Authors: Alan Judd
Patrick still said nothing.
Jim gulped his whisky. When he spoke again his voice was lower and thicker. ‘Only she’ll come back to me, you see. She always will. I’ll be here and she’ll be here when
you’re gone. You’ve got her on loan, that’s all.’
He held up his empty glass for Patrick to fill then leant both shoulders against the mantelpiece with his arms spread along it. ‘I don’t know why she chose me. We’re unlike in
a lot of ways and she doesn’t agree with much of what I think. Not on the surface, anyway.’ He looked up and grinned but did not take the glass that Patrick was offering. ‘Anyway,
loan I said and loan I meant, okay?’
He put his right hand on Patrick’s shoulder, as in a comradely gesture. Patrick never knew whether Jim planned it or whether it was simply the feel of his rival’s body that provoked
him. He was suddenly and violently bent double, his head so firmly locked against Jim’s hip that he nearly passed out. Both glasses fell to the floor by his feet but he did not hear them. His
lips were crushed against the seam of Jim’s jeans and he could taste blood. His neck was twisted at an ever more painful angle as Jim dragged him towards the centre of the room.
His first thought was that Jim was going to run the top of his head against the wall or through the window. Forgotten practices of schoolboy rugby came to his aid; he caught Jim by his legs, and
pulled his knees together at the same time as pushing forward. When they hit the ground Jim’s grip was momentarily weakened. Patrick pulled his head downwards but could not completely free
it. He humped his body and pulled again, pushing his elbow in Jim’s crotch.
His head was free and his ears ringing. He hesitated and was kicked sideways. Jim’s arm locked around his neck again. They rolled against the sofa and then away. Their feet tangled in
wires and the radio crashed to the floor.
Jim’s personality was his body, concentrated now, no longer diffuse as in social dealings. He was strong and determined but not cunning and not vicious. Patrick, weaker and at one
disadvantage after another, was obdurate. He could never achieve an ascendancy but was never so subdued that he could not escape from a position that was becoming critical to another not yet
critical. They wrestled and kicked but they did not hit and they did not bite. As Patrick’s flesh weakened the warmth and strength of Jim’s seemed to increase. Patrick’s movements
became desperate and ineffectual though as both bodies became slippery with sweat he could wriggle out of Jim’s holds more easily.
The end was sudden and undeclared, like the beginning. They almost sprung apart after Patrick got his elbow beneath Jim’s sternum and pushed with all his strength to free his head again.
For a few seconds they lay panting and quivering, watching for a resumption but both reluctant to make it. Patrick’s muscles trembled and he felt drained. Jim’s T-shirt had risen to his
armpits and his tanned skin glistened with sweat. The dark hairs of his abdomen were matted and wet. He rolled on to his back and let his arms lie by his sides.
‘You’re a slippery bastard,’ he whispered as his chest rose and fell.
Patrick stared at the ceiling. A vein in his throat pumped wildly. They lay in companionable silence and for a while their breathing was in time, as in the aftermath of gratified desire.
Jim reached across and let the back of his hand fall heavily on Patrick’s shoulder. ‘I could do with some water.’
Patrick got up slowly and went to the kitchen. His thighs were still quivering and he felt dizzy. Snap was still in his basket. When he returned with two glasses Jim was sitting cross-legged on
the floor fiddling with the radio.
‘Can’t get a squeak out of it. I’ll get you a new one.’
‘Wait till I see what’s wrong. It may be repairable.’
‘Have you got a licence yet?’
‘No.’
‘Then it isn’t. I’ll get it done for you. Trust a policeman.’
Patrick slumped on to the sofa. He drank half his water then lifted his head and poured the rest over his face. It ran over his bare shoulders and down his chest and back with shocking,
delicious coldness.
‘Mind if I piss in your garden?’ Jim walked slowly out on to the veranda, straightening his T-shirt and rubbing one of his shoulders. ‘You ought to do something about that pool
of yours,’ he said when he came back.
‘I’ve done everything the instructions say you can do to a pool.’
‘Couldn’t be any worse if I pissed in it. Get a firm in.’
‘One day when I’ve had a good night’s sleep.’
Jim grinned as he picked up the two glasses. ‘At least it’s only a government carpet.’ He put them on the mantelpiece. ‘I hope you won’t think it’s unfriendly
of me if I go now.’
Patrick went with him to the door. ‘I’ve got a cheque for you.’
Jim stopped but did not look round. ‘Okay.’ Patrick wrote it slowly because his hand was still unsteady. Jim put it in the back pocket of his jeans without looking at it and stared
at the sky. The night was more oppressive than ever and the air still. The clouds on the horizon reflected a constant dance of lightning. ‘It’ll rain tonight.’
‘I hope so.’
‘You like the rain?’
‘Yes.’
‘So do I.’
Patrick locked the door and picked up the truncheon thinking he might have done better to keep it with him. He felt physically tired but mentally restless. He would not sleep for some time. His
neck ached and there was a pain on the right side of his ribs which hurt whenever he breathed deeply or turned incautiously. He decided to have a shower and had just got under it when the telephone
rang.
‘Are you all right?’ Joanna’s voice was low and urgent.
‘Yes, I’m all right.’ He hesitated. His mind was more on Jim. It was not that he had forgotten about her so much as that Jim had snatched dramatic priority. It was impossible
to think of her without thinking of Jim.
‘I was afraid that Jim might come and see you,’ she continued quickly. ‘He was here earlier and stayed for dinner with my brother and sister-in-law and just sat there and made
himself drunk. When they’d gone he hardly spoke, he just sat. And then he suddenly got up and went. I couldn’t sleep because I was sure he was upset about you and me and I kept thinking
he might come and beat you up or something. I mean, he didn’t say anything but I could tell. After he’d gone I rang him but there was no answer. He might have gone drinking with some of
his friends or gone back to work. He does that sometimes when he feels like it. He’ll just go and work all night whether he has to or not. Then I lay in bed and couldn’t sleep. I kept
looking at the lightning and thinking: what if he’s gone to see you and taken his gun or something awful? The more I thought, the worse it got. You must think I’m really stupid. I am
sorry to have woken you but I really was worried. I am sorry.’ She laughed nervously.
Patrick felt as elated now as he had been depressed earlier. ‘You haven’t woken me. I was in the shower.’
‘In the shower?’
‘Jim’s just left.’
‘Patrick, what’s happened? Tell me.’
He basked in her concern. It was the first time she had said his name. ‘Well, we had a talk and then we had a sort of fight, a wrestling match, really. We’re both okay. He’s
gone now.’
She said she would come over straight away. She would wake Beauty and tell her she was going out. Belinda was asleep, anyway. Patrick said that there was really no need but then quickly added,
in case she changed her mind, that he would like to see her. He offered to come to her. She asked several times if he was sure he was unhurt and stopped only when he told her to bring plasma.
He returned to the shower and stood with his forehead against the wall so that the hot water streamed over his stiff neck.
Her hair was loose when she arrived. She did not step straight in but remained on the doorstep looking at him. She smiled only when he did. ‘I am sorry,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘For Jim.’
‘I’m not.’ He took her hand and led her upstairs, leaving the rape-gate open.
‘I only came to talk,’ she said, ‘and to see that you really are all right.’ Her tone was more resigned than determined. He shut the bedroom door, held her and kissed
her. She broke off, pushing with her hands against his shoulders. ‘I want you to tell me what happened.’
He undressed her as he spoke. She was more interested in what Jim had said than in the fight. He knelt to take off her shoes and at one point she laughed as she had to put her hand on his head
to balance. When he stood and held her to him he felt in her lips, in her moving hands and in the pressure of her body the beginning of her passion.
‘Fighting must be good for you,’ she whispered.
Outside the first rain dropped heavily on to the veranda roof, spattering against the bedroom windows. It fell slowly as if delaying its full effect so that there was time to anticipate. Heavy
single drops became a regular beating, the beating became a drumming, and the drumming a torrent. Soon the rushing, gurgling and spluttering of water was all-enveloping and the room was the only
dry, hidden and secret place.
Her long hair spread across the pillow and was damp with sweat. She breathed gently. They lay side by side, as he had lain with Jim. When dawn approached the sky brightened enough to show the
falling grey rods of rain. It had continued unabated throughout the night. Patrick turned his head to look at her. He almost wished himself alone though without wishing her away. He had had a glut
of impressions which could be properly assimilated, and so fully experienced, only in recollection. While she was there the flow continued like the rain and he could stop or separate nothing.
She opened her eyes. ‘What did he say about me?’
He had thought her asleep and was resentful that she should have been thinking about Jim. ‘He said that you would go back to him, that I had you on loan.’ The rain emphasised the
silence that followed. He felt his heart beginning to quicken. ‘What are you going to do about him?’
‘Do?’ She turned her head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Aren’t you going to – well – explain things to him?’
‘There’s nothing more to explain. He knows already. I don’t have to say anything. It wouldn’t do any good to go on about it.’ She rested her head on his chest.
‘He’s – it’s not what you might think. We’ve known each other for over four years now.’
He carefully removed some of her hair from his mouth. ‘Has he ever asked you to marry him?’
‘Yes, often.’
‘Why don’t you?’
She turned over on to him and pressed her chin between his upper ribs. ‘You’re not very diplomatic, Mr Stubbs. There are some things which might not be good for you to know and
they’re none of your business anyway.’
He hugged her and they rolled over. ‘I thought you came here to talk.’
She stretched her arms behind his head and pulled him to her. ‘Tell that to the marines.’
The rain was gentle when she left. It made countless disappearing rings in the dull water of the pool. The trees dripped and the air was fresh. Scents he had never noticed rose from the garden.
She had to be back before Belinda awoke.
He held the car door. ‘Tonight?’
‘Won’t you want some sleep? You’ve hardly had any.’
‘I can do that too.’
‘Come to dinner. Don’t stand there, you’ll get wet.’
‘I’m getting used to that.’
She drove off, waving twice. He was tired but too exhilarated to be sleepy. He skipped over a puddle, then another that was not in his way, then decided to skip all the puddles between the house
and the garage. Whilst doing this he saw a movement from inside the garage, which he had left open. He stopped short, causing one foot to get wet. His first thought was that someone was trying to
steal the bakkie and that he had left the truncheon indoors. As he looked he made out a young black standing just inside. He was tall and thin and wore a checked shirt with faded jeans. He held a
red plastic sack on his head and shoulders, clutching it beneath his throat. He was very wet. The whites of his eyes showed up in the gloom of the garage. He stared with sullen wariness at
Patrick’s approach.
The fact that the boy did not try to run away reminded Patrick of Sarah’s son. ‘Are you Stanley?’ he asked. The boy nodded. Patrick stepped forward and held out his hand. The
boy hesitated, then came out of the garage and shook it limply. ‘Does your mother know you’re here?’
‘No.’ Stanley breathed the word, barely moving his lips.
‘She’ll be pleased. She was very worried about you.’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have you been here?’ Stanley did not reply. Patrick wondered if Jim had spotted him. ‘Have you been here long?’ Still he did not reply. ‘Have you been
walking in the rain all night?’
‘I have been walking.’
‘You must like walking.’ Patrick’s smile was not reciprocated. He thought he must sound like a caricature of some colonial official but could do nothing about it. He also felt
awkward because Stanley was considerably taller than him. ‘Your mother was telling me you’ve left your school?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I must be a doctor.’
‘A doctor?’ Patrick did not mean to show surprise. ‘Yes, well, that’s a good idea but it will take many years at school and college. Where would you like to
train?’
‘Yes.’
The rain fell softly around them. Patrick was beginning to feel wet. He was aware of speaking loudly with an enforced heartiness. He hated to sound patronising but still could do nothing about
it. ‘A good idea, yes. But you must go somewhere to learn. Where would you like to go?’
Stanley lowered his eyes. When he spoke the words tumbled out but he did not look up. ‘I do not know. It is difficult in Lower Africa because there are not many colleges for black people
and I must have qualifications which I do not. I must go to a small college first.’
Patrick was encouraged. ‘That might be a good idea. Which one?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you get qualifications if you go back to school where you are?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’
A door opened. They looked round to see Sarah standing in the entrance to her quarters. She was awkwardly putting on her glasses with one hand and with the other clutching her faded blue
dressing-gown across her stomach. When she saw Stanley she uttered a cry and let go of her dressing-gown, revealing a pink nightie. She made to step out into the wet, hesitated briefly because she
had no slippers on, then stepped out anyway. She ran with her bare feet slapping on the wet concrete, half speaking and half wailing in Swahi. Stanley looked sullen and embarrassed. She held up her
arms to embrace him, moaning in a quiet, high voice. When she touched him, though, she changed as if discovering she was deceived into embracing the wrong person. She shook him by the arms and
spoke crossly. He bent his head and permitted himself to be pushed, shaken and railed against. He spoke once as she led him away. She replied sharply and he let go of the red plastic that covered
his head and shoulders. It fell to the ground where he would have left it had she not spoken sharply again.