Janita Lawrence - The Memory of Water

We take care of business without much going wrong. They hand me three pink powdery pills in a used Ziploc and grossly overcharge me for it. My dealer would tell me that it serves me right, buying from the competition.

Eve hasn’t called and I’m thankful for that. It would be awkward. I wouldn’t be comfortable seeing her. Looking at her thin, pale neck, so easy to strangle, or sitting across from her, thinking of the blood moving in her veins. And her beating heart.

“Hey buddy, let me buy you a beer.”

It’s Wednesday night at our indoor soccer club and we’ve just been beaten two-nil by a bunch of hillbillies. Middle-aged punks who bring their pregnant teenage mistresses to watch the game. The poppies sit around skinnering and clap half-heartedly while downing Alcopops and smoking petite packs of Camels with neon-painted nails. Frank played well but I wasn’t concentrating and let a few balls through.

“What an awesome party we had, huh?”

Last Saturday seems a decade ago.

“Dude, you throw the best parties. That waitress was a minx. She gave me her number.”

“Have you called her?” I ask.

“Nah.”

Frank has commitment issues.

“Hey, did you nail that short chick?” he asks.

I squint and have to think before I answer.

“The one in the pool?”

“ Ja . The one with the tits.” He jiggles imaginary melons on his chest in case I misunderstand the question.

We reach the bar, which is too bright, and Frank drops the melons and orders two pints of Windhoek draught from a bartender who looks like a Hell’s Angel.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Pussy.”

Meaty, tattooed arms pass us tall glasses of the good stuff. Frank tells the biker to keep the change.

We find a table at the back, away from the jubilant hicks, and sit down. The top is stained and sticky. Three beers later, we’re bonding over some third-grade pork scratchings we bought from the bar.

“So what was up with you and Eve, man? She looked seriously pissed off.”

Usually I wouldn’t have too much to say about it but it’s been an exhilarating week and I need to tell someone. Also, Frank calls me buddy so I guess he’s the closest thing I have to a mate. We met when he joined our team. He’s hardly my intellectual equal, but he laughs a lot, which I like. If the conversation ever turns to books or reading he likes to feign constipation and quote Mario Puzo: “Who has time to read in this rat race?”

I shouldn’t say anything. It would be crazy to tell anybody. It could get to the wrong person and I would be locked up. I would lock me up. Besides, everyone knows it’s Jinx City if you reveal the premise of your novel before you’ve started it. Like roasting chickens before they hatch.

Frank is waiting. I can’t tell him.

Loose lips sink ships.

“It’s a long story,” I drawl.

“Is she your piece of action?”

“I’m working on it.” I picture a white canary being sent down the mineshaft.

“That’s funny.”

“Why?”

“Ah, nothing. I just thought she might have been gay or something.”

“Gay? Are you crazy?”

“I’d had a lot to drink by then, so don’t listen to me. They were probably kissing hello or something. Her and a brunette. I have an overactive imagination in that department, you know. Lesbians. What can I say? They’re hot.”

I love how Frank compartmentalises everything; his intra-psychic synapses must be so neat. Life is about sport (mostly English football), beer, birds (hot or not) and guns (in the biological sense as well as the ones with real bullets). Life is simple for Frank, which is probably why he smiles and nods a lot. The music is turned up and the hillbillies start to sokkie.

“The thing with Eve is complicated.”

“Dude, she’s a woman. Enough said.”

I’m feeling warm and fuzzy. I’m going to tell Frank.

“Look, Frank, usually I wouldn’t tell anyone, it’s considered bad luck, but I’m in the mood and I don’t see the harm in you knowing.”

Frank sits up.

“What is it?”

“I’m going to murder Eve.”

Frank looks like a puppy that has just been kicked. He looks around anxiously to see if anyone had heard me.

“Dude, are you fucking mental?” he whispers, “Are you fucking off your tree? What if someone hears you? You can’t talk like that, man, even if you’re kidding. It’s like joking that you’ve got a bomb on the plane. It’s just not cricket.”

“First, I’m going to sneak sedative into her tea. It does its thing quickly and then is broken down completely, not leaving a trace. This is to relax her, make her feel really good.”

Frank shields his eyes and looks away as if pretending not to be in this conversation at all.

“Then, while she’s in the bath with her eyes closed, I’m going to slide a porcelain knife into her heart. She won’t even feel it. I’ll watch her bleed out then clean her up. Carry her like a bride to her car, and drive her into the river. At first I thought fire but now I think the river is far more romantic.”

Frank now looks like someone who has just made it to the toilet in time. His features melt into a dumb smile. He bangs his forehead on the table.

“It’s for your book,” he says in wonder.

“Of course it’s for my book, Frank. Jesus. You thought I meant that I was actually going to murder someone? Eve? Fucking Christ! She’s one of my best friends.”

“Only for a second,” he laughs, his face still showing relief.

“What kind of idiot would sit and describe exactly how he was going to kill someone in a public place like this?”

His wiring may be a bit shorter than I originally guessed.

“I don’t know.” He laughs in a high pitch. He may be a little hysterical. “I was wondering.”

“Jesus.”

He gulps down a good portion of his draught.

“So you’ve finally cracked an idea. Congratulations. Let’s have one more beer to celebrate, I’m buying. You can tell me all the gory details.”

“You write. That’s the hard bit that nobody sees. You write on the good days and you write on the lousy days. Like a shark, you have to keep moving forward or you die.”

Ispend the next day creating a mind map of the murder. I have time sequences built around Eve’s routines, drawings of her house plan, inside and out, a key taped to the address. I have pictures of her, too. There is a map of the river. I include the pink pills in their packet in my collage; it adds another dimension, like one of her mixed media artworks. I wonder what she would think of it.

The murder weapon is a work of beauty, if I do say so myself. It was a gift from my mother a few years ago, which, I guess, has a peculiar kind of irony. The good thing about it is there will be no record of purchase and I have never seen anything like it in this country. It practically doesn’t exist. Gifts from mom are always a surprise on two fronts. Firstly, because she tends to forget birthdays and Christmas and just sends things on an ad hoc basis. Secondly, the things she sends are puzzling. When I turned thirteen I unwrapped a second-hand bicycle pump. It sounds interesting and eccentric but there was never so much as a note included to help me understand the obscure presents. So I’ve always felt like I just didn’t get them.

The knife is porcelain, Japanese, with an intricate carved handle. Sharper even than those they demonstrate on the shopping channel, where they inexplicably slice open tins and garden hoses. So sharp that I almost lost a finger trying to make gazpacho one day and thus relegated it to a drawer in the kitchen I hardly ever open.