Shane Maloney - The Brush-Off

Things were getting more interesting by the moment. I hung on Lambert’s response. She said nothing.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’

A moment’s silence. ‘Um. I’m just on my way back to work, actually.’ And not really in a position to do any entertaining, what with the flat all cluttered up with hundred-dollar bills.

Eastlake was undeterred. ‘Let’s have a little drink first. Celebrate your success. The Centre for Modern Art’s first major acquisition. Our Home, ours at last.’ His tone was more than just chairmanly. ‘You look a bit flushed. You haven’t been having one all by yourself, have you? You naughty little girl.’

She played along. ‘Okay, I admit it. You caught me at it. But I really must be getting back. The picture has to be stored away properly. You know what Janelle’s like.’

‘What’s the hurry? Janelle will be fine.’ The tone was playfully wheedling, but there was a possessive edge to it. ‘You haven’t got someone in there with you, have you?’

‘Like who?’ She laughed the idea away, resenting the inference.

‘An attractive woman like you,’ he said, turning it into a compliment. ‘Could be any one of a million men.’

This all had an air of easy intimacy to it. I began to suspect I knew what Fiona had meant when she said she knew how to handle Lloyd Eastlake. ‘I just love it when you get jealous.’ Playful sarcasm. ‘Married man and all.’

‘C’mon. How about that drink.’ Eastlake didn’t want to stand in the door. He was coming inside. Like it or not.

I was breathing through my skin, willing myself invisible. Eastlake’s shoes appeared in the louvre-framed square of carpet in front of the closet. Suddenly, the outline of Fiona’s red dress pressed back against the door. The louvres bulged inwards and the whole door creaked on its hinges. Fabric rustled against fabric. Fiona had grabbed Eastlake and pulled him against her. Another sound came-part moist sucking, part sibilant inhalation, part low moan. They were going the smooch, the full mutual tonsillectomy by the sound of it.

The vixen! ‘Hmm,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘I do find it exciting, I must admit. Getting Our Home at last.’

Lloyd Eastlake wasn’t a man to pass up an opportunity. ‘Hmm,’ he agreed. Now that she’d started him up, there was no stopping him. The cupboard door bowed inwards. All I could see was the bare backs of Fiona’s calves, her ankles, her fire-engine red shoes. Eastlake’s shoe slid between hers, the light grey check of his trousered leg rubbing against her bare flesh.

Movement traced the silhouette outline of Fiona’s body. Something slid behind her, cradling the small of her back. Through the slats of the louvre, I could clearly see the individual hairs on the back of Eastlake’s hand. My mouth turned to a desert. It seemed inconceivable that they couldn’t hear my heart beating. I could hear every breath they took, distinguish their individual rhythms. I might as well have been in bed with them.

They might as well have been in bed with each other. The pace of their breathing quickened, the volume of their slurping noises. Eastlake’s hand was tugging up the hem of Lambert’s dress. Her knickers were pale lilac. His hand slid into them, down into the valley of her buttocks. Her feet eased wider. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll have to buy you an expensive painting more often.’

She moaned encouragement. Eastlake’s hand was out of her knickers. He was down on his knees, tugging at them. Her legs closed. A flash of lilac slid past her white knees. Through the inverted V of her thighs, I saw him shake free of his suit jacket. He reached down and opened his trousers.

All the blood in my body had converged in my groin. I could have got a job as a coat hook. The pulse in my ears was beating a rhythm like the time-keeper on a slave galley. Faster. Faster. Ramming speed. I screwed my eyes shut and tried to think of something else. Anything else. Humpity, humpity, went the door, threatening to burst in. Bang, bang, bang.

I peeked, knowing already what I would see. Fiona’s feet had vanished, raised off the floor. Little ridges of red dress were being forced into the gaps between the louvre slats. So too was the bare flesh of Fiona Lambert’s arse. One red shoe lay on its side. The other had vanished. Eastlake was still wearing his. I could see their stitching. Four-hundred-dollar shoes. Only the tips showed. His trousers were round his ankles. His calves were braced. His knees were buckled. His thighs were thrusting.

Bang, bang. I closed my eyes and searched my mind for some distracting thought. I peeked again, then squeezed my eyes tight.

Eastlake’s trousers were Prince of Wales check. This was the pattern favoured by the sharpies, part of the uniform. Wide Prince of Wales check trousers and skin-tight maroon knit tops. That’s what Geordie Fletcher wore.

Geordie Fletcher and the horrible twins, Danny and Wayne. I was back at the Oulton Reserve. Round and round I was spinning, biffed and bashed at every turn. My life was in the hands of a gang of brain-dead sharpies. Spider, my supposed protector, was in league with the enemy. My hand was curled tight around the neck of a bottle. A potential weapon, but tangled in the folds of my coat.

Suddenly, it came free. I brandished it like a club. Dizzy with vertigo, I staggered sideways and fell. The bottle hit the concrete path. Broken glass scattered in a pool of spilt alcohol. I was on my knees breathing in the acrid smell.

‘Fucking idiot. You wasted it.’ Geordie Fletcher had me by the collar, hauling me to my feet. This was it. The cat-and-mouse game was over. I was about to be beaten shitless. The twins had stopped their jeering and fallen silent. Big brother was going to show them how it was done.

More fool him. The neck of the bottle was still in my hand, a hard knife-edged cylinder. Slashing sideways, I caught Geordie unawares. My blow sliced across his thigh, opening a gash in his pants. Blood sprayed into the air.

Geordie jumped back. Amazement lit his face. My fear became exhilaration. I thrust the bottle neck in front of me, daring them to try anything. The Fletchers circled, Geordie’s surprise turning to rage. Spider Webb elbowed his way between the twins. ‘Put it down, Whelan,’ he said. ‘Don’t be a dickhead.’ Somewhere in the dusk beyond the tea-tree, car doors slammed and footsteps raced towards us. Every sharpie in town was about to descend on me. There was blood everywhere. ‘Come on, you little cunt,’ Geordie yelled. ‘Have a go.’

I did. I rushed him. Spider grabbed my arm, twisting it. ‘Drop it. Drop it.’ Pain shot through my elbow. The bottle neck fell from my hand. Broken glass crunched underfoot. Geordie kicked me in the balls. The pain was searing. Spider’s face was in mine. ‘Fucking idiot.’ Bent double, eyes welling, I retched.

The galloping feet arrived. Hands grabbed my hair, jerking my head back. I swung wildly, no longer caring what happened. An adult had me. A police uniform. A sergeant’s stripes. I recognised the face. I’d seen it in the hotel, drinking with my father after closing time. Open handed, he whacked the side of my head so hard that I saw stars and my teeth nearly fell out. ‘You’re coming with me, son.’

‘Come! Come!’ urged Fiona. ‘Yes. Yes.’ She said some other things, too. Things I won’t repeat here.

The pace of Eastlake’s thrusting increased. The closet door quaked in its frame. An anchovy smell tinged the air. Rumpity, rumpity. Casanova let out a plaintive groan. Hissing like a braking steam train, he slowed to a halt. Suddenly, all was still.

Eastlake disengaged with a suction-cup slurp. Fiona Lambert’s bare backside separated from the louvres and her feet found the floor. Her dress fell back into place. She let out a long breath. I wished I could do the same. ‘You tiger,’ she said. ‘That was wonderful.’