Dilemma. Jon Cleary
he was enjoying the relaxation, no matter how short it might be. The woman interested him: what had brought the pain and anger to her face? In profile they were less obvious; he shifted his chair so that she remained in profile to him. The more he looked at her, the more he became interested in her. There was a sensuality to her that he had missed at first: something in the line of her body, the way she moved when she raised her glass to her lips. But she paid him no attention and at last he decided it was time to go. He had at least another three-quarter of an hour’s drive to home.
He stood up, went across and paid the barmaid. ‘Thanks. I’m refreshed.’
‘Half your luck. I’m done in. I’m not as young as I used to be. But don’t tell anyone.’ She gave him the smile. He liked her friendliness, but wondered why she played the part she had created for herself. When she got home, did she take off the front and throw it aside like a dirty brassiere?
‘I never tell on a lady,’ he said, smiled at her and left.
Out in the car park he was about to get into the Magna when he saw the woman moving unsteadily towards a grey Volvo. He paused, watching her. She stopped by the car, opened her handbag, took out her keys and dropped them. He heard her swear, then she leaned on the side of the car and slowly slid down, her free hand groping for the keys on the ground. He shut the door of the Magna and moved across to her.
‘Can I help?’
She looked up at him. ‘I’ve dropped my keys.’ She stood up, slowly, still leaning on the car. They were close and he could smell the liquor on her breath. ‘I think the night air’s got to me.’
He found the keys, but didn’t hand them to her. ‘Do you live far from here?’
She waved vaguely. ‘About five minutes. I dunno – I’m not much good at distances. I’m not much good at closeness, either.’ She giggled.
‘I think I’d better drive you home. Or get you a cab.’
‘No cab. You go back in there, ring for cab and someone’s gunna ask you if it’s for me again. No thanks.’ She was still leaning against her car, but with her back to it now. She looked carefully at him, as if making a decision on him; then she nodded back at the club. ‘I saw you looking at me in there. Why?’
‘I often look at attractive women.’
If she had giggled he would have walked away. But she just nodded, as if she knew that was the most natural thing in the world for men to do. He wondered how much experience of men she had had, but guessed she would be able to handle them.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Fred.’
‘Fred what?’
‘Just Fred. What’s yours?’
‘Norma. Just Norma.’ Then she straightened up, stepped away from the car. ‘Drive me home, Fred.’
She gave him directions and it was indeed only five minutes’ drive. She said nothing during the five minutes, just sat side on looking at him. He could smell her perfume; and something else? Did desire have a perfume? When he slowed, looking for her street, she spoke at last. ‘The next street on the right. They all look alike around here. It’s the egali – something or other look.’
‘Egalitarian.’
‘That’s it. One of my clients said it – she’s a teacher, a real bolshie. I’m a hairdresser. What do you do, Fred?’
He could see something was building here. He would go along with it, she attracted him, but he was still cautious. If this was going to be a one-night stand, that was all it was going to be. ‘I’m an adviser.’
‘I could do with some advice.’ She continued to look at him, then she smiled to herself, shrugged and said, ‘How are you gunna get back to your own car?’
‘I’ll walk.’
‘It’s a long walk. You want me to ring for a cab?’ She opened the car door, got out. ‘Come in.’
He was not a floater, someone who picked up women like fish; he had always been steady, almost careful in his courting. This, though, wasn’t courting; nothing in this, if anything happened, would remain in the memory of either of them as anything of consequence. He was not inexperienced in women; he recognized he was being invited inside for more than a phone call for a cab. He got out of the car, already big in his trousers, and followed her in through the front gate and up the narrow path.
‘Don’t step on the garden. It used to be my husband’s pride and joy. It’s gone to pot now.’
He paused in his step. ‘Where is he?’
She stopped and looked back at him. ‘Don’t worry. He’s looking after someone else’s garden somewhere. We’re finished,’ she said, fumbling with the front door key. He wasn’t sure whether there was pain or anger in her voice, as there had been in her face at the club. ‘Finished. Bugger!’
She had dropped her keys again. He found them, put a key in the door and opened it. They were close together; he could smell the perfume and the heat of her. But he was not going to kiss her on the doorstep. ‘After you, Norma.’
He followed her into the house, closed the door behind him. She turned back, gave him the direct look again. ‘Do you wanna call a cab?’
‘Not yet.’
She came into his arms as easily as if they were old lovers. There was no frantic tearing at each other; she led him towards the main bedroom, again as if they were old lovers. Only when they were undressing, on opposite sides of the bed, did she notice his claw.
‘Is that your loving hand?’
She said it with a smile and he wasn’t offended; but all at once he was embarrassed by it. As he had been with other women. ‘No.’
‘How’d it happen?’
But he just shook his head, fell on the bed and pulled her down on him. Later, he would not remember the next half-hour. Drunkenness seemed to overtake her: the drunkenness of sex, the delayed effect of the drinks she had had at the club: he would never know. She tore at him as if she hated him; but wouldn’t let go. At last he struggled free, fell back from her.
She grabbed at him again. ‘Yes!’
‘No – I can’t—’
‘What’s the matter? Your dick crippled like your hand?’
That shocked him, he hadn’t expected that sort of cruelty; he was equally shocked when he hit her. Anger is the most primitive emotion, the least civilized attribute of man. It comes from the oldest and deepest part of the brain, is always there; the last emotion left in a paralysed brain is anger. Later, he would remember that psychiatrists had put that opinion in court.
She rose up in the bed, hit him in the face with her fist; the fist turned into a claw, tore at him. He put up his left hand, tried to push her chin up and away. The hand slipped to her throat as she clawed at him again. She was babbling incoherently; she hit him in the eye and he swore with pain. Then his grip tightened on her throat.
He was shocked when she fell on him, pushing his left arm back into him. His fist opened and he slid his hand away from her throat. He pushed her off him, slipped to one side and lifted himself to look at her.
Then tentatively, like a lover’s hand, he put his left hand on her throat again. There was no pulse.
4
Ron Glaze couldn’t take no for an answer: it was the salesman in him.
After he had left the club he had gone to McDonald’s and stuffed himself with two Big Macs; unhappiness made him hungry. You’ll never grow up, his mother had told him; but hadn’t spoiled him by turning him into a mummy’s boy. When McDonald’s told him they wanted to close down for the night he had gone out and sat on a bench in the mall. People passed him,