1971 - Want to Stay Alive (23 page)

He sat still, feeling the throbbing pain in his arm, the gun resting on his knee. He knew as he sat there, that this was the end of his life. He knew he was beyond help and beyond redemption.

The tenth stair from the top of the staircase was rotten. Poke had come up the stairs two at the time, missing the tenth stair. Manee knew about the stair and always stepped over it, but Lepski trod on it. The stair gave under his weight with a splintering crash. He had his hand on the bannister rail and by clutching onto the rail he just managed to prevent his foot getting trapped. Cursing softly, he jerked his foot free, then knowing he had given himself away by the noise, he raced up the remaining stairs to find himself on a bare landing with an open door on his right. He waved Shields back and flattened himself against the wall, gun in hand.

Sunlight coming through the window of the room with the open door made an oblong patch of light on the dusty floor.

Shields came up the stairs and crouched on the third stair from the top, his gun covering Lepski.

When the stair broke, the noise made Poke stiffen. His eyes darted towards the landing beyond the open door. He lifted his gun.

Manee saw the hopeless despair on his face and she drew away from him.

With his left hand, Poke took the money he had stolen from Ocida from inside his shirt and dropped it on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking at the girl. “I am very sick. There is something wrong with my head.” He pointed to the money. “This now belongs to you.”

He hesitated, then went on, “I killed your grandfather. It is his money. I took it. It belongs to you.”

Creeping along the wall, Lepski paused to listen.

Manee looked at the pile of money lying on the dirty white quilt. She had never seen so much money. Her eyes opened wide.

“This is mine?”

Thoughts flashed through her mind. If this money was really for her a door would open into a new life. This room, the smell and the noise of the waterfront, the groping fingers moving up her skirt when she worked in the restaurant, the white sailors she had to bring back here when she wanted new clothes . . . all this and more would be wiped away with this money.

“Take it,” Poke said, watching her.

“You really mean it’s for me?”

She couldn’t believe it as she stared at the money.

“I killed your grandfather,” Poke said and realised she wasn’t listening. All she was thinking about was the money. He felt a surge of hatred run through him. “Take it and get out! “

She snatched up the money and ran out onto the landing.

Lepski caught hold of her wrist and swung her into Shields’ arms. Shields clapped his hand over her mouth.

Sitting on the bed, Poke stared through the open doorway. His mind came alive with pictures of past hatreds: the Club, his father’s servility, the rich, the arrogant, the unkind and the patronising.

He had often thought of death. The kindest way to die, he had thought, would be to be like a lamp when the wick is turned down. Slowly the light would diminish and finally go out. But now he knew there would be no slow turning down of the wick. As he saw Lepski’s shadow come into the oblong of sunlight, he looked at the crucifix on the wall. Staring at the crucifix, suddenly hopeful, he put the gun barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

***

“Are you looking for company?”

Meg stiffened and looked up.

For the past two hours she had been sitting on a stone bench at the far end of the harbour, alone, except for a fish hawk that circled above her.

By now she had absorbed the shock of the crash. Now, she was beginning to wonder what to do. She had no money. Her clothes were at the rooming house and she was sure if she went to collect them, the fat Indian would demand payment for the rent of the room. Besides, Poke might be waiting there. She couldn’t go back, so she had nothing but what she had on.

She had lost her gold-plated meal ticket, she thought bitterly. Some meal ticket! She lifted her long hair off her shoulders in a helpless gesture. Well, she thought, she would have to find some other man who would buy her the few things she needed. There was always some man around who would help her so long as she was willing to lay on her back.

“Are you looking for company?”

The very words Chuck had used when he had picked her up and then this awful mess had started.

She looked at the young man, standing by her side.

What a freak! she thought.

He was tall and painfully thin with a chin beard and he wore glasses. The lenses were so thick they made his eyes look like brown gooseberries. He wore a grey open neck shirt, tucked into black pants and a broad leather belt with a tarnished brass buckle around his tiny waist.

At least, Meg thought, he was clean so he could have some money. It was when they were dirty, as she was, there was no money.

Her mouth moved into a forced smile.

“Hello,” she said. “Where did you spring from?”

“I saw you. You looked lonely.” He pulled at his beard as if hoping she would notice it, “Are you lonely?”

His voice was soft and without character. As she studied him, she felt a pang of disappointment. Her hope of ‘here is someone’ wasn’t going to be fulfilled by this freak.

Still, in her present position, she couldn’t afford to be selective so she said, “I guess I am.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“I don’t mind.”

He came around the stone bench and sat by her side.

“I’m Mark Lees. What’s your name?”

“Meg.”

“Just . . . Meg?”

She nodded.

There was a long pause. She looked up and watched the circling fish hawk.

If only she could wave a magic wand and be up there with him. He would be someone. She was sure of that. How marvellous to be able to circle the sea, to dive on a fish, to be utterly free!

“Are you on vacation?”

She frowned, then came back to earth.

“What?”

“Are you on vacation?”

“Are you?”

“No. I lost my job yesterday. I’m trying to make up my mind what to do and where to go.”

She felt a tiny wave of sympathy for him.

“Like me: I’m trying to make up my mind what to do too.”

He looked at her, then away. A swift, shifty look, but she knew it had taken in her full breasts and her long legs. It was so easy, she thought. Men are such stupid animals.

“I’m sick of this City. It’s too expensive. It’s only for the rich. I have a car.” He again looked at her. “I thought I’d go to Jacksonville. I’ve a friend there. He could get me a job.” Again the shifty look at her breasts. “Do you want to come along with me for the ride?”

She didn’t hesitate.

“I don’t mind.”

He seemed to relax a little and again he fingered his heard. “That’s fine. Where are your things? I’ll get the car and pick you up.”

It was her turn now to study him. His thin face showed no animation. He was staring down at his thin, bony hands, resting on his knees. She felt a moment of hesitation. Maybe he was a sex maniac. She pondered for a few seconds, then she mentally shrugged. It was only if you resisted a sex maniac that he became dangerous. She had to leave Paradise City.

Jacksonville was as good as anywhere to go to.

“I haven’t anything,” she said. “No money . . . no clothes . . . no nothing.”

“You have something . . . all girls have.” He got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

They walked together in silence along the harbour wall and to the car park. He led her to a beaten up T.R.4.

As they got into the car, he said without looking at her, “I want to make sex with you . . . you will, won’t you?”

She knew this was coming and she thought of the moment when this dreary freak would take her and her body cringed. “Have you any money?” she asked.

He looked swiftly at her, then away.

“What’s that to do with it?” he asked blankly.

“You’ll find out.”

Then she saw her reflection in the windshield and she grimaced.

God! What a mess she looked . . . her hair!

She opened her bag for her comb and she stiffened, her heart skipping a beat. Inside the bag was a brown manilla envelope . . . the envelope she had collected from the airport. The crash had happened so quickly she hadn’t had time to put it with the other envelopes in the glove compartment and she had completely forgotten it.

Quickly, she closed the bag.

Five hundred dollars!

The freak at her side was trying to start the car, pressing the starter button and muttering to himself.

She was free! Like the fish hawk! She wouldn’t have to have this freak moaning and groaning on top of her!

Five hundred dollars!

She opened the car door and got out.

“Hey!” He stared up at her as she slammed the car door. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but with you,” she said and walked away.

Later, again sitting on the stone bench at the end of the harbour with the fish hawk circling above her, she opened the envelope with trembling, expectant fingers.

The envelope contained no money.

At least one member of the Fifty Club had courage.

Written on the expensive, embossed notepaper of the Club in firm, flowing handwriting was the message: Go to hell!

The End