Peter Temple - White Dog

‘And now?’

‘She’ll come out with the dog in a minute or two,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if she’ll have a word.’

‘Beware of the dog.’

‘That’s her.’

A tall woman in a raincoat over black pants and wearing a headscarf was crossing the narrow forecourt leading a dog the size and shape of a football. She turned to come our way, down the wet pavement.

‘Vicious-looking brute,’ I said.

‘There’s a gun in the glovebox,’ said Cam. ‘Shoot the thing if it goes for me.’

‘Just pick it up, drop-punt,’ I said. ‘See if you can hit that Merc on the other side.’

When she was ten metres away, Cam got out. He was in a charcoal suit, a decent bit of white cuff showing. He walked around the car. I could see that she’d seen him, a flick of a glance. She was a handsome woman, long nose, full lips.

Cam stepped onto the kerb. He said something. She stopped, the dog stopped. Cam went up to her, not too close. The dog strained at its leash. I could see her face while he talked. She wasn’t happy but she wasn’t alarmed.

Cam turned and she followed him, reeling in the dog and picking it up, hand under its body. They came up to the car. Cam opened the back door for her. I turned my head. She was holding the dog on her lap, a hand under its mouth, stroking. It had an amiable expression, bright brown eyes, little ears like furred seashells. It didn’t mind being in the car.

‘Someone’s given Sarah Longmore an alibi for that night,’ I said. ‘For the time when you said you saw her.’

‘Alibi?’

‘The person lives across the road from her place. He’s a peeping Tom. He was watching her windows that night.’

‘You’re fucking joking,’ she said. ‘Got a smoke? Don’t take mine on a walk.’

‘French,’ said Cam, taking out a packet. ‘They’re strong.’

‘I can smoke fucking rope,’ she said.

Cam offered her the packet, lit her cigarette with a lighter. The car was suddenly full of pungent Gitane smoke, Donna’s perfume still there, like ermine edging on a goatskin cloak.

She coughed once, smothered another. ‘Fucking perve? Believe him? What took him so fucking long?’

‘Scared,’ I said. ‘Very scared. He’s got a conviction for it. Thought he might go inside, they like perves inside.’

I could hear her breathing.

‘You were the prosecution’s key witness, Donna. And you were committing perjury. Making a false statement, that’s always bad. But this, this could’ve led to wrongful conviction for murder. That’s terrible. Eight years a bloke got for that, minimum six to serve.’

Just the sound of Donna’s breathing, quick and deep. The dog made a yawning sound, its small jaw cracked. I looked around again. She released the dog and it walked up and down the seat, neat turns, sniffed the crack, something down there?

‘What do you want?’ said Donna. ‘I’m going to fucking confess to something? You think that? Think a-fucking-gain, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘That’s a nice building you live in,’ I said. ‘Unit’s in your name, is it? Got a vote on the body corporate?’

‘Where’s the fucking ashtray?’ Voice harsh now, not hoarse.

Cam put a hand back, took the butt from her, opened his window and shot out the stub, sent it a long way, despoiled the street.

‘We would think,’ I said, ‘that only a mad person would just come out and tell a lie like this. So that rules you out. Then we have to ask why you did. What’s in it for you? Do it for someone? Do eight years inside for someone?’

Silence.

‘Do it for someone?’ I said. ‘We’re giving you a chance, it won’t come twice, believe me. This is your chance, Donna.’

‘Eight years?’ she said. ‘Eight years? Well, eight years is a whole lot better than fucking dead, so why don’t you get out your fucking perve and charge me and go for your fucking lives.’

Donna had some trouble opening the door but she did it, tried to slam it behind her but it just thunked. She dropped the dog on the pavement, from too great a height, I thought. It looked up, offended. She walked, jerked the animal with her.

I brought down my window and shouted after her, ‘What happened to Janene, Donna? And Wayne?’

Donna stopped, turned, came back, pulling the dog. She wore a golden crucifix on a golden chain. The little cross was in the hollow of her throat. ‘What’s that mean?’ she said.

I said, ‘You know what it means. Want to reconsider your position?’

‘You’re no fucking cops,’ she said. ‘Piss off.’

She went. We sat. Cam looked at me.

‘I liked that dog,’ I said. ‘I never thought I’d say that about a small dog.’

‘You change,’ Cam said. ‘I never liked small women.’

He started the car. ‘Coffee, feel the need?’

‘Serious need.’

Cam dropped me in Brunswick Street to get my mail and I walked back to the office, sat at my desk, opened the letters, got out the files. I had been a neglectful solicitor and that was unforgivable. It would cease now. Wallowing in self-pity, the curse of the single male. Single male with interruptions, in my case. But single was the steady state: I always reverted to being alone, seldom of my own volition.

I didn’t get much done, thinking about Donna. Eight years in jail was better than dead, she said. The suggestion was that whoever got her to lie about seeing Sarah would have no qualms about killing her. I had no difficulty understanding why she thought that.

A knock on the door.

I got up and went to open it. Once I’d left it off the latch.

A big man in a suit, black-framed dark glasses, big bulges over his eyes, nose large and spread out.

‘Mr Irish?’ he said. His hands were on his hips.

‘Yes?’

‘Have a word?’

‘Come in.’

I stood back.

He took a step in, his left leg, and he hit me off his right leg, in the chest, just under the collarbone, my hands came up and he hit me again, in the chest again, his fist went between my forearms. He tried to hit me in the throat but my chin was down, then he hit me in the stomach, left hand, right hand. I was going down in a mist of pain.

He kicked me in the chest, I felt my head hit the desk behind me, bounce forward, I was on my knees, I was fainting, the light was dim, a terrible pain in my chest.

He gripped my head by my hair, held my head up by my hair in one hand.

He slapped my face. Over and over again. His palm and his knuckles. ‘Smart boy,’ he said. ‘Clever fucken boy.’

He let me go and I fell forward, lay in my pain and tears, my face on the old rug. I felt something warm on my head, in my ear, running down my face. The smell came to me, feral, salty.

He was pissing on me.

‘Don’t mess with this business anymore,’ he said. ‘Hear me, Irish? Next time I’ll bring someone round, and, when I’m finished, he’ll fuck you, okay?’

I heard his zip and I heard the door open and close. I heard a car rev and pull away. After a while, I got up and went home, stood under the shower for a long time, washed my hair three times. I dressed, found a plastic bag and put the clothes I had been wearing into it, tied the top, took it down to the big bin.

Upstairs, I poured a neat single malt, took the near-full bottle and sat in my chair. My hands were shaking, just a tremor, barely detectable. My face hurt, I could feel the puffiness, but I didn’t want to look in the mirror. I drank steadily, it grew dark. I didn’t put on the lights, sat in the dark drinking, and, at some point near the bottom of the bottle, I fell asleep.

I woke in my bed, clothed, shoes on, face stiff, hurting everywhere, dehydrated, the shame undiminished, the soiled feeling still upon me.