Wood Green Read online

  Tim heard the office phone ring and grabbed his jacket before Maureen could delay his morning cigarette.

  She opened the back door and found him leaning over the fence, talking to the chickens. Hey, hot sluts, I’m leaving. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.

  Tim choked on his smoke and waved.

  Don’t forget to bring in those cans of soft drinks that were delivered yesterday.

  I thought we were doing that job together.

  You can manage on your own. It’s not that many. Just think of it as an opportunity to do some exercise. You need to stay buff for all those horny young ladies out there.

  22.

  Rachel inserted her keys into the car’s ignition and sat back to catch her breath. Closed her eyes to calm her mind, then reopened them again to check all the doors were locked. Being chased around the couch by one of Michael’s old school friends had left her more frightened than she had felt in years. An introduction to Steve nine months prior had given no hint he would act that way. His invitation to drop by his house to discuss Michael’s whereabouts made sense as it was on her way home. And although his reassurances about Michael eventually turning up had sounded blithe, and his topping up her wine glass had been a little over insistent, Rachel had only realised that her time was being wasted once she felt Steve’s hand on her knee.

  Exactly why she could not let Michael go was becoming as much of a mystery to Rachel as it was for her colleagues at Australia’s leading business magazine. They were bored with her obsessive line of conversation, and a little embarrassed on her behalf at the way she refused to accept the blatant signals that Michael was sending. Rachel noticed their dwindling empathy and refrained from sharing her latest theories about where Michael had disappeared to. All urges to check if he had responded to her phone messages she now satisfied in the bathroom stalls. And any direct investigations were conducted in the privacy of the mall across the street. No one from her office ate there, and the rowdy background noise ensured her conversations were kept to the point. The two lecturers from the University of New South Wales that she had spoken with had no idea where their colleague was, and seemed to suspect he had received a private research grant that more than likely should have gone to them. While two of Michael’s school friends said he had always been a bit of a flake, and had a habit of doing exactly what he wanted to do without thinking of how it affected anyone else. The third friend, however, saw Michael’s absence as nothing more than an opportunity to offer Rachel an evening of consoling sex, so in the end it was no surprise that Michael had failed to inform any of them of where he was going.

  If only he would reply to one of her texts or emails then Rachel could stop worrying. But with each day that passed without word she grew increasingly concerned about his welfare. Though they had agreed to have a break from one another, she had not expected him to vanish and sever all communication. Who does that after fourteen months together? Rachel knew that Michael could be a little self-involved. Often unreliable. Not to mention frustratingly neurotic and somewhat emotionally retarded. But what did it take to pick up a phone to reassure her that he was okay? Rachel checked the rear-vision mirror and saw how her eyes looked tired. She needed to go home and get a good night’s rest and stop worrying so much about him. If he did not want to be found, then he could stay lost. Searching was too much effort. He was far from the most attractive man she had slept with. And certainly not the wealthiest. There were thousands of other options in Sydney. Rachel then remembered Michael’s insistence on reading every article she had published; the in-jokes they had shared at tiresome work functions, and the attention he had given to the smallest details of her body, as if she were a gift and no part could be wasted. Had she taken Michael for granted? Was that why the gulf of their separation felt so deep? But he could not have gone very far. Michael was terrified of flying. And when he showed up again she would simply suggest they give their relationship another go. In the meantime, she needed to get on with her life. Take better care of herself. Not put herself in situations like the one she had just narrowly escaped from. She was smarter than that. As she steered her car away from the kerb she insisted that she was a million times smarter than that. But by the time she had driven three-hundred metres to the next set of traffic lights, Rachel was already thinking of where next she might search for Michael.

  23.

  Jesus, what happened to you?

  It’s nothing…I just tripped down some steps.

  Looks more like you fell down a cliff. Now I know why you didn’t turn up yesterday. Were you drunk?

  No, I mean, well not that drunk. And the steps were wet.

  Didn’t I tell you to buy some boots?

  Michael nodded as he checked his new wristwatch. It had been one of the cheapest in the store and was already losing time. The hands said 12.45, but Lucian never opened his front door before 1pm. Then Michael noticed the jacket, the ironed shirt. Are you going out?

  I have an appointment in town. He indicated to the plastic bag hanging from Michael’s fingers. Is that dinner?

  Lamb shoulder and tabouli.

  Will it keep until tomorrow? I was planning to visit the docks and buy some fish. Do you eat fish?

  Sure. No problem.

  Sadie’s asleep in the library. I took her for a long walk this morning so she probably won’t wake up until I come home. See you this evening some time. I’ve left a CD playing on the stereo that I thought you might like, but if you’re not into it just turn it off.

  Michael stood on the verandah until Lucian had disappeared down the road, then slipped off his wet shoes, dropped his briefcase inside his office and walked towards the music playing at the rear of the house. He poured a glass of water, raided Lucian’s biscuit tin and finally inspected the album artwork on top of the turntable lid. He had never heard of Pärson Sound, but their music was rapidly winning him over, as if he had been waiting all his life to hear such a precarious teeter between rhythm and noise. Michael only realised how engrossed he had become when the hypnotic composition came to an end and he found himself sitting on one of the couches with the CD jewel case still in his hand. He pressed play to restart the album, upped the volume so the music would follow him around the house, then walked into the bathroom to check the state of his cuts and scratches. Sadie opened an eye and gave a growl of warning as he entered the library, but remained in her basket while Michael lost an hour familiarising himself with authors he had not read and erecting a pile of novels he would ask permission to borrow as soon as Lucian returned home. He opened hall cupboards, peeked inside bureau drawers, squinted at signatures scrawled along the bottom of paintings and lithographs, until eventually he stood outside the closed door to Lucian’s bedroom weighing the benefits of invading the writer’s private space against the likelihood that it would lose him his job. Lucian had given no restrictions or guidelines as to where Michael could or could not go in his house. And if there was something inside he was not supposed to see then surely the door would be locked.

  The room was larger and brighter than Michael had expected, and he would never have imagined Lucian’s bed with a crocheted blanket on top. A sagging reading chair stood beside the window, accompanied by a weathered green ottoman and a small coffee table. Three glasses of water were next to the bed, along with a copy of Muriel Spark’s Memento Mori. Michael mentally added the title to his list of books to ask Lucian about, then turned to the wall opposite the window with its photographs of people at parties, in canoes, sunbaking beside a pool, in bed, or enjoying a picnic. Each picture was individually framed but hung so closely to its neighbour that it created the impression of a collage almost two metres long and about half as tall. Michael searched for famous faces or familial resemblance to Lucian, but found only strangers staring back at what he assumed was the author holding the camera. Tucked behind the door was a modest, tidy writing desk topped with a small pile of typed pages. No, Michael would not pry so deep. Instead he examined the few keepsake
s placed about the desk, and reverently touched the keys of Lucian’s typewriter. He thought about sitting in the chair until a shiver suddenly crossed his back. A suspicion that somehow Lucian was watching him, or had left home for the sole purpose of allowing Michael to explore his room. The feeling persisted even after he had returned to the hall, so Michael grabbed his cigarettes and stepped onto the verandah in the hope that a blast of cold air would shake the sensation from his skin.

  24.

  1970 – Conscripted into the army and commence training.

  1971 – Sent to Vietnam where you serve in the supply division for eleven months before returning home wounded.

  1972 – (Nothing found for this year. I assume it involved recuperation from your wound. Cannot uncover any clues as to where this occurred.)

  1973 – Find work as a maintenance welder for the Tasmanian Hydro. Begin to write The Bombardier.

  1974 – Ursula marries and moves to Launceston. You travel to England by cargo ship. Stop in Egypt and meet Patricia Wren for the first time.

  1975 – Arrested in London for lewd behaviour and public drunkenness. The article you write about prison conditions results in a job offer from The Times.

  1976 – During a boozy lunch you disagree with The Times’ literary editor about Ruth Prawer Jhabvala’s Heat and Dust. Argument ends in a fight and you are sacked the following day. Move to Sicily.

  1977 – The first draft of The Bombardier is complete. Your father dies of a heart attack. Two days later you are wounded in a knife fight and infection sets in. After being flown to London you temporarily lose your vision and spend two months recuperating in The Royal Brompton Hospital.

  1978 – Take a job at The Royal Brompton Hospital distributing pharmaceuticals throughout the wards. At night you rewrite The Bombardier. Sacked from The Royal Brompton Hospital for stealing amphetamines. Narrowly avoid legal prosecution. Move to Ireland.

  1979 – Travel in France, Germany and parts of eastern Europe. Settle in Turkey but return to London when The Bombardier is accepted for publication. Re-introduced to Patricia Wren at a party hosted by Harold Pinter.

  1980 – Marry Patricia Wren at the Chelsea Registry Office then move to Surrey.

  25.

  This is good work, said Lucian as he folded the sheet of paper until it was small enough to fit inside his shirt pocket. But I need you to go a lot deeper. Dates and names are fine, but more important are the tiny details that glue the big events together. You need to change the way you think. Rather than pick my life apart, I want you to try and put it back together…so to speak.

  Michael leaned forward to accept the spliff Lucian had just set alight. I was trying to find out what happened to you in Sicily but all I could come up with were medical records.

  Then go back through my books. Look for scenes that include violence, or threats of violence, and I bet you’ll find something to give you an idea of what happened. Hospitals, doctors, how I write about nurses, pain, it’s all bound to be in there somewhere. I’m relying on you to read between the lines.

  Michael recalled The Bombardier’s story of a US pilot being shot down in a Vietnamese jungle and found by a lost and wandering unit of Australian soldiers. Of the men substituting the pilot for their dead superior officer, and making him confront the horrors of a war he had only ever observed from twenty thousand feet. As part of his thesis Michael had researched Australia’s role in the conflict and found equal measures of accurate and erroneous historical facts within the novel, though the extent to which the events were based on Lucian’s own experiences as a nineteen-year-old soldier was something he had never been able to determine.

  But how am I supposed to distinguish between what’s real and what’s fiction?

  Lucian turned to the sunroom windows. He was exhausted from his afternoon of walking the streets of Hobart and wished he could switch off the lights to silently observe the night-time dramas unfolding amongst the trees outside. At present all he could see was a blurry reflection of Michael and him sitting on the couches. Everything is real, he whispered to himself.

  Pardon?

  Lucian exhaled his exasperation. You think the things that have occurred in my life are more real to me than the events I’ve imagined for my books?

  I…

  If a story doesn’t live for an author then it sure as hell won’t live for a reader.

  I…I…

  You need to be alert to everything you find in that room. I don’t care what I called it when you first arrived. Nothing in there is junk. It’s all relevant. And it’s been kept for a reason. A purpose. Your job is to find out what that purpose is.

  The marijuana hit Michael’s bloodstream the moment he stood up, and made his exit from the sunroom unusually clumsy. Lucian suspected his secretary was heading for the bathroom to throw up his dinner, and scanned his vinyl collection for a record to mask the sounds of heaving and retching.

  All right, said Michael as he dropped heavily back into his seat. Explain to me the relevance of this.

  Lucian lowered the stylus onto Charalambides’ Market Square, then accepted the faded clipping from a local newspaper that told the story of a woodchopper who had taken second place in the national championships. The article was dated 11 April 1977, and Lucian was surprised that he still recalled why he had cut it out.

  Well, what do you think? he asked.

  Inspiration for the groundskeeper in Foxtrot?

  Lucian shook his head. Try again.

  Wasn’t there a scene in Lady Cadaver that involved a couple who liked to feel the cold steel of an axe between them while they had sex?

  You’re being too literal, said Lucian as he drew deeply on his spliff. Remember, I need you to read between the lines.

  I just grabbed it off the top of the pile. I haven’t even read the lines yet.

  Lucian handed back the fragile piece of paper. Just skip to the third-last paragraph.

  Michael focussed his addled brain and read how after the award ceremonies were complete the woodchopper had stepped down from his podium and given away his second-place ribbon to a young boy in the audience. The description, however, failed to prompt any memory of a comparable scene in Lucian’s novels…and Michael admitted so.

  Look at the picture again, Lucian insisted. At the man’s face. Don’t you see it? That’s the face of a man who doesn’t know his own worth. Even when life has placed him second only to a champion, he still cannot recognise his own value. Now do you know what the clipping is for?

  Dismantling Ivan’s Circus?

  Lucian raised his glass of wine in salute.

  26.

  Like a bat, Andrew Tiller used the sound of his own voice to navigate and understand the world he lived in. Just walking upstairs to the room Michael rented required at least a hum, if not a whistle. And should a member of staff have crossed his path then all manner of longwinded instructions would have issued forth irrespective of whether they were necessary or not. The times he changed bed sheets Andrew spoke out loud the mantra for tucking hospital corners that his mother had taught him as a boy. During breakfast he liked to repeat everyone’s order verbatim as he delivered dishes to their tables. And checking in a new guest sparked an entire routine about Battery Point: the history of the house; how long it had been in Andrew’s family; the day’s weather forecast; the likelihood of it coming true; tourism services; when breakfast was served; the rules against smoking, having parties, smoking, leaning out windows, smoking, slamming doors; water conservation; wiping your feet, and how it was not necessary to tip for service as everything had been factored into the price of the room. But all this came second to walking and talking, hands free, on his mobile phone. Regardless of appearing like a madman – gesturing and conversing with no one in sight – Andrew enjoyed nothing better than strolling into the city while communicating with friends, family, suppliers and even tradesmen. It did not matter what the topic was, just so long as his arms and legs were working at the same time as his
lips and tongue. It gave Andrew a sense of moving forward and sorting things out, fixing problems and avoiding mistakes. He felt powerful and in charge: ready to take on the world; make money; exceed expectations; prove the doubters wrong; buck the system; turn a corner, rise to the top and take a bow. At night, alone in his room, when the staff had gone home and all the guests were tucked in, and it was too late to call anyone, Andrew talked to his TV. Told game show contestants to choose number three if they wanted to win a million dollars; castigated politicians for avoiding the question, and warned movie stars that the serial killer was about to jump out and grab them. His favourites, however, were reality TV shows. Because the people were not actors it seemed more like a genuine conversation. So when they failed to prepare food the way he suggested, or chose a tasteless renovation, voted the wrong person off an island, or ignored someone’s obvious musical talent, Andrew could feel even more superior. At bedtime he tuned his clock radio to a local talkback station, then effortlessly drifted off to sleep while the low hum of conservative vitriol floated about his room. When the alarm went off at 5.30am Andrew sometimes did think of when his wife had been around to help. But Betty was not much of a talker, and could never fall asleep if the radio was on, so it was probably wise they had decided to divorce. She remarried soon after and moved to Howrah on the Eastern Shore. The last time they had seen one another was across a crowd in the Cat and Fiddle Arcade. Both had waved without stopping to avoid discussing the swollen stomach so obvious beneath Betty’s clothes. Her baby must be a year old by now, assumed Andrew as he stood outside Michael’s room.