John Harvey - Rough Treatment

Are we going to do this? Grice asked. Already the cold was seeping into the muscles across his back. January he hated with a vengeance.

Milder than usual days, Grabianski thought, you expected nights like this. A minute, he said, and started off towards the garage. For a big man, he moved with surprising lightness.

Through an estate agents wide-angle lens it would have been a mansion, but from there, where Grice was standing at the head of the pebbled drive, it was just another oversized house at the southern edge of the city.

Daylight would have made it easier to tell that the cream weather-proof paint had not been renewed this last or even the previous summer; the wood of the fake timbers was shedding its casing like a bad case of eczema. Miniature fir trees sat stunted in barrels at either side of the front door. Three steps up and ring the bell. Grice tried to remember the last time he had gained entrance to somebodys house by ringing the bell.

Well?

For reply, Grabianski shrugged, hands in pockets.

Meaning what? Grice said.

Back seat, the floor, its full of junk. Maybe they dont use it at all.

Junk?

Newspapers, magazines; tissue boxes and chocolate wrappers. Three pairs of high-heeled shoes.

What dyou expect? Its a womans car.

Because of the shoes?

The shoes, the size-look at it. Its a second car, a womans car. What man would drive a car like that?

They stood looking at the garage roof, half-lowered, the bonnet of the car sticking out from under the left-hand side.

I dont like it, Grice said.

The list of things you like, said Grabianski, you could write on a cigarette packet and still have room for the health warning.

I dont like the car being here.

I thought you wanted to get on with it.

One way or another I want to get out of this damned cold.

Then lets go. Grabianski took three or four steps towards the house.

The car Grice began.

What youre saying, the cars here, its a womans car, therefore the womans here. That what youre saying?

What if I am?

Grabianski shook his head: instead of wasting his time watching soap operas, Grice should get himself some education. An evening class in philosophy, logic. That might teach him.

In the dark? Grabianski asked.

Hm?

Shes in there in the dark?

Sleeping?

Its too early.

Maybe shes got a headache.

What are you all of a sudden, her doctor?

On the other side of the tall, trimmed hedges and back along the broad avenue there were lights showing; they couldnt stand there forever.

Grice shuffled his feet. You think we should do it? he said.

Yes, Grabianski answered. Were going to do it.

They began to walk along the lawn beside the drive, not trusting their feet to the pebbles. As they crossed the gates towards the rear, both men glanced up at the red, rectangular box of the burglar alarm high on the wall.

Maria Roy lay back far enough for her breasts to float amongst the scented foam which covered the surface of the water. In the pale light from the nearby night-light they were soft-hued, satin, the darker nipples hardening beneath her gaze. Harold, she thought. It didnt help. Softly, she rubbed the tip of her finger around the mazed areolas and smiled as she sensed her nipples tense again. What kind of a marriage was it if after eleven years the only place you had ever made love was in bed? And then, not often.

Never mind, she said to her breasts softly. Never mind, my sad little sacks, somebody loves you. Somewhere.

And easing herself into a sitting position she gave them a last, affectionate squeeze.

Never mine, my sad little sacks of woe.

Is that a light? Grabianski whispered.

Where?

There. See? Edge of the curtain.

The blind. Its a blind.

Is it a light?

Its nothing.

It could be a candle.

Grice looked at him. Maybe shes holding a seance. He eased the edge of plastic a millimeter to the left and the patio door breathed open.

Why else do you think Im calling you, Maria Roy said into the telephone, to tell you how much I love you?

Underneath the robe she was wearing she smelt lightly of talc. Givenchy Gentleman: talc perfum. Well, Harold had to be good for something, didnt he?

No, Harold, she said, interrupting him, Im intending to fly there. Under my robe, this very second, Im growing wings.

There was a half-full glass of wine on the circular table, next to the telephone, and she picked it up, two fingers and thumb. The wine was left over from last night, or was it the night before, and it had tasted sour to begin with.

Yes, of course Ive tried doing it manually, but it wont budge.

She turned her head and blew cigarette smoke towards the center of the room; the receiver away from her face, she could still hear his voice. On and on.

Harold

And on.

Harold

And on.

Harold, the machines are always breaking down. The time code is always disappearing. The sound is forever slipping out of synch. I dont know why they assign you the worst dubbing suite in the entire studios, but they do. All of the time. Yes. It could be that theyre trying to tell you something. Im trying to tell you something. Ive already taken a bath and when Ive finished my drink-no, it isnt, its only wine, and bad wine at that-when Ive finished Im going to get changed and then, since I cant get the car out of the garage and you wont drive out here and fetch me, Im going to have to call Jerry and Stella and ask them to make a detour and pick me up.

She let out some more smoke and sighed, loud enough to let him know that whatever arrangement they came to now she was agreeing to it under sufferance. She was in the habit of making it clear most transactions between them took place that way.

Yes, Harold, she said, I have heard of the word taxi. I also know the word goodbye.

She looked at the receiver back in its cradle and smiled that the connection could be so easily, so instantly, broken. She moved through to the kitchen with a slight swish of silk against her legs and threw the contents of the glass down the sink. She stubbed out her cigarette, set down one glass and took up another, walking it back to the living room. The trolley of bottles stood between the TV set and the shelves of video-cassettes and magazines and paperback books. She noticed that a couple of Harolds dog-eared scripts had found their way down from the room he was using as a study and made a mental note to tell him to take them back. She twisted the top from a bottle of J amp; B Rare and poured herself a generous amount. Despite the stupid garage, the stupid car, the call to Harold, she was still feeling good after the bath.

She tasted the scotch, more than a sip, thought to hell with Harold and when she turned and lowered the glass she could see the man in the doorway right over the rim.

Oh, Christ!

Her left hand went to her mouth and she bit deep into the skin at the base of her thumb, something she hadnt done since she was a child.

Strange things were happening to the walls of her stomach and the blood was racing to her head. She leaned back against the shelves, certain that she was going to faint.

The man was still in the same position, almost leaning against the jamb of the door but not quite. He was a big man, nothing short of six foot and stocky, wearing a dark blue suit with a double-breasted jacket that probably made him broader than he actually was. He didnt say anything, but continued to stare at her, something in his eyes that was, well, appreciative of what he was seeing.

Oh, Christ, Maria whispered. Oh, Christ.

I know what youre thinking.

When he did speak it made her jump, his voice so startling after that silence, his mans voice so different in that room. She looked back at him, not knowing-now that she wasnt going to faint-what it was that she should do, if she should do or say anything. And if she did, would it do any good?