered. I tied him up and tortured
him. He hadn't loved me. He had hurt me and my family. He
needed punishing for that.

I wrote a story about him. I invited him to a café and made
him read it. A contemptible tear slid down his cheek. 'Look at
you, playing at feeling,' I said. 'You crocodile. Go away and
learn to be a human being.'

The story was about a loveless playboy, a dishonourable
man, good for nothing except suicide. I described his faithless
ways, his self-pity. At the end I had him lying on a couch dying
of booze, of lousiness . . .

'Celia?' Sarah was leaning over me. 'Are you ready?'

I never asked Joe what he thought of the story. If Martin
had asked me to, would I have left Joe? If Joe had been a writer,
what sort of story would he have written about me?

Sarah was hovering. 'Celia. Can I get you . . . ?'

'I'm just a bit faint.' I wiped my face. I was crying.

'There's a
huge
crowd out there. They're even standing at
the back.'

I got up and gathered my notes. The chairperson was
waiting at the door. She was flushed and nervous. She
whispered a lot of instructions about the microphone. I
nodded and smoothed my shirt. We went out onto the stage.

Beyond the bright lights there was a collective rustle and
sigh. I smiled into the hot dazzle. I could see rows and rows of
heads. Impossible to see who any of them were. The chair was
already up at the podium, introducing me. I sat down and set
my expression: modest, polite.

I couldn't keep my mind on the notes I'd prepared. Why
had he come? Did he have some kind of feeling for me back
then? Was he sorry?

The introduction was winding down. I wanted to be in
a room upstairs, lying across the bed, the mini-bar open,
looking out at the drifting rain, crying for myself, for my poor
lost Joe. One thing about Martin, standing in the queue: he
was alone. Always alone.

'Introducing Celia Myers!' Polite applause. And then the
questions. Do you see yourself as. Are your stories a form of.
Women see you as a.

Some guardian angel took over. I felt as though I were
listening to someone else. I answered all the questions. In
front of me were hundreds of nodding heads.

The chair announced that I would read. I rose and opened
a book of short stories. I read a short funny one, then a more
serious one. (More scattered clapping.) Then, my hands
trembling, I opened an old collection. I read the story I'd
written about Martin long ago. He was out there somewhere
in the black spaces beyond the lights. Did he know I'd seen
him outside? He would know now. He would guess. I was
reading the story to him, no one else. It was a hate letter, a
message of hate, directed only at him. I read in a clear, strong
voice. I finished. I listened to the clapping. I thought, there is
a circle, and love and hate are on it. At some point they are
very close. And neither will change the immutable, the thing
you send them towards.

I felt rather light and dizzy. I didn't know whether I had
been a disaster or a success. But afterwards they told me that,
of all the events, my session had been the 'most consistent'.
Whatever that means.

I signed books in the foyer. There was a long line. (There
were other authors there too.) I kept looking along it, but there
was no Martin. It took more than an hour to get through the
queue, and then Sarah and others took me for a drink at the
bar. I looked around at the crowd. I signed some more books.
I talked to a radio journalist who poked a big microphone at
me. He asked me about new work. 'I'm writing a collection of
stories,' I told him. 'One that contains all of my crimes.'

I felt bad suddenly. I made an excuse and went outside. The
rain was still pouring down. The sea was churned up, full of
choppy waves. I looked along the wharf. And then I saw him,
walking away. He was carrying an umbrella. There was a
woman beside him, keeping step. He was holding the umbrella
over her. I stood watching them until they went around the
corner. I looked up into the white sky and let the rain fall on
my face. I went back inside. In the toilets I faced the mirror. I
pulled out some paper towels and wiped my eyes.

I drove home. Ron Cassidy was under his veranda, taking
a piece of engine apart. Blake squatted nearby, smoking and
watching. A broken pipe spouted water into the grass behind
them. They looked like creatures in a lush green habitat at the
zoo. I thought of my idea: Ron teetering, falling, the spray of
iron and pipe and nails. The thud as he hit the concrete. His
body lying inert in the yard. The woman standing at the gate,
then driving slowly away.

I didn't finish the story about Ron falling off the roof. I
might go back to the idea one day. I might use it. I did write
the story about Martin, though, and I did read it to him, only
him, at the festival, while hundreds of people looked on. But I
wrote it a long time ago, when I was young and raw. I wrote it
before I lost my sense of who was good and who was bad,
before I started feeling sorry for everyone, and living my life
and recording it — and everyone else's — as truly as I can.

I saw my client to the door. 'You'll be fine, Dee,' I said. 'Just tell
them exactly what I told you to say.'

I watered the plants and fed the birds. The hot sun shone
through the windows and the room was full of yellow light.
The birds cheeped and fluttered. In the street below, a woman
was pushing a child in a pushchair. She wore a mini-skirt and
her back was tattooed under her sleeveless shirt. I watched
her. The canary made his cage swing. I whistled to him. He
looked at me with one round, shiny, empty eye.

I checked my diary. I had some time. No more clients,
nothing until an appearance in the afternoon. I spent a lot of
time in the local district court, dealing with remands and bail
applications and defended hearings. Most of my clients were
criminal, although I made money with a bit of conveyancing.
I was ambitious. I'd done a rape trial and I'd acted in a major
aggravated robbery case, with multiple defendants. What I
wanted was a murder trial, or a serious drugs charge. Those
were the big cases, the ones that got you noticed.

My secretary, Sharon, had given me the canary for my
birthday, and then a client had given me a couple of budgies.
I had a parakeet for a while. It shat everywhere and climbed
claw-over-beak up the curtain. Sharon thought it was hilarious
but I soon put my foot down. It was too much of a distraction,
not to mention the muck it left everywhere. Without my
having much to do with it, the birds had become a trademark.
I knew they made me seem friendly, quirky, eccentric. They
suited my sunny office above the shopping centre, where
people trudged in and out clutching summonses for shoplifting,
assault, burglary, car conversion, disorderly behaviour.

My client, Dee Myers, was good-looking, and I'd wanted
her to like me. I'd gone into a spiel about the birds — a bit of
patter I usually gave to put people at ease. When I'd finished
she didn't coo or smile or get up and pretend to look into
the cages. She just stared at me. There was an expression on
her face. Boredom? Impatience? She was all angles — thin
shoulders, a long straight nose, intense, direct eyes. I was
disconcerted. I picked up the file and got down to business.

Thinking about it now, I swung the canary cage. The bird
clung to its perch, fluttering. Tiny shreds of birdseed hung
from its rashy beak. I looked at it with dislike.

I went down to the café, ordered a takeaway coffee and a
muffin and leaned against the counter reading the newspaper.
I walked slowly back, sipping my coffee, thinking out a letter
I needed to write.

Sharon was at the top of the stairs. With small shakes of her
head she poked an afro comb into her frizzy hair. 'There's
someone waiting for you. A Duane Mitchell?' We looked at
each other and shrugged.

He stood up when I came in. He was short — no more than
five foot six. He was about thirty, with dark hair, pale grey
eyes and a handsome, angular face. His hair was fashionably
cut. His teeth were crooked. You could see a bit of gold when
he talked.

'Duane Mitchell,' he said in a deep, harsh voice. 'I haven't
got an appointment.' He gave off a strong male smell of sweat
and cigarettes. His shoulders were broad and his chest was
strong, but the big torso was mounted on short legs.

He made a chirping noise at the canary. 'I know a guy who
can get you this stuff wholesale. Birdcages and that? This guy
I know, imports exotic pets. If you want tropical fish.
Axolotls.'

'I've got too many pets already.'

'Pets are good for you. I read that. They're good for your
health.'

'What can I do for you?' From his manner I was guessing
some kind of fraud charge. Using a document for pecuniary
advantage. Or a pyramid scam.

He lowered his eyes, pompous. 'I've got some information
that concerns you. It's about your wife.'

'My wife and I are separated,' I said quickly. I picked a file
up off the desk and opened it.

'Yeah. She told me.'

He looked at me with his pale eyes. He thought he had
some kind of power over me, and he was enjoying it. He
brushed a streak of ash off his black jacket. A thread hung
from a frayed sleeve.

'Are you a friend of my wife?'

'I met her in a bar.' His smile was insinuating. He seemed to
probe me with it, to dig for signs of weakness.

I was about ready to throw him out. He realised I was
getting angry, stopped smiling. 'I'm a personal trainer. But I
have a bit to do with the fashion industry. We'd done a show.'
He named some fashion designer. 'I went to a bar afterwards
with a couple of the models.' He paused, winked. I looked
away. 'I saw this beautiful lady at the bar, all by herself, and I
offered to buy her a drink. She accepted. Then she buys me
one. She tells me she doesn't go out much but she'd went out
with her "book group", right,' — he put two fingers up,
scratching quotation marks in the air — 'and the last ones had
just gone home and she was waiting for a taxi.

'Anyway she was a cheap drunk. One drink and she was
away. It turned into a bit of a party. We got on well, chatting
about this and that. By the end we were both a bit smashed
and she starts telling me about her life. As you do. She told me
a whole lot about her ex. Which was you.'

'Really.' I looked at my watch. I felt cornered and he knew
it.

His voice altered. 'She told me about your divorce.' His tone
went higher — there was something challenging, goading. I
saw how aggressive, how ready he was.

'What do you want?' I said.

'The reason I've come to see you is that your wife said
something. She said it more than once. Come to think of it,
after we'd had a few, it was the only thing she wanted to talk
about.'

I thought about telling him to leave. What would that
involve? A scuffle? Punches thrown? I looked at him with
disgust. 'So what was it?'

He looked down, fiddled with his hands, pursed his lips.
He sighed and said in a voice that was light, scandalised, 'She
said she wanted to have you killed.'

I laughed. I threw down my pen. 'Right.'

He screwed himself around in his chair, rolling his
shoulders, gearing himself up. He put his hands out, steadying
something — himself — a small gesture, melodramatic, but it
worked. I felt the adrenalin surge. I swallowed.

'Now. She wasn't just going off. I thought she was at first,
but she was serious. She talked about things you'd done to
her. She said you'd hurt her. She said you'd mess up your kid,
too — that you'd turn the kid into someone like you. You'd
corrupt him, she said. She wanted to find someone who would
get rid of you for money. She'd read an article in a magazine,
about how you could hire people, through the gangs.'

We stared at each other. There was something very bad in
his face. He was hard, coiled, malevolent. He was angry that
I'd laughed.

'You think she was serious?'

'Oh, I know she was,' he said in a lilting voice.

There was a silence.

'Because she asked
me
to do it.'

He made a quick movement. My throat closed. A second of
fear: I thought we were going to fight and I pushed my chair
back. But he was a salesman. He wanted to create an effect. He
was selling me the idea, drawing me in. Now there was a little
smile on his face.

I was furious, but I stayed sitting. 'I don't believe you,'
I said.

He eyed me. He could see how rattled I was. He waited.
I tried to gather my thoughts. Was it possible? It was true that
relations between Carita and me were very bad.

'Let's think about this,' I said. I raised my eyes. Duane
Mitchell was watching. 'What do you want?'

He knew he'd scored. He couldn't have imagined it would
be so easy. I saw in his eyes some predatory calculation going
on. He also looked disconcerted and conscientious, as though
the situation were almost too rich, too testing for him to
handle.

'I want you to know I turned her down.' He coughed. 'But
that's not to say she hasn't gone somewhere else. She was
pretty set on it.'

I pressed my fingers against my temples. 'I hope you tried
to talk her out of it?'

'Mate, she wasn't going to listen. There was something in
her eyes. Crazy. Freaked me out, you know?'

'How did you know where to find me?'

'She told me your name. I know your reputation. I've seen
you at the court.'

'Really.'

'I've had a few run-ins. Traffic and that. Couple of minor
things.'

'You'd better leave,' I said. I couldn't think with him sitting
there.

He didn't move.

'I'm expecting someone,' I said loudly. He stood up. He was
trying to decide what to say. He didn't want to disconnect so
soon. Having unloaded his information he wanted to make
sure he profited from it.

'Thought you'd be grateful for the warning,' he said.

'Thank you.'

I felt his aggression again. He struck a pose: wounded,
incredulous, like someone who'd been ripped off.

'Do you want money?' I wondered what it would be like to
hit him. Satisfying — for the split-second before he smashed
your head in. His forearms bulged with muscle.

He hesitated. He looked cunning, then high-minded. 'She
ought to be stopped,' he said.

I rubbed my eyes. It hit me again, what we were discussing.
How surreal it was. Should I be afraid? I almost laughed.
Something made me say, 'Have you got a card?'

He produced a rectangle of cheap white paper.

'She ought to be stopped,' I repeated. I took the card. We
stood up. Weirdly, we shook hands.

'Mind how you go,' he said.

'Goodbye.'

I sat down. Then I jumped up and went after him.

'Duane? Would you know how to find her again?'

He turned, nodded. 'She give me her phone number.'

He went out. I heard him talking to Sharon, and Sharon's
high laugh. I threw myself down in my chair.

We'd been fighting — for how long? — over custody of our
son. I'd endured countless sessions in the Family Court, a
gruelling year of her accusations. She claimed I was unfit to
look after Lars even part time, that I shouldn't have any access
at all. She cited my recent car accident, a fight I'd had with my
neighbour. These things were trivial, but she'd tried to paint a
picture of permanent chaos. She told the court I was a binge
drinker. She said I had an unhealthy lifestyle (but to her, eating
a burger was 'suicide'). She got people to spy on me, my
neighbour for instance, which is why I'd had an argument
with him — he knew Carita from the tennis club, and told her
once when I'd had a woman to stay the night.

I'd been baffle d by her vitriol at first. I'd responded calmly
to each new salvo, and so far I'd managed to convince the
court I should go on seeing Lars. But she was persuasive,
tireless, inventive. It hung over me that she might succeed in
taking my boy away from me. She had engaged Andrea Sykes
as her lawyer — and Andrea was effective. Bland, humourless
and relentless, she was a bureaucratic automaton. I had to
keep myself very calm around her. It was my money paying
for this steel-spectacled robot, my money that funded Carita's
spectacularly defamatory affidavits. After court sessions I
sometimes hid stinging tears — how had we got to this? We
used to love each other. It was only after the latest session
(when there'd been something so heightened and hysterical
in Carita's performance that even Andrea had looked slightly
perturbed) that it had dawned on me: my ex-wife had changed,
changed utterly. My terrible little Finnish beauty: she had
gone completely mad.

If Duane Mitchell wasn't lying, then she was very mad
indeed. She'd realised she couldn't malign me or trick me or
defame me in court. And she'd flipped her lid. Suddenly I
believed it. A weird, stunned laugh rose in me, as if I'd seen
something marvellous and freakish, too crazy to be real. Then
I thought of Lars. He was little and trusting and round-eyed.
He was only five. I loved him more than anything in the world.
He was living with a lunatic.

She ought to be stopped
. Little Carita. She was pretty and
blonde. She was
tiny
. When I first met her she was wearing a
furry pink jumper and tight white jeans. We were in a student
café. She turned to me in the queue, with her kohl-rimmed
eyes and her Finnish accent and her giggling; she was holding
something up for me to see — a sandwich in a plastic packet.
She just
couldn't
. Would I? Manful, grinning like an idiot, I
wrenched the staples apart. How she applauded and fell about,
how charmingly she mocked her own ineptitude. Later I
performed other feats. I opened jam jars, pickle jars, doors,
stuck windows. I reached up to high shelves. I jump-started
her car, and taught her how to do the self-serve at petrol
stations. She had round eyes, long hair, slightly buck teeth.
Her figure was perfect. When I walked with her in the street,
men followed her with their eyes. She'd been in the country
for a year. She was studying to be a dietician. She was sexy,
comical. Once when she was angry she followed me down the
hall in her see-through nightie, beating me with her toothbrush.
We used to sleep with our arms around each other.
How had we come to this?

She beat me with a toothbrush, and one night she threw
three carrot sticks at me. She had been offering them to Lars.
Before she left I grabbed her wrist in anger, and left red finger-marks
on her tender skin. That was the extent of the violence
between us.

It was after Lars's birth that things went wrong. She was
obsessive about his schedules, about the whole domestic
scene. She decided I was a slob. I thought I was about averagely
messy, but she said I was an unsanitary pig. Worse, I wasn't
interested in healthy eating. This started to bother her out of
all proportion — the fact that after one of her salads or nut
cutlets I'd be likely to sneak off for a burger and fries.