Double Exposure (6 page)

Ten
The prodigal

T.J.'s story

I can't say I ever believed in fate. My friend Thi does, though I doubt she would admit it in public. Thi was born here, and when she speaks she sounds about as Vietnamese as I do, but when it comes to the traditional customs of her family … Well, I guess she's as susceptible as any of us.

Her grandmother is to blame, of course. The old woman's life is ruled by the orders of the
feng shui
master, as she attempts to control her luck and cheat the destiny that another part of her -the one that spends all those hours at the temple – knows is essentially uncontrollable.

‘In the end, you can't cheat fate,' Thi told me once, when I was having a particularly tough week, with Ty sick and my Design assignment way past due.

I'd been using her as a wailing wall in the break between classes, expecting at least the pretence of sympathy, but all she could manage was, ‘Everything happens for a reason, even if we don't see it that way at the time. It's fate. Karma. And in the end, you can't cheat fate. Your path was decided for you before you were born and you have to walk it in order to work out
why
it was the path chosen for you. Whatever you learn in the process is what you were ultimately meant to learn. It's all part of the journey.'

So much for sympathy.

I would have settled for a sincere, ‘Life sucks!' or even a semi-sincere, ‘Shit happens, girlfriend …'

Anyway, the point is, there are times when you have to wonder whether it's fate throwing a curve – or just an incredible coincidence …

*

Midday.

The stroller is top-heavy from the bag of groceries perched on the hood and she pulls it up onto the kerb backwards, supporting the weight on her right thigh, trying not to jolt the boy awake.

Before she can turn the pram around, she feels the hand on her shoulder and hears the whisper that freezes her blood.

‘Hello, T.J. Long time no see.'

She swings around, throwing off the hand and placing her body between him and the sleeping child, but his fist is already in motion. It connects and her head snaps sideways with the impact. The world swims, then the pain washes over her like a wave and her knees buckle.

He pushes past her, but her fingers are like rubber, sliding off his jacket as he shrugs her aside and steps towards the child.

‘Noo! You bastard …'

A lunge and she has hold of his leg, but another blow, this time with the back of his hand, sends her sprawling to the pavement. Her elbow strikes the concrete and somewhere beneath the horror she feels the sharper pain of torn skin.

‘Ian, please …'

But the plea is ignored. The groceries have fallen from the stroller and they lie scattered across the footpath. An egg lies smashed in front of her, bleeding yolk into the gutter.

She tries again to speak, but the words stick in her throat. Ian stares down into the stroller, the look in his eyes impossible to read.

‘Hey, dickweed!'

The voice forces him to swing around and she follows the direction of his gaze.

Cain is standing a few metres away, legs spread, arms held loosely at his sides. His face is relaxed, but something behind those chameleon eyes has gone ice-hard and he doesn't blink.

‘I'll make a deal with you,' he continues, stepping closer and raising his hands into two loosely closed fists. ‘Let go of the pram and move away and I won't actually break anything.'

Ian hesitates, sizing up his opposition, one hand still resting on the handle of the stroller.

Cain shakes his head slowly. When he speaks again, it is a teacher to a slow child. ‘Here's the way it is. It's a one-time offer and it expires in ten seconds. Step away from the pram.'

The confidence seems to drain from Ian's face. Then, without warning, he lunges, throwing a roundhouse punch with all his strength, but his opponent is ready.

Dropping beneath the swinging arm, Cain bends one knee and sweeps with the other leg, striking the bully's shins painfully and raking his feet from under him.

Ian topples like a felled tree and his wrist collapses beneath him with an audible crack. A stifled scream and he rolls over onto his back, holding his damaged wrist.

The newcomer stands over him, looking down and shaking his head in mock-frustration.

‘You should have listened, man … Right now, I think an apology might be a really good idea.'

But Ian is scrambling to his knees, moaning with the pain. He struggles to his feet and stumbles away, still holding his wrist and limping painfully.

She watches as Cain moves to follow him.

‘Cain, no!' He pauses and turns his head to look back at her. ‘Let him go. He's not going to give us any more trouble.'

He turns slowly around, a smile creeping into his expression. ‘Cain's at home, sleeping. He pulled a late shift last night. I'm Chris, the prodigal brother. And you must be T.J.'

He holds out his hand to help her up and she accepts the assistance. For a moment she stares at him, through him. Then she turns to check on Ty, who sits silently in his seat, with the half-dazed look of the newly awoken.

Satisfied, she straightens, turning to face him.

‘How do you know my name?'

A small laugh. ‘How couldn't I? My brother hasn't talked about anything else for the last six weeks.'

‘But, I mean … How did you know it was me? I've never met you before.'

‘Maybe not, but I've seen you. A hundred times. He's got your picture as a wallpaper on his phone.'

She begins picking up the scattered groceries and he bends to help her.

‘Thank you,' she says, but he just shrugs his shoulders and continues gathering the fallen items.

‘All part of the service,' he says, and in that moment he sounds just like his brother.

She stands and turns the stroller around. ‘I can't believe you just … If you hadn't come, I don't know …'

‘Right place, right time, I guess. The Lord moves in mysterious ways.'

*

T.J.'s story

Fate, or blind luck?

Out of a city of three million people, in a suburb of maybe a hundred thousand, he just happens to be there at precisely the right moment.

I stood there looking at him gathering up my groceries, as if I'd just had a minor mishap in the shopping-centre car park. There was no sense of drama, nothing in his manner that might suggest he'd just faced off with a guy who was much taller and heavier. And more violent …

I searched for differences between him and his brother. Nothing in his features – it was like looking at Cain. The same eyes; deep blue, almost violet. The same hair, though while Cain wore it gelled and spiked, Chris left the natural wave untouched.

The difference wasn't physical, but it was there.

It was there in the way he stood, in the confidence that shone from those eyes, in the cynical edge to his smile.

As he placed the last of the groceries into the bag, he crouched beside the stroller, with his eyes at the same level as Ty's.

‘You okay, Champ?'

Ty didn't reply. I think he was a little confused. Here was someone who looked like Cain, but who behaved nothing like him. Kids like order, predicability. I guess we all do.

I tried to make conversation.

‘What was that move?'

He looked up at me, then back at Ty.

‘That? It's called “The Dragon Sweep”. Pretty neat, eh?'

‘I don't know that “neat” is the word I'd use. But it was pretty effective.'

‘Only when you use it on someone who isn't trained. It's a show-move. Great for demonstrations, but if I tried that in a tournament I'd be flat on my back before you could blink.'

A matter-of-fact statement.

‘Cain has told me a lot about you,' I went on.

For a moment, I detected something behind those eyes. A fleeting frustration.

‘Let me guess. The child prodigy. The talent of the family. You know I get a bit tired –'

‘Actually,' I cut in, ‘he is proud of your talent, especially what you've been doing recently. He told me all about it. But mostly he just talks about you. Your strength. How you managed to make the break when he couldn't. He looks up to you. Like an older brother. D'you realise that?'

He smiled then. The barrier I'd felt rising dropped away.

‘Actually, I am. Older. By five minutes.' He took the handle of the stroller and began pushing it in the direction I'd been walking before Ian had arrived. ‘But to tell the truth, it didn't take strength to walk out. That was the easy thing to do. Cain stayed and that was a whole lot tougher.'

‘Was it really that bad? He never talks about himself. Whenever I ask him, he always seems to turn things around so that we're talking about
my
problems.'

He laughed at that. Stopping the stroller, he turned to face me.

‘That'd be Cain. Mr Empathy. It's the reason he couldn't walk out. No matter how bad things get, no matter how many times Momma bows her head and sides with the General against him, he'll always find a way to stay. To protect her in spite of herself. If it wasn't for her, he'd have walked years ago. Like I did.'

‘Why do you call him that – “the General”?'

‘Old habits, I guess. Issue the order, court-martial anyone who disobeys. Summary execution. It was that or “Der Fuehrer” but we didn't speak German when we were young, so “the General” stuck, sort of. Do you need a lift home? I've got my car just around the corner.'

I considered the offer seriously. It was tempting to pump him for information about his brother, but something stopped me.

‘Nah. It's only a few minutes away and I could do with the exercise.'

‘What about the dickweed?'

‘I think I'm pretty safe. If he isn't off somewhere looking for a doctor, he'll be on his way home to lick his wounds.'

‘Speaking of which …' He reached out to touch the side of my face. The cheekbone was tender where Ian's fist had connected. I was going to have a shiner. ‘That's gotta smart. Piece of advice … Fresh steak. It's a bit gross, but lay it directly on the skin and it'll draw out the bruise. Experience …'

That smile again, as if he was laughing at himself. There was something very familiar about the expression – and not because he reminded me of Cain. It wasn't the kind of expression I could ever remember Cain showing.

He reached down to the hook on his belt and unclipped his keys, playing with them unconsciously as he talked.

‘Well, I guess I'd better get on. So much to do, so little time …'

They had that in common. Quoting from movies was one of Cain's unconscious habits. I was about to comment on the fact, when I noticed the medal on the key ring.
C.E.
in ornate black letters.

Just like Cain's.

Must be a twin thing …

‘You must get Cain to bring you over sometime. I'd like to see what you think of my new stuff.'

‘Yeah … I will … I'd love to …'

I must have sounded a bit distracted. He took a few steps backwards, waved, then turned to go. I called out to his back.

‘Thanks again. I don't know what I'd have –'

‘Like I said, it's all part of the service.'

The words were thrown over his shoulder with a dismissive wave, then he was gone.

*

Cain's story

‘You
followed
her?' It came out as a cross between a question and an accusation. I turned to face him.

He'd told me about the incident in detail and I'd made some comment like, ‘Thank Christ you were there.'

To which he'd replied, ‘I don't think Christ had a whole lot to do with it. Unless he was the one who gave me the premonition. After we talked the other day, I had a hunch that something might happen. Then, this morning it was stronger and I knew you'd be dogged, so I thought … Well, it couldn't do any harm to follow her. You know? Just in case?'

Then he hesitated. I guess he must have caught something in my eyes.

‘I followed her, but I didn't
follow
her. Come
on,
bro! Give me some credit.'

He looked hurt, I spoke to change the subject.

‘Did you hurt him?'

He smiled. ‘I sincerely hope so. So, what's next?'

‘You tell me. He's not going to stop. After this morning, he's just going to be more determined than ever.'

He sat down at the kitchen table and shook his head slightly. ‘Maybe I should have incapacitated him. Permanently.'

There was a light edge to his voice, but it didn't quite mask the darker tone I caught beneath the words.

My brother didn't study
kufu do
just for the exercise.

Eleven
Symmetry

Two o'clock.

He's there again, standing in the shadow of the doorway maybe thirty metres away, watching her. Abby catches the reflection of the streetlights on the camera lens and smiles to herself, trying not to look directly towards it. For some reason it makes her self-conscious in a way none of the johns ever do.

Maybe it's because he never tries to touch her. Just takes the shots, walks up the hill, slips her a note and leaves.

Maybe it's those eyes, deep blue and probing. Asking questions that so far remain undefined. And unanswered.

The girls have started talking about him, teasing her, but never in front of Sal. Sal doesn't have a sense of humour, and if he knew someone was slipping her cash on the side, she'd cop it. Even if that someone wasn't a john and asked for nothing from her in return. For Sal, life is brutally simple. The streets are a dangerous place, so the girls need protection.

And protection doesn't come cheap.

She watches as he begins his slow approach up the hill.

‘Thanks,' he says and holds out the note. It's folded in quarters as usual, but this time she doesn't reach for it.

‘Keep it.' She looks around, but Sal is nowhere in sight. ‘I'm not a charity case. I don't do drugs and I don't sleep in a St Vinnie's bin, so unless you're buying my time –'

‘Call it a modelling fee.' He holds out the note again. His expression hasn't changed and her mask of street cynicism slips for a moment under that blue stare.

She folds her arms across her chest and cocks her hip.

‘How many models you know work for a twenty?'

He smiles but doesn't answer. He looks down at the money in his hand.

‘So, how much time does a twenty buy?'

‘That depends …'

‘On?'

‘On what you want to do with your time.'

He puts the money-hand in his pocket and looks up and down the street.

‘I think I need a coffee. Ten minutes?'

‘Ten minutes.'

He nods and turns towards the all-night coffee bar a block away. She remains where she is, watching him. Waiting for him to notice. Finally he turns.

‘Are you coming?'

She stands firm. ‘Company policy. Cash up front.'

He shakes his head, smiles and makes the few steps back towards her, taking out the note again. This time she accepts it, slipping it into its usual hiding-place.

‘My shout,' he says, turning away. This time, he doesn't check to see if she is following. She waits a few seconds, then begins walking. Her heels are loud on the pavement and she notices that he slows his pace slightly, allowing her to catch up.

She holds her hands around the mug, feeling the heat against her palms.

‘So what is this? Slum-it-with-the-street-trash month?'

He smiles and sips his coffee.

‘You have amazing features, you know. I didn't realise it at first, because you always try to act so tough and you kind of narrow your eyes and freeze people out, but when you relax and when you look directly at me like that, your face is as near to perfect as –'

‘Oh, come
on
! Now you're beginning to freak me out. You're not going to start on the “Jesus loves you, even if you are a whore, because inside we're all God's beautiful children” spiel, are you? Because if you are, the price just went up.'

She half-rises, but he places a hand on her arm. She looks down at it suspiciously, but halts the movement. He removes the offending hand.

‘It was just a professional observation. Don't get paranoid. I promise I won't mention Jesus or church or burning in the endless fires of eternal damnation … At least until you've finished your coffee. I just … Look, I'll tell you a story. It might explain what I'm talking about.'

He picks up his mug, raises it halfway to his lips, then continues talking, returning the drink to the table surface untouched.

‘I've got this friend, Ricky Feldman. His family's obscenely rich and his father lets me live in one of his properties pretty much rent-free, because he thinks I'm “an artist with a future” and when I'm famous it'll make him a little famous too by association. He buys a lot of art – most of it crap – but occasionally, by accident, he ends up with something magic.

‘Anyway, about a year ago he picked up a pastel and oil drawing in an auction. It was a Rolf Armstrong. Armstrong worked out of New York in the thirties and forties, mostly pin-up pictures for magazines – young women in elegant dresses or swimming costumes, posing seductively and smiling like virgins – but he was good and something of a legend in his own life-time.

‘The thing is, Rick's dad's picture was different. It wasn't a pin-up at all. It was a girl's face, staring straight at you off the paper, smiling but a little guarded, innocent yet knowing. And she had the most amazing eyes, dark and almost unreadable. As if
they
were studying
you
and not the other way round.

‘I must have stared at that picture a hundred times, before it struck me what made her so incredibly beautiful. Her face was almost perfectly symmetrical. Do you know how unusual that is?'

Abby shakes her head.

‘You lost me with, “It might explain what I'm talking about.” But go on. It's bound to make sense sooner or later.'

A small, cynical smile. Her eyes are unblinking, sizing him up, watching his response.

He sips his coffee before continuing. ‘Look at a face – really look at it – and you'll see that if you were to draw an imaginary line down the centre, the left side will almost never be an exact match for the right side. There are always differences in shape, texture, detail – it's what they call an asymmetry. But if you cut the image of a face into two halves, say on a computer, then duplicate each image, flip them and join them again, so that the left half of the original is matched with its mirror image and the right half with
its
mirror image, you'll end up with two perfectly symmetrical faces – but they won't look like they belong to the same person.' His eyes are staring at a point in the air somewhere away to her right, as if he is looking at something. Or recalling. ‘The girl in the Armstrong picture, though … Her features were almost perfectly matched – even to the tiny gaps in her eyelashes.'

‘And the point of all this
is
?'

‘I'm not exactly sure. All I know is … When I developed your pictures the first time, I felt like I feel when I stand in front of the Armstrong.'

For the first time she sees the mask slip, tastes his insecurity. He sips his drink again, as if he is gathering courage from the liquid. The words, when they come, are whispered.

‘I'd like you to model for me.'

Finally it comes out. Always an angle …

She sighs, pushes her chair back and rises, shaking her head.

‘Thanks for the coffee. I think your ten minutes are up.'

He reaches out and takes hold of her hand, but for the second time her stare makes him release his grip.

‘Please,' he begins, ‘it's not like that. I just –'

‘You know, you hear just about every possible line from the johns, every pathetic excuse, but at least most of them are honest about what they want.' She turns to go, then looks back down at him. ‘You're good. I'll give you that much. You had me going for a while there.'

Something in her voice – the slight break, the nasal quality, the fact that she finishes by biting her bottom lip like a disappointed child – robs the speech of its intended effect.

She turns again towards the door, but he slams another twenty down on the table.

‘Cash up front. That buys me another ten minutes.'

She turns and reaches for the money.

‘Five. The price just went up.'

She sits down facing him and he grabs the chair, turning it around and leaning forward with his arms folded on the back rail.

‘Maybe we'd better start again. My name's Chris.'

She looks down at his outstretched hand for two or three seconds, before reaching out her own.

‘Abby. You have four and a half minutes left …'