As Far as You Can Go (24 page)

Ziggy shrugs theatrically at Graham and hands him the joint. ‘After you,’ he says, rubbing his hands together. ‘Now, what have we here?’ He unpacks the tins of tuna and beans, cartons of long-life orange and tomato juice, vodka, Lee and Perrin’s sauce. ‘Ha! The makings of a Bloody Mary. Do the honours, old chap.’

Graham laughs. There’s other stuff in the box too, bottles and things – and the frame of Cassie’s broken mirror. He lights the joint and sucks in the smoke.

Fred sees him notice the black oval with its design of faded pansies. ‘Yeah,’ he says, little eyes shifty. ‘Thought Ziggy could use it.’

‘But it’s Cassie’s, man.’

‘She wouldn’t mind, would she, mate?’

Yes
, he should say,
she would mind
. But he says nothing, holds in a mouthful of smoke. ‘What do you live on, stuck out here?’ he asks, exhaling.

‘Friends drop by – generous friends – and I sell my stuff. My “art”.’

‘Yeah?’

When Ziggy grins, the black spaces between his teeth turn him into a pumpkin lantern. ‘No, not this. I do aboriginal stuff, tourist trade. He pulls a box out from under the table. ‘Take something for your girlfriend if you like.’

Fred rubs his fingers together, looking at the joint. Graham fills his lungs again and passes it over. He hunkers dizzily down beside the box: painted pebbles and pieces of wood shaped into rough toucans, parrots, crocodiles. He chooses a stone painted with a complex maze-like spiral in ochre, yellow and white that nearly makes his eyes cross, trying to follow it.

‘What is it?’ he asks. ‘I mean, some kind of symbolic –’

‘Symbolic, my arse,’ Ziggy laughs. ‘It’s tourist tat. Pretty good quality though, if I’m allowed to say. But it might just
about
qualify as urban aboriginal art.’

‘Yeah?’

Ziggy sways in the smoke. ‘Uses images from the quotidian rather than symbolic representations.’ He draws apostrophes in the air and waggles his head self-mockingly.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s the bus, see.’ Graham squints at it for a moment, trouble focusing, then does see. The tiny dots describe four wheels, like a bus ironed flat, each wheel a spiral, and the steering wheel.

‘Ta.’ He puts it in the pocket of his jeans. ‘She’ll like that.’

‘But I’ve got another one here, if you like. The real thing. Look at this.’ He rummages about on the sill of the bus, amongst envelopes and fruit rinds, and brings out a pebble, hands it to Graham. This one is not painted, but seems to have a map engraved on it, ridges of blue, white, grey and all shades of red and rust.

Graham rubs his thumbnail over the ridges.

‘It’s natural,’ Ziggy says. ‘Amazing, eh? I think you appreciate the natural, eh?’

Graham stares at the pebble. Likes the feel of it, friendly in his hand. ‘Thanks.’ He closes his palm around it. Gets a pang, thinking about Cassie. ‘How long have we got?’ he says to Fred.

‘Long as you like. Seen enough art?’ He grins over at Ziggy. ‘Maybe we’ll just stay here, instead, eh?’

‘Don’t rush off,’ Ziggy says, ‘now you’re here. In fact, you must stay to lunch.’

Graham glances at his watch. Still not noon, incredibly. Well, time plays tricks. He relaxes. ‘Why not? Thanks.’ The joint comes back to him. ‘Nice grass,’ he says, relieved. He feels OK with it. None of the heebies. Feels pretty laid-back.

‘Home-grown, my dear chap.’ Ziggy stretches, revealing great mops of sopping yellow armpit hair.

It’s sweltering in the bus; Graham’s T-shirt sticks to his back. Could sit outside. But outside there is the poison sparkle of the dust. He looks through the filthy window at a blur of foliage, settles back, a feeling of – almost – peace. He blows out a fan of smoke. If they’re going no further north they’ve got a couple of hours to spare before going back. Might even get another swim.

Cassie sits back on her heels, holding the keys. Three of them, Yale-type keys, one bronze, two dull silver on a ring with a chewed-up leather fob. How on earth did they get down there? Her heart throbs painfully. They might be ages old, might not fit any keyhole here – but still. They
might
. She may as well try and see. No one will be any the wiser. She won’t touch anything at all. Just
look
. What could be the harm?

She rinses the dust and cobwebs off the keys and goes back into the hall. Four locked doors but only three keys. One door she notices straightaway has a mortice lock. One of the front rooms. Larry’s office or study or whatever it is. The other three locks are Yale. She takes a deep breath. Approaches the other front room. Bedroom maybe? The first key won’t even fit, the second slides in but doesn’t turn. Must be the third. She takes a breath, slides it in – but it won’t go. Tries to force it, but it is no good. Doesn’t fit. She kicks the bloody stupid door. The clean keys glint at her in the dimness. They are not keys for here after all, somebody else’s old keys dropped and forgotten years ago. She stubs her toe on the door.
Ow
. Stupid bloody thing. Almost weeping with frustration she tries another door but, of course, it’s the same. The keys are nothing to do with here at all. What could be more
useless
than a wrong key?

Disappointment swamps her. Waste of time and energy. The
day stretches ahead, now dull and pointless. What to do? A walk, maybe; perhaps Yella will come. Before it gets too bloody hot. The doors are blank faces in the gloom. It is
already
too bloody hot. It always bloody is. She stops outside the last door. Tries the bronze key. And it works.

She blinks, startled by the easy turn and click. It really works. Stands looking at the key diagonally in the lock, almost scared to open the door. It feels wrong but not quite wrong enough to stop. She takes a deep breath and turns the handle, pushes open the door.

It is a
bathroom
. A proper plumbed-in bathroom. She doesn’t understand, blinks as if it might evaporate in front of her eyes. A
bathroom
. But there
is
no bathroom. She literally cannot believe her eyes. A wonderful
bathroom
. It might as well be heaven. A deep white bath on clawed bronze feet, a toilet, a basin all clean and gleaming white – even a bidet. The floor and walls are tiled in cool white marble, on the far wall a long mirror in which her own face gawps round the open door.

She steps inside, heart thudding. It smells of Larry. All this time he has had a bathroom to himself. Why did he not say? No
wonder
he is always so clean. On a shelf is a pile of French sandalwood soaps in fluted brown paper wrappings. Also a wooden dish of shaving soap, brush, razor, tweezers, a funny little thing – she picks it up wondering, realises it’s a device for trimming nostril hair and quickly puts it down. Cinnamint toothpaste, face cloths and towels, a deep stack of the fluffy white ones she washes every week.

Why has he lied? It’s like, it makes her feel a bit sick to think it, like he’s been taking the piss, seeing them so hot and sweaty, pretending there is no bathroom, that he washes in bowls of water in his room. She should have guessed. She feels almost
hurt
. He seemed so friendly. Why
lie
? It seems mad. Or pathologically selfish, at least.
Cruel
.

She looks down at the bath. As she looks, a silver trickle of
water escapes from the one of the taps on to the side like an idea. Why not? Why the hell not? Why shouldn’t she? Camomile shampoo. Oh to properly wash her hair, to soap herself all over with that soap and wrap herself in a soft white towel. What harm would that do? What possible harm? And by the time Larry gets back the towel will be washed and dried, the bath cleaned. He’ll never know the difference. It would do her so much good and cause no harm at all. There really is no question. She puts the plug in and turns on both the taps.

She takes off her vest and shorts, watching herself in the mirror. She stands sideways. Her belly sticks out more than it did. Not surprising – more eating, less exercise – and her breasts are bigger too, startlingly pale against the brown of her arms and shoulders, face and legs. She twists her head to see her bum, a bit wobbly-looking, a spot or two. But generally she looks OK. She cups her hands under her breasts and pouts, poses like some stupid centrefold. Looks at Larry’s razor. Should go and get her own but she can’t resist it. She lathers her legs and armpits with the tickly tuft of brush, a bit like Larry’s beard she thinks, shuddering, and shaves with his razor. Rinses it carefully under the tap, replaces the wooden lid of the shaving soap, rinses the brush and stands it upright to dry, rinses the traces of scum and hair from the sink.

She turns off the taps and steps in – aaah – the joy, better even than sex it feels right now,
miles
better, to let herself sink into it. The bath is big enough to float in. She puts her head right under and the water snakes in her ear canals, she hears her stomach gurgle, amplified. Will she say anything to Larry? What could she say? She wonders if Mara knows about the bathroom, if Fred does. She should confront Larry but – They are leaving. What would be the point?

She tries to forget about Larry, to let herself relax into the glorious sensation of the water. The shampoo is fragrant, silky lather against her skull. She relaxes back, swishes her head about. When she sits up and runs her fingers through her hair it
squeaks, properly clean
at last
. She lies back blinking through wet lashes and notices that one end of the bathroom is a floor-to-ceiling cupboard. Metal, with a lock. She frowns. Gets out, dries her hands, picks up the keys. The second key fits the lock. Might as well look.

Inside are neat shelves of drugs. Like a pharmacy. All for Mara? Packets of disposable syringes. Pills and phials of stuff, all sorts of things. Like the ones she has in her rucksack. She closes and re-locks the cupboard and frowns. Well, there’s his research and he is a doctor after all. Needs to care for Mara, be prepared for emergencies, snake or scorpion bites for instance.

She steps back into the bath, the water cooler and scummy now with shampoo and floating hairs, but still, lovely. If they could have used the bathroom, even only once or twice a week, the whole thing would have been so much
easier
. Maybe it’s not so ecological as a scrub with a flannel outside but it sure is more luxurious. She picks up the soap and is rubbing it between her hands, thinking that she’ll never, for the rest of her life, be able to smell sandalwood without thinking of this stolen moment, or of Larry for that matter – when she hears something. The bounce of the kitchen flyscreen. She freezes, hands a slither of scented bubbles. Someone in the kitchen, definitely someone in the kitchen. The bubbles web her fingers, popping as she watches. She lowers them silently into the water.

She holds her breath, heart beating visibly under her wet skin. Who? Larry. No no no no. Just Yella? But no, it’s definitely a person in there, a person moving about in the kitchen. A pipe clanks, someone turning on the tap. Giddily she realises she hasn’t breathed, forces a breath into her constricted lungs, stands up, steps out, wincing at the slosh of water, dabs herself with a towel, pulls on her clothes, the fabric of her shorts sticking on her damp legs. Her face in the steamy mirror a pale blur between hanks of wet hair, eyes black spaces. She shivers in the heat. She looks round, no time to clean the bath, wet
footprints on the floor, but no time. She picks up the keys, goes to the door.

She opens it quietly, steps out into the hall and with trembling fingers manages to lock the door behind her. She pushes the keys into her pocket. Now all she has to do is go back into the kitchen. And face whatever. It takes a moment to gather the will, but it is quiet there now. Maybe whoever it was has gone? Maybe, just
maybe
, it was imagination. But no. No, there
was
a definite noise. The turning-on of a tap. She is not
mad
.

She takes a deep breath and dares herself to open the door. And there, sitting at the table, is Mara.

‘Mara!’ Her voice comes out as a high wobble. She goes weak with relief. Sinks down on the nearest chair. ‘Thought you were asleep.’

Mara looks far from sleepy, her eyes bright, her cheeks almost rosy. Her breasts loll on the table in front of her. ‘Woke up!’ Mara says. ‘You been in the bath?’

Cassie opens her mouth but nothing happens. ‘You know about the bathroom then?’ she says at last, feeling foolish as she says it. Obviously Mara knows. ‘Why,’ she stammers, ‘why does he pretend there isn’t one?’

‘Likes to keep it to himself,’ Mara says, as if that’s sufficient explanation.

Cassie stares at her. ‘Well, I hope
you
don’t mind,’ she says, at last. ‘Me – bathing.’

‘
I
don’t mind,’ Mara snorts. ‘But Larry –’

Cassie hesitates. Can she ask Mara not to mention it?

‘Maybe I’d better go and clean it?’ she says.

Mara nods. Cassie goes back and wipes the bath absolutely clean, dries the soap, wipes every drop from the floor, removes the damp towel and leaves a fresh one folded ready. No way he could tell it had been used. No way.

She locks the door and goes back to Mara, who sits peacefully twisting her fingers in her hair.

‘I won’t tell,’ Mara says.

‘Won’t you?’

‘Why would I?’

Cassie smiles at her. ‘Thank you. It’s nice that you’re awake.’ Her eyes travel to the pills. ‘I was feeling a bit – kind of lonely. With everyone gone off.’

‘Larry went off years ago.’ Mara gives her a mischievous look.

‘Mara!’

‘Shall we eat something?’ Mara says. ‘I could eat a horse.’

‘Mmm,’ Cassie says, looking at her with curiosity. ‘I’ll cook us something, shall I? Some brunch?’ Water trickles down between her shoulder blades as she fetches ham and eggs from the fridge. She looks back at Mara. She seems so
different
. ‘I was thinking maybe French toast?’

‘Pancakes?’ Mara suggests. ‘With maple syrup?’

‘Don’t know if – hang on.’ Cassie drags over a stool, climbs up and reaches into the back of the top shelf of the fridge. And there is a sticky bottle half-full of maple syrup.