Tim Winton - The Riders

Scully forced his hands into his pockets. The kettle began to boil and he felt the sinews locking up in his arms as he listened to her warming to it, sucking on her fag, getting into her stride.

‘You are a basher, aren’t you, Scully? Tell me about your face, your very sad eye. It makes me think of beasts, you know.’

He heard the toilet flush and thanked God Billie hadn’t heard all this. Christ, at least he’d spared her that.

‘This is just entertainment for you, isn’t it?’ he said, choking. ‘Like… that’s all it’s ever been. An amusement. The quaint girl from Australia, the one with the clear skin and sun-bleached clothes with all her dreams and optimism and the way she looked at you like you’re a queen or something. Your little salon with your wonderful accents and all that fucking confidence. You played with her. You took her under your wing for fun, to see what would happen.’

‘You were like a stone on ’er, Scully, an anchor on ’er neck, and now you blame me —’

‘I wouldn’t blame you for anything except not caring enough to tell her the truth. I heard you, Marianne. You beefed her up to her face, got her excited, told her she was a genius and laughed behind her back. She was just the other primitive. Only she didn’t see it. Not even afterwards. She was so keen, so impressed. You kicked the shit out of her and she thanked you for it.’

Marianne sighed. ‘Why did you come to Europe, Scully?’

‘For her,’ he said. ‘Both times.’

‘It’s very touching,’ she said doubtfully.

No, he thought, it’s fucking pitiful.

Both of them flinched when the phone rang. Marianne clutched the benchtop, nails shining, and let it ring until the answering machine kicked in. Scully knew the voice.

‘Why don’t you answer it?’ he murmured.

‘I have visitors,’ she hissed.

The message was breathy and urgent, the French way too fast for him.

Dominique. He reached for the phone but Marianne kicked the socket out of the wall.

‘She does not need to talk to you.’

Scully took a step back from her, his fists hanging off his arms. He saw a pulse in Marianne’s throat. Then Billie came in behind him. She pressed against him, held him round the waist and he felt the heat of her through his clothing, across the flush of his fury.

‘Marianne, I need a doctor. I’m here because Billie’s got a fever. Will you please, please give me a number. Someone who has English, someone close.’

For a while Marianne stood there, arms folded as though to keep herself together. Scully felt the lightheadedness of real hatred. He was almost disappointed when she reached over to the Rolodex and flicked through it with trembling hands.

‘I will call,’ she murmured. ‘It will be faster for you.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, unable to refrain.

‘YOU SAW THE PAPERWORK ON the dog?’

The doctor already had a syringe out. Billie lay on the table, face averted. Scully stood by her, his hand on the radiant nape of her neck.

‘Yes.’

‘You read Greek?’

‘I had a Greek reader with me.’

‘This is Flucloxacillin,’ said the doctor tapping the syringe, his silver specs glinting under the lights. His accent was American but his body language was European. He even pouted like a Frenchman. ‘This should get it, this and the course of tabs. When was her last tetanus shot?’

‘At five. I have the certificate.’

Billie inhaled sharply and squeezed his hand. Scully felt sweat settle in his hair.

‘There you go, Billie. Not so bad, huh? Here, Dad’ll help you with your jeans.’

Billie rolled carefully onto her back, blinking back tears.

‘She’s brave,’ said Scully, for her benefit.

‘You’re South African?’

‘No.’

Scully kissed her hand, let her lie there a moment while the doctor disposed of his tray.

‘Five days, you say.’

‘Yes. I had to use steri-strips.’

‘Well, you could have done worse, I guess. Lucky the big one’s above the hairline.’

‘Yes.’

‘Gimme your address again,’ he said, hovering at his desk.

Scully gave him the old St Paul address, suddenly suspicious.

‘You see out of that eye?’

‘Most of the time.’

‘How’d it happen?’

The doctor came back with some fresh dressings. Billie squirmed as he sponged away the clear seepage of her puckered wounds.

‘Industrial accident,’ said Scully. ‘On a boat.’

‘Uh-huh.’ The quack wasn’t buying it. ‘How do you make your living, Mr Scully?’

‘I’m a builder.’

‘You have a carte du sejour , then.’

Scully smiled. The doctor washed his hands and peeled off his specs, tilting his head gravely.

‘How about seeing me again tomorrow?’

‘Thought you’d be all booked up, Christmas Eve.’

‘No, tomorrow’s good.’

‘No problem,’ said Scully, helping Billie down from the table.

The doctor proffered the prescription. His smooth hands were neatly manicured. Scully took the papers, seeing it in the other man’s face. Tomorrow was something else altogether. He thinks you did it, Scully. The wounds, the grazed knees. He thinks you’re scum, that you’re not fit to be a father. And how wrong is he? Really, how wrong?

‘There’s a pharmacy on the corner. Then straight to bed for you, my girl. Plenty of fluids. Nurse will set your appointment.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Scully.

‘ Au revoir , Billie.’

‘Au revoir ,’ she whispered, leaning on Scully’s hip.

At the front desk, Scully presented his credit card and the starched Frenchwoman with the grey chignon made a call to verify its status. He hoisted Billie to his shoulder and stirred at the narrowing of the woman’s eyes. She put the phone down, opened a draw and took out a pair of scissors.

‘This card is cancelled “Mister Scully”.’

‘No, no, it’s valid till next November.’

She snipped it in two. The pieces clicked to the desk.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ He lurched against the desk, grabbing the two halves of his card.

‘Reported stolen,’ she said backing off with the scissors held before her.

‘It can’t be. Only I can do that. Shit a brick!’

‘Of course you have papers of identification?’

‘A passport, yes. Here, I have it…’

Scully had it almost into the woman’s hands before he saw the surge of satisfaction come to her features and he suddenly knew how irredeemably stupid he was. He reeled back, stumbling against a row of waiting patients and stiff-armed his way to the door.

• • •

AT THE END OF HIS triumphant day in Paris, Scully lit three deformed candles in the ashtray on the bedside table and watched his child shivering like a small dog under the blanket. Her hair was flat from the shower and her skin waxy in the yellow light. Her trunk was burning, but her hands and feet were cold, and all her nails blue. It terrified him, seeing her like this.

‘Christ, what’ve I done to you.’

She opened her eyes. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘And don’t say Christ.’

Steam hissed in the walls, burbled in the radiator. Billie closed her eyes again and went to sleep.

Scully ate some bread and cheese and opened a bottle of screwtop red that tasted like deckwash. A pile of crumpled francs and lire and drachmae lay on the eiderdown before him, enough to feed them in couscous joints and friteries for a couple of days. He had half a carnet of Metro tickets, an Irish cheque book and some dirty clothes. He stank of sweat and fear and frustration and his bad eye was wild in his head. Sooner or later the hotel would twig to his extinct credit card. He was buggered.