Escape (42 page)

Jonny is still tapping his glass. He's craning his neck around, trying
to catch the waiter's eye, furious.

'Godammit, the man is always simpering around when you don't
want him, bowing and scraping, but soon as you
do
need him, he
disappears.'

'I thought you said he was wonderful, you'd like to take him back
with you . . .'

Jonny clicks his tongue in irritation and swivels on his chair,
straining to catch the waiter's eye.

'
Danny!
' he shouts, his hand in the air like a conductor.

The waiter still hasn't heard.
Danny
. Is it? A thump of certainty
lands like a punch in my stomach. The wide-set eyes, the uncanny
feeling of familiarity. God almighty.

'What did you call him?'

'Danny. He told me his name on the first night. Repeated it
countless times. "Just call for me when you need something. Just call
for Danny." Gave himself such importance. Like I wouldn't be able to
do without him. And now look at him. Making out he can't even see
me!'

'Danny what?'

'What?'

'His last name.'

'I don't know. I'm not interested. I just want good service. Is that
too much to ask in a five-star hotel at five hundred dollars a night?'
His scowl suddenly turns into a smile, as if, looking at me, he's just
remembered his proper lines. He smiles, but his eyes don't change. I
think of Simon's eyes, curving into crescent moons when he laughs.

Jonny Love doesn't care what Danny's last name is, what mine is
for that matter, whether I have a daughter or a crocodile, whether I
write crime, porn or kids' books. I watch him the way you'd watch a
beautiful exotic cobra. He's cold-blooded, using the sun to get warm.
We are all instruments for his satisfaction.

I watch Danny, a cold sweat breaking out on my lip. He's long and
thin, tense as a pulled wire. He'd only be a few years older than me but
he seems ancient. The grey-silver hair, I suppose, and the bent back.
And the old-fashioned speech. The mask of politeness. But he always
had that. The slight hump he carries is probably due to the scoliosis
Dad used to talk about. I remember him shaking his head, guessing
Danny wouldn't continue with those exercises. Nobody there to
encourage him, look out for him after he left us.

Jonny clicks his fingers high in the air. His eyes are trained on
Danny's poor back. I expect that spot on his hump to burst into flames.
Getting no response, Jonny clicks again, loud as a shout. Danny whirls
around. He waves at Jonny, holding up both hands for a moment as if
in surrender. He nods frantically, bowing. Now he's turning back to the
man at his table, he's bobbing and shifting from one foot to another,
making soothing, sorry gestures at the customer. Now he's sidling
away, hurrying towards us, threading his way through the tables, swift
as a needle on a straight seam.

'So sorry sir, such a busy night,' he pants, arriving at our table.

I stare at him. His pained blue eyes hold me, frozen. I am small
again, ten years old, unable to think what to say. Unable to think. I can
hardly get the words out. 'Danny? Danny Shore?'

'Yes? Sorry, does madam require dessert? Sir, I'm sorry—'

'Danny, I'm Rachel, do you remember, Rachel Lambert?'

Danny glances at me, then away. His eyes grow wider, his eyebrows
practically hitting his hairline. He picks up a glass. He's frowning into
the glass, as if it's a crystal ball. 'Yes, yes, of course, how could I forget?'
He looks straight at me then. His mouth is hard. Then he softens, his
cheeks loosening. 'And how is Mr Lambert?'

'Very well, thanks.'

'Is he still in the same house, at 42 Cuthbert Street? With the
hydrangea picture and the pine table and the caramel-coloured sofa?'

'Yes, that's right!'

'And Mrs Lambert?'

'She's okay too. Had a bit of a problem with her heart. But she's
got a pacemaker now, it's given her a new lease of life.'

'A pace maker?'

'Yes, it regulates your heart, makes it beat . . . on time.'

Danny stares at me. Or rather, just to the left of me. As he always
did. Then he smiles. 'On time. Good, good, that's a good thing, isn't it.
A good thing.'

We beam at each other. I want to go on smiling. I'd like to reach
out and touch his nervy fingers, tapping on his tray. I'd like to hold
them and warm them and tell him how sorry I am. I remember how
those fingers clutched the sofa, how his brother had wrenched them
away. I want to tell him how much he has affected my life, and that I
understand how much I have affected his. I want to say sorry into his
wide blue eyes, a million times until I hyperventilate.

Jonny is tapping his glass again. 'Well now, Danny, haven't you
forgotten something? I'm in a hurry. I can feel my stomach protesting
already.' He laughs in a hard short burst but it's an angry laugh and
doesn't fool anyone.

Danny looks stricken. 'Oh yes, of course, so sorry, I'll get your
milk straight away. Straight away.'

I clutch Danny's arm. 'Danny, I just wanted to say, just wanted to
say . . .'

Danny's wide eyes narrow. His knuckles whiten around his
serviette.

'I just wanted to say, Danny, that I'm sorry for the way things
turned out. I've thought about you so much, so often. I was young,
didn't understand.'

Danny bobs his head. 'I have a good job now, a good job,' he says,
gesturing around the room.

'Yes, and it's so lovely to see you. Such a surprise. A waiter at the
Park Hyatt ! It's beautiful, isn't it, this place? A work of art.'

'
Head
waiter.'

'That's great! Have you been here long? Do you enjoy it?'

He bobs his head again. 'I run a tight ship, all right—'

'How about that milk, Danny? Do you have time now?'

'Oh yes, so sorry, Mr Love, right away.' As he turns on his heel,
Danny looks straight at me. 'Say hello to Mr Lambert for me.' But he
smiles, and his eyes smile too.

'Well, Rachel, have you got all the information you need from
me? You can do some more research, up in my room.' Jonny winks
knowingly. 'We'll be much more comfortable there.'

He takes my hand again. Gently he tugs the fingers, one by one.

How can I say no when I've let him rub my naked foot with his
sock? When I've asked him probing intimate questions about his
life? When he's revealed his feelings about his marriage? Will he feel
exposed, betrayed? Will it disturb his sleep, a fresh rejection, and thus
damage his performance tomorrow night?

Yes and yes and yes
, says the voice.

But I can't do it
, I tell it.
He's a lizard
.

'So let's go,' says Jonny. 'We can have the milk upstairs. Or anything
else you'd like.'

My hand is still in his. It feels like a dead thing, maybe a fish
that's stopped flapping, or a bird with no heartbeat. It doesn't belong
to me. I think, this is how I've lived my whole adult life. Listening
to the wrong voice. Staying put, playing dead. Not knowing how to
leave.

With the other hand I pick up my notebook and pen and put them
carefully into my bag at my feet. I slip my foot into my shoe. Then,
slowly, apologetically, I take back my hand.

'Thank you so much for dinner, Jonny. I think I have all the
information I need. Good luck!'

The chair grates loudly on the marble floor as I stand up, fling my
bag over my shoulder and flee.
You're a coward
, says the voice,
not even
looking at him
.

As I make for the door I realise I'm busting for a pee. My pelvic
floor muscles won't let me make it to the ferry. I find the toilets and sit
down with relief. Safe.
You saved yourself
, I say out loud to the shining
white tiles and close my eyes with pleasure as the hot gush flows free.

I sit outside on the ferry. The air is icy. There is the moon, the dark
border of land, white gulls chasing the breeze. I feel like a prison
escapee. I look at everything around me. I'm the one who got away,
the lucky fish that wasn't caught. I sit and hug myself and watch the
moonlight tipping over the waves.

My legs are tingling with cold as I disembark from the ferry and
walk up the hill to my car. Several yachts are tied up at the wharf, the
sound of women's laughter tinkling from the decks. I swing my bag as
I walk.

Driving home the streets are silent, frosted with cold. I switch
on the radio and Van Morrison's 'Into the Mystic' comes on. It starts
so small, building into a temple of sound, towering. I wind up the
windows and turn it up full volume. I love Van Morrison. My eyes fill
with tears. But letting go is not an unpleasant sensation. Just a longing,
sweet. Maybe it's not so bad, I think as I turn into my street, this
coming home alone.

Only a metre from my driveway, parked on the grass, is a
motorbike. It stands at a crazy angle, as if the rider had to abandon it in
a hurry. Fear prickles my neck. The bike is black, good for camouflage.
Just right for a burglar. I peer past the fence, into the house. A light
is on in the front bedroom. I didn't leave a light on, I'm sure. Ever
since Rita educated me about the amount of carbon emitted from one
light bulb, care has turned into a habit. I'll ring the police, I think. I
search in my bag for my phone, then remember – it was lying beside
the computer next to my keys. I didn't think to take it. The phone and
the computer will be among the first things a robber would take. The
computer with my four magicians living inside it.

Quietly I open the gate and creep down the side of the house. My
feet inch past the garage wall. Something brushes against my face. I
leap back. The staghorn, its sharp frond scraping my cheek. Beneath
the first staghorn, buried in the long grass, there are two loose bricks.
I pick up one and tiptoe along the path. The back door is open. A
shudder shoots through me so violently that I nearly drop the brick.

I creep nearer, till I'm standing in the doorway. I'm trembling all
over. I need to wee again. My breath is making clouds.

A shadow is coming up the hall . . . I raise the brick and shout,
wild, ear-splitting, a noise to smash the terrifying silence.

'Rachel?'

The shape moves into the kitchen, into the light.

'Shit! Guido! What are you doing here?'

'I came to collect my shirts.
Sei pazza?
Put the brick down! I rang
you first but you weren't home. Is not my fault I am so late. These film
people rang me only tonight. They want an appointment for tomorrow
morning. Film people, you know, they are artistic, creative. They do
not keep business hours. Is not my fault.'

'You gave me such a fright!'

'I left the bike in the driveway. Didn't you see it?'

'It was on the grass. I haven't seen your bike before, how do I know
it's yours? At midnight? I thought – Christ, a bikie gang, a woman
alone . . .'

He shakes his head. 'You wan a bit of drama, well, that's okay. This
shirt, is not okay though, see there is this stain on the collar. Could
you . . .'

The cork floor is sliding. I can see a definite tilt, like a plate held
at an angle to be scraped clean of scraps. Scraps of days and years,
leftovers wasted, tipping into the bin of my past. I'm waiting for it to
stop, usually it does, you just have to wait, but it's not stopping. I look
again at the light on the water, the gulls flying next to the ferry. I want
to hear the song playing. I try to sing the words in my head but they
won't obey. The brick has dropped on my foot. Pain flares up my leg
and I can feel it snatch my breath, sting my mouth, which is opening
like the lips of some strange sea animal that is too far away, that I can't
reach.

'Stop screaming!
Sei pazza!
'

All the wasted years of serving, of cleaning and ironing and
cooking and saying please and thank you and being nice and
smoothing down, building up, of keeping it in, of being invisible,
of being invisible, it's too much, too much. You can't even have one
minute, one hour of feeling whole before you're robbed of it,
robbers
.
The screams rise terribly, filling the room, and I know I'm not in the
car alone with the windows wound up but I can't stop and this other
person is standing here, this person who I have wasted practically my
whole life trying to please, who hasn't ever heard and is incapable
of hearing me, who does not have a set of ears made for hearing
other people, and I've been flinging myself against him, the Door of
Death, he is the death of myself and I've been chained to him like
Prometheus to his rock, asking him to please take my liver, my heart,
my lungs and what a fool, I wasn't even tied by the gods, I did it all
my stupid self, lashed myself to this fucking rock, this heart of stone,
all by myself. That's
right, you're all by yourself because you're an idiot,
I've always told you, you've never known how to live and now you're old
and spent and even your daughter had to get as far away as she could
from you—

'Oh, FUCK OFF fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off !'

'I
am
going,' says Guido. 'I just wanted your advice on this
collar—'

'All my life, you've ruined my life what do you want from me you
poisonous fucking voice of death let me out let me out I'll kill you!'

'Rachel, stop it, you've torn your stocking. Look, you're bleeding.
Control yourself! You 'ave gone mad.'

'And you fucking drove me there, you lying shit – why did you
stay all those years if you weren't ever in love with me?'

'Love is just a concept. Is different in real life. I'm always telling
you. Those years were mine, too, remember. I stayed with you, we
raised our daughter. Life is what it is. And now we 'ave moved on.
Look at you. I am sorry for you, Rachel, but I am going now. You
know I cannot stand these displays of emotion. You must practise your
meditation. Learn how to detach. It will go better, you will see.'