Twenty-Four
Above all other vices, Luckman had grown to abhor ill-discipline. He had been surrounded by it all his life and had collected more than a few vices over the years. But he had learned to temper his foibles – drinking without doubt the worst of them – with an unwavering ability to go cold turkey when necessary. He had been determined to remain sober on this night. In the circumstances, however, it had seemed rude not to share a drink with Michael McDonald. There are times a man needs to buy another man a drink.
When the other two finally dragged him from the restaurant he was surprised to learn it was only a bit after 10 o’clock. It felt much later. They began to stroll in the direction of their motel.
“What was the deal with you and that terrible piano player?” Mel demanded.
Luckman kicked the pavement and stumbled as he turned around to face her in shock and consternation. “What are you talking about? That man is a legend.”
“Don’t know what you were listening to. All I heard was bad ’90s pop filtered through a tone-deaf ponytail wannabe.”
Ponytail?
“That was the best live performance I’ve seen in years,” Luckman countered.
Mel laughed, unable to take him seriously. “You’re off your nut,” she said affectionately.
Luckman turned to Bell for moral support. The pilot simply shrugged.
“Sounded bloody suburban to me mate.”
Luckman’s stomach began tying itself in a knot. He turned away from them and kept walking.
“Stone?”
He heard the tone of concern in her voice and turned briefly, trying to muster a smile.
“Each to their own, eh?” he offered.
She wouldn’t be put off so easily, but he didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to confide or try to explain. He didn’t want to admit to himself that some metaphysical hacker had somehow crawled inside his head, downloaded his childhood and used it against him.
She grabbed him by the shoulder. “You do realise you can’t hide from me?”
He stopped walking and she slowly pulled him around to face her.
“Do you really want to do this now?” he asked her. His eyes flickered in Bell’s direction.
“Do what now?” Bell asked distractedly.
“Nothing,” Mel replied, leaving Luckman to walk on alone.
They continued in silence for the rest of the way until the red neon glow of the Riverview Motel appeared in front of them. Luckman halted their advance underneath the buzzing white of a street lamp. He put his finger to his lips. Bell giggled, like it was a game. Mel stared at him with the maudlin sorrow of someone who hadn’t wanted to upset him. Luckman ignored her and kept walking toward the motel. He opened the doors to their rooms in turn to check no-one was waiting for them inside.
“Stay in your rooms. Sleep,” he told them firmly.
His room was likewise devoid of any sign of visitation. He turned on the kettle and pulled open the curtains. The window was a few metres above street level. It offered a clear view of the road and the riverbank beyond. Moving slowly and allowing his eyes to adjust, he found a chair and set it at the window just behind an oblong tilt of streetlight illuminating the carpet.
He made himself a black coffee. It still tasted terrible but it would help delay the inevitable. He set the brew down near the chair then gently eased open the aluminium window so he could listen to the nocturnal soundscape for any noise that shouldn’t be there. A blackfella’s voice wafted up from along the riverbed. Other than that he discerned no movement above the general hum of the night. A breeze rustled the top branches of the desert oaks lining the water course. Nothing else stirred.
Despite all evidence to the contrary he began to feel the same creeping sense of foreboding that had coloured his dreams that afternoon, as if someone was out there waiting for him.
Someone who knew his secrets.
He tried not to think about what had happened at the restaurant, but began to realise how closely that resembled actually thinking about it. He suspected the drinking had likewise been imagined. He now felt none of the effects of alcohol.
A knock at the door made him flinch.
She smiled coyly as he opened the door. “Eddie snores,” she announced. “I can hear him through the wall. I won’t bother you. I just want to sleep.”
He sighed, opened the door wider to let her in but said nothing, hoping to underline his desire for silence. Having her close would make it harder to sleep. That was to his advantage so long as he avoided succumbing to temptation.
He was dimly aware of her shedding clothes behind him before she slid under the bed sheet. She was naked, or near enough. On any other night, in any other place. No use trying to pretend otherwise. She already knew.
“It’s not easy being like this. Just in case you were wondering,” she said.
“Being like what?”
“Inside people’s heads. It’s hard enough living in your own head most of the time. I’m becoming terrified I’ll get trapped inside a dark tunnel of someone else’s madness and never find my way out again.”
He had no idea how to respond. “Try to get some sleep.”
He kept his eyes fixed on the window until the pace of her breathing told him she lapsed into unconsciousness. The chill of the nocturnal desert reminded him of the long, cold nights on duty in Afghanistan. There was a different smell to Alice Springs. Afghanistan smelt off-white. Sometimes it smelt red. Alice smelt brown – an ancient scent of sand and rock, a smell that hadn’t changed in a hundred thousand years. Definitely brown.
The first vestige of dawn’s glow appeared in the sky just before six. Luckman wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed that no-one had paid them a visit. Mel had slept soundly through the night and he had managed to resist the urge to climb into bed beside her. He was also pleased with himself for managing to stay awake.
Had he imagined everything that had happened the night before? He realised he had no idea whether or not they had actually eaten dinner. He was craving a big, greasy breakfast, but with the rising of the light he knew he’d be better served by snatching some rest. He set the bedside clock radio to wake him in two hours and lay down beside her on the bed. As he closed his eyes, a bright flash momentarily flooded the room.
Truck headlights.
He succumbed to the weight of his own weariness, dimly aware that no sound had accompanied the light.
The alarm took quite some time to lift him from the pit of unconsciousness. Its harsh electronic buzz was offensive and he began to fumble urgently with the radio in a clumsy attempt to shut it off. He gave up and pulled the plug from the wall, sighing in relief at the silence that followed.
He checked his watch. It was eight o’clock. Mel moaned at his slapstick reveille but remained asleep beside him. A run might shake off his weary torpor, but he couldn’t scramble the motivation. He decided instead to shower and shave, figuring in this he might at least regain some semblance of respectability.
She was still out cold when he emerged from the bathroom. He put the same sweaty fatigues back on. They were on the nose, but he had brought no change of clothes. While he was awake now, his head was pounding from the lack of sleep. He gulped down two large glasses of water then filled a small flask and clipped it to his belt.
Outside the room the chill of the morning desert air slapped him in the cheeks. He set off in the direction of town. It couldn’t have been more than five or six degrees Celsius and the cold made his hands ache. He rubbed them together vigorously, wishing he had brought gloves and realising he was getting soft in his old age. He gazed along the riverbank, wondering how the blackfellas managed to sleep outdoors in the chill.