Faceless, page 11
Bradley
He walked into the supermarket with a spring in his step that had been a long time absent. The corners of his mouth curled up in a smile at the thought. How did the saying go? – What a difference a day makes. Sure, there was what felt like a permanent stream of underlying panic flowing through him; but somehow, this morning he felt stronger, self-assured. It had been a good night, a bloody good night. There had been no problem rising to the occasion this time. He had forgotten just how incredible Ange could be, so responsive and adventurous – her body wouldn’t have been out of place strutting it on a lingerie catwalk. Motherhood had been kind to her, and she worked hard at it, he knew; but how could he have gotten himself into such a funk that he’d forgotten she was hot? And she was all his. After last night’s efforts, he was sure the feeling was mutual. He paused in front of the fruit stands. What did you feed someone who had been fasting a few days? There were muesli bars in the bags he’d dropped in the room, but that wouldn’t be the right thing to get the girl starting to eat again, they’d be okay later … And he’d need to get more water, too. His mind drifted back to the shock and the intense guilty pleasure he’d felt when he’d struck her, and his initial feelings of remorse. Then he thought of Ange, and last night, and how he had taken the lead and rocked her world. Bananas would be good … perhaps something hot? Soup? She’d be chilled after another night. He’d get her cleaned up, warm, fed. He needed her now. He needed her alive. He had plans.
Max
Max felt the heads turn as he shuffled through the doorway, felt the eyes follow him as he walked deeper into the crammed and dim interior of the K Road Red Cross shop. He looked down at the floor and walked hurriedly through the rows of racks until he found the men’s trouser section. The shop carried that unavoidable musty fug of secondhand clothes, although the staff tried their best to disguise it with some pine-like scent – and he was also acutely aware he wasn’t adding anything good to the already thick aroma. The array of colours and sizes of trousers on the rack overwhelmed him. What the hell size was he now? Once upon a lifetime ago, he’d been a fit-and-healthy size large. Now he was an unhealthy-and-emaciated size skeletal. The trousers he wore only defied gravity because of the length of twine pulled tight through the belt loops. He ran his fingers over the fabric of a grey pair of work pants; they slid over the shiny surface and he shivered at the alien sensation. He danced his fingers along the coathangers on the top of the rack until he came to some jeans. Somehow the coarse denim felt more solid, more real.
He looked around the shop and noticed the other three customers had gone, and the two staff were gathered over at the counter in conversation, glancing towards him then quickly away. He knew that look, and he knew what would soon be coming. Which one of them would draw the short straw? Which one would get to deal with the bum? He had his answer a few moments later when the young brunette woman approached him. She had that modern hippy look about her, with a long, patterned skirt over trousers with Doc Martens boots poking out the bottom, a long cardigan and what looked like a crocheted tea cosy on her head. He wasn’t surprised to see the nose stud as she got closer. She looked about eighteen. God, why did they all have to look that age? A lump formed in his throat.
‘Can I help you with something?’ she asked. He could detect the apprehension in her voice, although she was trying to hide it. He looked at the rack of trousers, and then back to her, but couldn’t find any words.
‘You know, unless you are buying something, you can’t stay here, and I’ll have to ask you to leave.’ Her voice held a hint of steel, but he could sense softness behind it.
‘I need to start over,’ he heard himself say. He saw her frown, and again felt that hint of compassion. The words didn’t seem his own, but they stumbled out, regardless. ‘I have to clean up, I need,’ he paused, eyes roving the store, trying to find the right word to express his situation, ‘everything.’
She looked him in the eye, her nose twitching like a rabbit’s, struggling with the smell. He could see her weighing him up: crackpot or genuine?
‘Can you help me?’ he said in almost a whisper.
‘Do you have any money?’ she asked.
He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and felt around for the precious note and showed it to her. ‘This is all I have.’
‘And you need everything?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded to herself and looked around the shop, then looked him up and down. In recent times that kind of appraisal always came with harsh judgement and condemnation, but this was different, she was different; he could see the sincerity in her eyes.
‘You go and wait outside, not right out front though, around the corner a bit. I’ll call you when we’re ready.’
He nodded, ‘Thank you,’ and left.
Ten minutes later the young woman came and found him where he was crouched down, leaning against a wall watching the ebb and flow of traffic stopping for people traversing the rainbow crossing. She carried two grocery bags full of clothes, and he could even make out the shape of a pair of shoes in the bottom of one of them. He got to his feet, his body reminding him of how it had been mistreated over the last few days. He calculated how much that lot would be worth, even at op-shop prices. Please let there be some change left over. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the precious twenty-dollar note and held it out to her. She shook her head and waved it away.
‘We don’t need that, you keep it,’ she said, and he felt the sudden prickle of tears in his eyes. ‘Look, you don’t smell very good, you need a shower if you’re going to clean up. My boyfriend has a boxing gym – it’s two blocks down and then take the street on the left. They’ve got showers, and there will hardly be anyone there at this time of day. His name’s Matt. Tell him Jess sent you, okay, he’ll help you out.’
A bolt of lightning shot down his spine. ‘Jess, your name is Jess?’ he gasped.
‘Yes,’ she smiled and placed the bags down by his feet. ‘You take care, okay.’ With that she turned and walked back towards the store.
He stood there dumbstruck, the name Jess echoing in his head, before a torrent of memories and emotion overwhelmed him, as if a floodgate had been released and a technicolour deluge of images had washed over him. He collapsed back against the wall, his legs no longer able to support his weight, and he slid down its rough surface. ‘Jess,’ he whispered, ‘Jess.’
Bradley
There was no hesitation this time as he reached for the handle – he welcomed its smooth, cold solidity. He swung open the door with a sense of drama and walked into the room, holding the lantern above his head. The stench was stronger than before and almost drove him back, but no worry, that would be dealt with soon enough.
The girl was huddled against the wall: the sight of her ground him to a halt and made him gasp. She was semi-naked – there was nothing on her bottom half – and he caught her trying to shift position to a kneel, pulling her sweatshirt down at the front to maintain her modesty. His eyes flicked to the jeans hanging from a hook on the wall, and a few moments later they found the underwear thrown into the far corner. His heart started to pound in his chest. He had expected a quaking, terrified figure, not this. It shocked him that she had taken matters into her own hands rather than being the timorous captive he had left behind. His eyes glanced to her wrist and he relaxed when he saw that the plastic tie still held her firmly to the pipe. There weren’t going to be any more surprises.
Mind you, the figure hunched into itself on the floor didn’t exude confidence of any kind; if anything she looked resigned. His pulse started to return to normal: she hadn’t transformed into some kind of cornered cat woman, ready to take him on; and even if she did, surely she’d be pretty weak by now. No, all was well, he could carry on with his plan.
He placed the lantern on the table, and then went back out to bring in the other bags. All the while he felt the large, dark eyes on him. In a weird kind of a way he liked that, too.
‘Here’s the deal,’ he said as he started to pull items out of the bag. ‘It’s obvious I can’t let you go anywhere now, but I’m not a complete arsehole, so I’m going to give you the chance to clean yourself up a bit.’ He paused then, and looked at her. ‘I see you’ve kind of started to do that already.’ She did not look at him; instead she looked straight ahead, at the door. He went over and shut it, then locked it with the key. The click of the lock gave a most satisfying sound.
‘I’ve got clean clothes for you, and some wet wipes so you can give yourself a wash. If you behave yourself, then this won’t be too bad, you understand. I’m going to have to trust you and untie that hand so you can change. But just so you know what will happen if you try anything…’ He reached over to the table and picked up the short leather whip he had laid there. It had been something his mates had given him as a bloke-joke present on his stag night, but it had seen some delicious active service in the early days of his marriage. That had changed when the girls were born, and it had sat at the back of the shelf in his wardrobe ever since. He felt the firm coolness of the leather grip in his hand, shook it a little to feel the flex, then, before he could change his mind, walked the few steps over to her and lashed it, hard, down against her bare legs. Her scream split the room and reverberated like a gunshot in the small space. The sound at once froze and bolstered his heart. He was sure the lesson had been learned. The girl was whimpering now, rubbing her leg with her free hand. Even in the low light he could see the streak of red across her dark skin, and he felt bad for it, but he had to make sure she played the game.
‘That won’t happen again if you cooperate. It’s up to you.’
He placed the bags of clothes on the ground in front of her, then the wet wipes and a bin liner. ‘I’m going to cut you loose now. You’ve got ten minutes to get yourself cleaned up, and stick all your dirty clothes in the bag. If you do it in time, I’ve got a reward. He held up the takeaway hot chocolate he’d bought on the way over. ‘Right, let’s get to it.’ Holding the whip in his left hand, with his right he picked up the scissors. He felt her flinch as he slid the icy metal between her skin and the plastic. The tink of the plastic giving way was replaced by the sound of his own footsteps quickly stepping back as he swapped the whip into his right hand in case she rounded on him. By way of disincentive he cracked the whip against the tabletop. The sound made her jump and she reached out to grab at the clothes.
The anticipated resistance never came: for once, someone was doing exactly what he asked of them. How long since that had happened? Certainly not with the girls – they knew exactly how to work around him in their charming and playful way, smiling with mischief as they said no to his requests. It may have been cute, but it was still disobedience. And Ange didn’t help the situation: she never backed up his authority, giving a united front; if he was honest it sometimes felt like she actively undermined it. Ange preferred to give orders rather than take them. Then there was work, where nobody appeared to respect him, let alone listen to his opinion. His so-called autonomy was frequently overridden by the boss. To see the girl scrambling to fulfil his demands was liberating; and her unquestioning compliance threw some ideas into his head that he knew he shouldn’t contemplate, but that held an illicit fascination. He watched the girl as she tried to clean herself up, back turned to him for privacy. Bradley finally allowed himself the satisfaction of a smile. It could all work out, after all.
Billy
He is gone. She sits there in the dark and chides herself for not trying to escape, for not at least having a go. What is wrong with her? She thought she was tough, had fight, but she did nothing. Nothing. Why? She sits there, feeling warm for the first time in days, feeling the soft caress of dry clothes on dry skin, the weight of the blanket around her shoulders, the sugary sickliness of the hot chocolate on her lips, the warm weight of the cup in her left hand, the uncertain sensation of how what she has drunk sits in her belly. Her right hand is bound once more, but this time it isn’t flush up against the pipe; he’s given her length, a chain, long enough so she can reach the lidded bucket he’s put in the corner, so she can reach the water and food he’s left beside her, reach the lantern and spare batteries. But she sits in the dark and berates herself.
Max
The boxing gym was right where the young woman described it. It was a nondescript affair with only a small sign to indicate its purpose. He’d walked right past it the first time, even though he was looking for it. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed it before on his wanderings, as he had thought he knew all of inner-city Auckland and he’d been down this street many times before. The door swung open easily with his push and he walked into a small entranceway that led into a vast open space. He imagined it must have been an old workshop or warehouse building originally, the way the high ceiling was pitched and the windows were arranged, angled so they took full advantage of the light. The centre of the room was dominated by a boxing ring, and in many ways it looked like something straight from a movie set: spot lighting was suspended above the raised ring; three rows of rope pulled taut between padded corner posts. To the left was a large weights area, where two well-built guys were working out. Further down the wall were boxing bags and balls suspended from a lowered ceiling, exercycles and treadmills. It may have looked industrial and slightly grimy, but it was certainly well equipped, and the atmosphere was perfect. He felt himself relax, even though he still had a hard ask ahead.
To his right were some offices, a wall of lockers and the entrance to what he guessed were the changing rooms and showers. It was from one of these offices that a young man emerged: Matt, he guessed. He had the build of a heavyweight, more of the David Tua mould than the Holyfield. He could sense the man’s wariness as he approached.
‘Can I help you with something, mate?’
‘Are you Matt?’
‘Yeah?’ There was a definite wariness to his voice now. ‘Why?’
Max looked over his head at the clock. Just about eleven, Jesus, had he wasted that much time already. For Billy’s sake he had to get a grip and get to business.
‘Jess sent me.’ Saying her name had a profound effect on them both: the tears welled up again in Max’s eyes, and Matt rolled his. Max wondered how many basket cases she sent his way. He held up the bags of clothes. ‘I have to get myself cleaned up. I’ve got the clothes, but I need a place to shower.’ He thought some extra ammunition might help his cause. ‘I’ve got to clean myself up so I can help a friend.’
Matt looked him up and down.
‘I can pay, I’ve got some money.’
‘And Jess sent you, from the shop?’ Again the name, again the stab.
‘Yes, from the Red Cross. She’s a nice girl.’
‘Jesus, she’s a bleeding heart.’ Matt ran his fingers through his hair and looked over at the two men, busy pumping iron. ‘Come on, then. She might look like a pushover, but you don’t want to get on the wrong side of her. She’d never let me forget it if I didn’t help you.’ He walked off and Max followed him to the door he’d correctly guessed was the changing rooms. ‘Have you got a towel?’ Max shook his head. ‘Soap?’ He asked it like the rhetorical question it was. ‘Hang on then, I’ll get you some,’ and he walked off, resigned. For the first time in many years Max put up a prayer of thanks to God for angels.
He was bending over, tying up his shoelace when Matt came back in. The girl had made a good guess on the size of the clothes. He’d had to hitch the trousers in tight with the belt, and everything hung off him to an extent, but that was okay. He’d forgotten how truly exquisite it felt to be freshly scrubbed and clean.
Matt stood there looking at him, and he felt uncomfortable under the gaze. ‘Better,’ Matt said, ‘but you still look like a bum. You just look like a clean bum.’
‘Thanks.’ Max was surprised at the note of sarcasm in his voice. He must have been feeling better. Matt’s face broke into a smile.
‘You got to help someone out, you said?’
He didn’t even know where to start explaining on that front, so he kept it simple. ‘Yes. And it’s pretty serious.’
‘You’re going to need to shave then. And trim your hair. No one’s going to take you seriously, looking like that.’
He didn’t need telling. ‘Do you know anywhere close that will do it cheap? I’ve only got twenty bucks.’
Matt shook his head. ‘Tell you what. I’ve got spare shaving gear you can use in my bag. And we’ve got hair clippers in the office. I’ll get them – but first you’ve got to put all your old stuff in the rubbish, it stinks. Pack it up in those bags, there’s a dumpster out the back door. Get rid of it, then you can finish tidying yourself up.’
Now he was clean, Max appreciated with disgust and horror how low he’d let himself get. The only thing he kept from his old gear was the twenty-dollar note, the precious picture of Billy from the pimp, and the toothbrush and paste. It had been a relief to hurl the reeking, filthy mass into the bin. And now he stood at the sink, staring at the hollow reflection in the mirrors. He took in the wet, lank hair hanging down past his shoulders; the scraggly, unkempt beard; and suddenly he didn’t want it, he didn’t want any of it any more, he hated it, it made his skin crawl. He wanted it off, now – and he was tempted to tear it out. Instead, he took the clippers in his hand, flicked the switch and felt the powerful vibration thrum through his fingers and up his arm. He grabbed a fistful of hair, and then he reached up with the shears and set to work.
