Opportunity (4 page)

There was another kind of progression: as her English
improved, I began to understand what she was really like, and
she got a better idea of me, too. The language barrier had
shielded us from certain subtleties, problematic nuances.
Meanwhile she'd started to scream at me every time I left a
curtain crooked or a ballpoint pen on the floor. I used to think
it was atavistic, the sudden post-natal fixation with scouring
and sterilising and vitamins. Some Scandinavian spirit had
risen in her; she was panicking, in a strange land, half frantic
with disgust.

When she left for good, taking Lars with her, I'd expected
to 'let myself go'. I thought it would be burgers in front of the
TV, old pizza boxes strewn over the bed. Instead I found
myself in a constant state of vigilance. Coming home, I cleaned
and tidied and sat by the window eating some rudimentary
scrap. I was waiting — not for her, but for Lars. It took me
some time, numb and dazed as I was, to understand that I
needed my boy to come home. When I realised, I succumbed
to the kind of hysterical tears I hadn't shed since I was a child.
I cried all night; the next day I set about making sure I would
be raising Lars too. From then on I asserted my rights. Carita
put up only minimal resistance at first, but there began to be
incidents. She said I fed him the wrong food, showed him the
wrong films, read the wrong books. She started throwing
tantrums every time she had to drop him at my house. Then
she hired Andrea Sykes.

I turned Duane Mitchell's card over in my hand. Carita
could well succeed in limiting my access to Lars. Andrea Sykes
was very good at her job. Another possibility lay at the back of
my mind: what if Carita decided to take him back to Finland?
I didn't think she'd be able to, but what if my case were
weakened by some new lie, some fresh calumny? What if she
took him for a visit and never came back? Such things happened
all the time.

This was what she was threatening. When Lars was a baby
I loved him so much my eyes sometimes ached and prickled
when I held him. Now, when I took him for a walk, the grave
five-year-old with his too-short flared trousers, his frown, his
big sandals, I would turn and wait and watch with such tender
pride. He was thoughtful, charming, comical, terrified of
blood, confident in shops and cafés, fierce, interested in all
kinds of insects, given to collecting, so that when we arrived
home from a walk around the block I (the faithful Sherpa)
would be carrying (say) a coil of wire, some interesting leaves
and a paint tin, while he would be toting some stick or nailstudded
plank, which he would then 'work on' in the garden
all afternoon.

Then he would bring a book and I would read to him for an
hour while we lay on my bed, Lars curled against my side and
fiddling dreamily with my hair. He loved stories. He was clever
at school. Sometimes he woke in the night and was afraid of
the dark. He and I played verbal games, where I was Spiderman
and he was Batman. These games could go on, exhaustingly,
for hours. 'Make Spiderman talk,' he'd say. 'Now make the
baddie talk.' Each time Carita came to fetch him I wanted to
kill
her.
I could see how she'd got the idea. But to act upon it?
Even if it was just drunken ranting in a bar, she'd definitely
crossed a line. And where was Lars while she was cavorting
with Duane Mitchell? Not alone, I assumed. Surely not
alone.

But was it just drunken ranting? I sat up straight. This
needed to be ascertained. I was justified, obviously, in wanting
to know exactly what Carita was planning. (What she was
planning
— my mouth twisted into another incredulous
smirk.) One thing I was sure of: if I told anyone about this, she
would deny it. No one would believe Carita capable of even
thinking about violence. If I accused her now, Andrea Sykes
would convince the court I was mad.

The card said, tersely:
Duane Mitchell — Personal Trainer
.
There was a mobile number. I started to ring it, then hung up.
I got up, maddened by the cheeping of the birds.

I couldn't do nothing. I couldn't wait for her to hire some
thug. But I couldn't make any kind of accusation while I only
had Duane Mitchell to back me up. (Accused, Carita would
bat her eyelashes, she would look 'stunned' and 'bewildered'.
She would ring Andrea 'in tears'.)

I picked up the phone. I told Duane I wanted him to meet
me at the café on the corner in half an hour. I told Sharon I
was going to see a client. Then I went downstairs, crossed the
little square and sat in the window drinking a double-shot
coffee.

Duane arrived twenty minutes late, looking uneasy. He
fidgeted and scratched. He refused my offer of a coffee. He
burped and there was a bad smell. He barged up out of his
seat and said he'd get himself a muffin. I waited.

He said in my ear, 'Mate, you'll probably find she's forgotten
all about it. Just the piss talking.' He sat heavily down.

I stared at the square outside. 'She has to be stopped.'

'Yeah, but like I said, she's probably woken up with a
hangover and thought what the hell was I on about last night,
and forgotten.'

'We need to know how far she'll go.'

'How far?'

'I want you to tell her you're on for it.'

He spread out his hands, laughed. 'Me? No way. I'm not
killing anyone.'

'No,' I said patiently. 'I want you to tell her you know
someone who will.'

He stared. 'Pardon?'

'It's a test,' I explained. 'If she wants to go ahead, then we'll
know she's for real. If she backs off and says, "Ooh no, I wasn't
serious", then we'll know where we stand.'

'Why should I do this?' He picked fussily at his muffin.

'You came to me.'

'That was a public service,' he said promptly. 'Done you a
favour. Thought you might help me with some problems I've
got and that, maybe. In court.'

'I can help you. I can make it worthwhile for you.'

'But she's probably forgotten all about . . .'

'We need to know how far she'll go,' I repeated. 'This is a
way of containing her. If she thinks she's got you she won't go
to anyone else.'

'And will you help me?'

'I will.'

'But who do I say I've got? Some killer? How do I know any
killer?'

'You tell her you've thought about what she's said. You've
asked around. You've been recommended a guy. Through the
gangs. Make up some Hell's Angels connection. I'll worry
about the rest. You've just got to let her think it's possible.
Then we'll know what we're dealing with.'

'But what if she says she wasn't serious?'

'You told me she was serious, Duane.' My face was hot. I felt
like grabbing him by the neck.

'Yeah.' He hesitated. 'She seemed to be. But she mightn't . . .'
He put his head on one side. His expression was sly, cunning,
filthy — and baffle d. He couldn't quite see where we were
going. He grinned and tapped his temple. 'You want her to kill
you?'

'No, Duane. I want you to remind her of your previous
conversation, and then tell her you've got the man for her.'

I gave him my phone numbers. I left him sitting there. I
walked over to the courthouse in a state of frigid calm, made
a success of a highly unlikely bail application, exchanged
banter afterwards with some colleagues, and then, since I
didn't have Lars the next day, accepted an invitation to go out
for a Friday night drink. Much later I staggered home, slept,
and woke with a hangover. I hadn't eaten anything the night
before and I'd drunk myself stupid. My stomach was in ruins.
I went to the bathroom and threw up. Then I lay in bed
thinking about Carita and Duane Mitchell. I spent a fevered
morning going over it in my mind.

Later, gingerly, I went to the shops for supplies: fizzy water,
icecream, painkillers, antacids. The walk took a long time — I
was as hunched as an old man. I watched a video, then read a
book while the rain streamed down the windows. I ate a
sandwich in bed, listening to the downpour drumming on the
iron roof. I watched the TV news. I was lonely. I longed for
Lars. I wished I had a woman in bed with me. I went to sleep,
a tub of icecream melting on the bedside table.

The next morning, Sunday, I went out for a walk. When I
came home the phone was ringing. It was Duane. 'She's not
into it,' he said.

'What?'

'I rung her. She got all shitty and that. Said it was a bad
time. She didn't know what I was on about. Looks like you're
okay, mate. She's not going to top ya.'

I sat down. I looked straight ahead. I said quietly, 'I don't
know why you think that means I'm okay.'

'She's not on for it.'

'I can't rely on that. She said it was a bad time. She's telling
you to call later. She probably had someone there. We don't
know what she's up to.'

I could hear him scratching his chin. 'Nothing. Far as I
know.'

'Perhaps you'll have to remind her what a good idea it
was.'

'What?'

I said, 'You're a salesman, Duane. Make her remember how
much she wanted it.'

Then I told him all the things I could do for him if he helped
me.

I spent the afternoon painting Lars's bedroom. He kept a
lot of his toys here, but the room still didn't seem properly his.
He was always a little visitor, with his overnight bag. I ached
and burned for him. A red point of rage glowed inside me.
That she could threaten to take him away, that she had
threatened us for months. And now she'd gone really crazy,
and still I couldn't fight her, because no one would believe me
if I told.

I tossed and turned all night and went to work white-faced.
I dealt with my clients efficiently, but I was in a bad state of
nerves. Duane Mitchell didn't call.

The next day I had a defended hearing set down for the
whole day. When the court closed at five I went back to the
office. Sharon said, 'That Mitchell person's here again.'

I hurried in. We shook hands. He said, 'I don't know what
I'm getting into here.'

I waited. He seemed jovial, over-excited. He smelled of
alcohol. 'I've only spun her the biggest line of shit. You should
of heard it. About the Highway 61s and the Hell's Angels and
how I'd met a guy who met a guy in jail. Anyway, you were
right: she is on for it. I didn't even have to get her drunk. She
just accepted it all. We were in the car down on the waterfront.
I told her I could introduce her to a "friend" — my supposed
killer mate. She didn't argue. I said he'd charge about five
grand. She said, "Oh yes." I go, "You got five grand, darling?"
and she goes, "Yes." Just like that. "Yes." I told her the guy'll
break in and kill you, probably strangle you or smack you one
over the head, right, and then fuck off to Australia. People
think it's just a burglary turned nasty. No problem. I told her
it happens all the time. She was quite interested in that. She
said, "Oh does it really?" She's all pretty and polite and that,
but it's creepy when you think about it. It's like she's not all
there.'

'You seem to have found it all quite invigorating,' I said. I
was pacing and rubbing my hands together. I felt — odd. Sick,
odd and triumphant. There was going to be a contract out on
me. Now we were getting somewhere.

'I think she's a pill-popper, mate,' Duane said. 'When I've
been with her she takes these pills. She reckons they're herbal
but they look like painkillers. That might be why she's gone a
bit drifty.'

'You think she's a drug user,' I said, pacing.

'Well, yeah. Could be.'

'Duane, you've saved my life.'

'Yeah. Done meself out of five grand.' He did a big laugh.
There was a short silence. We looked at each other.

'It'll be worth your while,' I said.

He coughed. 'Yeah, good,' he muttered.

'All you have to do now is ring her and arrange for her to
meet the "killer".'

'Your guy . . . And who's he going to be?'

'Don't you worry. I'll tell you the time and place and you
get her there, okay? Then it's done. Thank you, Duane.'

'No worries,' he said.

After he'd gone I closed my office door and rang the Central
Police Station. I spoke to a policeman I knew, Detective
Sergeant Damon Lee. I arranged to meet him the next day.
I said I'd received some disturbing information. I'd been
threatened. A certain criminal transaction was going to take
place. The situation would call for the use of an undercover
detective.

I went home. I sat out on my deck drinking beer. I thought
about ringing Carita. I decided it would be too hard to act
natural. I wanted to talk to Lars. But it was dark now; it was
late. He would be tucked in with his teddies, his Tintin comics.
I would confuse him.

She would have read to him. He would be wearing his blue
pyjama suit. Beside his bed the drink and sandwich. The dim
light on his small, dreamy face. Carita was a good mother. She
loved him. She never shouted at him, never hit him. When he
had nightmares she let him crawl into the big bed. She played
games with him. She was never late to pick him up from
school. The only thing she did wrong was to try to take him
away from me. What had she told Duane Mitchell — that I
would ruin Lars, corrupt him? What did she mean?

When we first went out together she overlooked certain
things. I told crass jokes at the dinner table. When drunk in
restaurants, my fellow lawyers and I sometimes burst into
song, and quaffed and guffawed, and clashed our tankards,
while she sat to one side, her face creased with dismay. Some
of the things she said to me: 'Do you never talk about anything
serious? What about politics? Don't your friends have any
ideas, any views?' No, we were a joke a minute, a barrel of
laughs, we had nothing to say about anything unless it was
sport, and she put up with it because she loved me. But when
she was pregnant she started to panic — she couldn't tolerate
it any more. She was in a serious state — of culture shock, of
recoil. She was even repelled by what I ate.