James Chase - Like a Hole in the Head

For some moments we lay there, trying to breathe, the sweat pouring off us, the mosquitoes making a cloud around us.

I thought of the rotten stick breaking across my face and I looked at Lucy who was lying on her back, her hands covering her face. Then I sat up and looked at Timoteo who was scraping mud out of his eyes.

“So besides being a gutless bastard,” I said, “you now have become a wife stealer.”

Lucy struggled up.

“I love him !” she screamed at me. “He isn’t gutless. He’s wonderful ! You don’t…”

“Oh, shut up !” I barked at her.

She flinched away from me as I continued to stare at Timoteo.

“Lucy and I love each other,” he said quietly.

“And you shut up !”

I slithered down the bank into the water. As I began to struggle to right the boat, Timoteo joined me. Together, we got the boat floating again. As I climbed into the boat, he pulled himself up on to the bank to join Lucy.

I looked up at them.

“We can get through to the sea,” I said. “Do you want to come or do you want to go on with your goddam Romeo and Juliet act?”

They slid down the bank to the boat. I watched Timoteo as he half carried, half led Lucy down the slippery bank. I realised his hands had a tenderness that mine could never have.

She sat at the far end of the boat, away from me. The sight of her cropped head and the unhappiness on her face sent a pang through me.

Timoteo moved to the middle of the boat and sat down on the cross bench.

I picked up the pole and began to force the boat through the weeds. I had been doing this for the past hour before I had found them. With their extra weight, I now found it a struggle to move the boat.

I struggled on, sweat pouring off me, then finally with my heart hammering, my breath hissing through my clenched teeth, I stopped, leaning on the pole beaten.

“I’ll do it.”

Timoteo stood up and took the pole.

I hated to be beaten, but I couldn’t go on. I sank down on the bench and dropped my head into my sweating, blistered hands. He had either a lot more strength than I or he had the knack I hadn’t got, but he kept the boat moving through the weeds at a speed I didn’t think possible.

Finally, we broke out of the weeds and into salt water after an hour’s gruelling struggle. By then I had my strength back and I took the pole from Timoteo’s exhausted hands. Now it was his turn to slump down on the bench.

Minutes later, we were free from the torment of the mosquitoes and I could see the jungle opening up and ahead of us, the sea. Another ten minutes brought us out into the light of the evening sun : a red ball as it sank below the horizon. There was no longer any need to use the pole : the current took us along towards the open sea. As the boat drifted away from the overhanging branches of the mangrove trees, I dropped the pole into the boat and flopped down behind Timoteo on the forward bench.

Finally, the prow of the boat bumped into a sand bank, stewed around and came to rest.

Not bothering about the other two, I stripped off my wet, mudcaked shirt and dived into the sea. I swam slowly, feeling the mud, the blood and the sweat leaving my body.

I love him!

A woman doesn’t scream that at the husband she has lived with for only six months in that tone of voice unless she means it. This wasn’t hysteria. I knew I had lost Lucy.

When I felt clean enough, I swam back to the boat. I swam slowly. I saw Timoteo and Lucy were also in the sea. I trod water, watching them. After a while they came out of the sea and moved up the beach to a sand dune.

I came out of the sea and walked up to them.

Timoteo got to his feet while Lucy sat where she was, staring up at me, her eyes round and terrified.

“Okay, slob,” I said, pausing in front of him. “Maybe you can’t shoot, but you can steal my wife. Tell me, how many times have you screwed her?”

He didn’t react as I hoped he would. I had hoped to provoke him to take a swing at me and then it would have been a knock down and drag out which I wanted.

“Did my father do that to you?” he asked in a shocked, husky whisper.

I saw he was looking at the Red Dragon brand.

“Does that bother you?” I said. “Does that bother you more than stealing my wife? Your father isn’t fit to live. I’m going to kill him.” I moved around so that I stood in front of Lucy. She jumped to her feet, backing away from me.

“Look at this, Lucy,” I said, pointing to the brand. “His father said he would put this on your face if I didn’t kill a man this slob is too gutless to kill. He branded me to show me he meant business. Do you still want this gutless creep who hasn’t the guts to spit in the face of the animal who calls himself his father? Do you?”

She stared with horror at the brand mark, then she put her hands to her face.

“Lucy! Do you want me or do you want him?” I yelled at her.

I saw by the expression in her eyes that I had lost her.

“I’m sorry, Jay… We love each other.”

I slapped her face. As she reeled back, I saw Timoteo move. I spun around and into a punch that lifted me off my feet and flung me down on my back with my head half in the sea.

I wanted this. I was sure I could take him. I wanted to smash him and drop him bleeding and helpless at Lucy’s feet. I wanted to show her the kind of man she had chosen.

I had had a number of fights when I was in the Army. Every so often you got a challenge: some guy would think he was better than you and you had to show him he was wrong. Sometimes a guy was nearly right and the fight was long, bloody and savage. I had had around twenty fights while I was in the Army and I lost only one. This guy I had lost to had a chest like a beer barrel and I had broken my hands on him. He took everything I gave him : grinning, his face a mask of blood. I got one of his teeth embedded in my fist and I broke two fingers of my left hand hanging a punch on his jaw. He took everything I dished out and he still stayed on his feet. Then when I had nothing else to throw at him, he started to creep towards me like a crab and started hitting me. Well, he was a better fighter and a lot stronger than I was, and when he finally stretched me on my back, covered with blood, I admitted it.

But I was sure Timoteo wasn’t a better and stronger fighter than I was, but I had learned he could punch and he was fast so I moved towards him cautiously. I wanted to land one crippling punch and once I had him shaken, I would go in and cut him to pieces: that’s what I wanted to do.

I moved in, weaving, my head down, my chin tucked in, feinting with my left to set him up for my right. It was the classic Jack Dempsey attack, but he wasn’t there. As my right started, he slid away. With the ease of a professional, he caught me with a short jolting right that exploded on the side of my jaw and stretched me flat on my back.

I had walked into the punch and worse, I hadn’t seen it coming. Then I knew I was up against a fighter who might lick me. I felt a trickle of blood run down my chin. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, shook my head and got to my feet.

Timoteo stood away from me, his long arms hanging by his sides, his serious, goddam intellectual face expressionless.

I started towards him. He let me come within punching distance, then with the same professional arrogance, he slid my rush and again I found myself flat on my back from a bruising punch to the side of my head. This long slob carried a punch like the kick of a mule.

I stared tip at him. He had again moved back and was looking down at me. Behind him I could see Lucy watching, her eyes large and her hands to her face.

“You’re quite a fighter, aren’t you, you sonofabitch?” I said as I got to my feet. “Well, so am I.”