Pilgrimage (25 page)

“Is this your place?” Roland spun the glass around in front of him.

“I wish. A friend of mine owns it. He lets me use it when I'm passing through the area for work.”

“Do you come through often?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you do?”

“Whatever needs doing. I guess you could say I'm a specialist.”

“In what?”

“Let's call it education.” Malcolm put the sausages on the bench and returned to the bar.

“What about you?”

“Unemployed. Six months and going strong.”

“I guess it's a good gig if you can get it. What do you do for fun?”

Roland's first thought was drinking. He didn't answer.

“Understood. You like to keep private. Mind if I ask why?” Malcolm crossed the kitchen again and put the frozen sausages in the microwave. The microwave clock flashed 00:00 before Malcolm started the timer. Roland tried but couldn't remember what the clock in the car had said.

“Yes.”

“There must be something you do.” Malcolm returned to the counter to continue the conversation.

“Watch TV, I guess.”

“What do you watch?”

“The news, mostly.” Roland tried to think of something specific but the truth was he hadn't turned a TV on in months.

“That's good. It's important to keep up to date on what's going on. Did you see that news story last night about the earth quake?”

“No. I've been on the road and haven't had a chance to catch up.”

“Somewhere in South America – I forget where. It wasn't too bad, but some Australian tourists are there and nobody has heard from them.”

Roland grunted. He sipped at the water. It was ice-cold straight from the tap.

“So what else do you do for fun?” Mal asked.

“Fight. I like to get into fights.” Roland didn't like the questions. Nobody was this interested in other people and this helpful unless they wanted something. Malcolm obviously wanted something. Why?

“Are you a boxer?”

“Back in university I was. These days I just like to get into fights.” Roland hoped Malcolm would stop asking questions after that. Hit them with something shocking and they'll back off. That was the idea, anyway.

“Are you any good?” Malcolm didn't seem concerned.

“I've beaten up some big guys.” He was disappointed he couldn't tell him just how big they were. He never could. Who would believe he'd taken a rhino-man head on and won?

“Bigger than me?” An odd question. Malcolm wasn't any bigger than average. If anything, he was on the short side.

“Much.”

“Bigger than you?”

“Yep.” Roland suddenly realised he was smiling. He put the glass to his mouth and drank deep. It was refreshing. He could already feel his headache subsiding.

“I'm impressed.” The microwave beeped. Malcolm took the sausages out and started frying them on the stove. “If you're that good and you like it, maybe you should go back to boxing. Professionally, I mean.”

“They wouldn't take me. I don't think I could play by the rules.”

“Oh well.” Malcolm shrugged. He stirred the sausages around in the pan and didn't look back to Roland while he spoke. “It's good to enjoy what you do, even if you don't make it your job.”

“Sure,” Roland agreed, mostly because he had nothing else to say. He'd never thought about fighting being a job or even why he did it. That and drinking were just what he did. He'd always done them – or at least it felt like he'd always done them. He'd been doing them long enough.

“Is that why you were on the road? Fighting, I mean.”

“No, that was...” He had been enjoying not thinking about it. Malcolm ruined that. “Yeah. It was fighting.”

“I guess that one was a loss, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Were they bigger or smaller?”

“Smaller. Much smaller but I guess size isn't everything.”

“I guess not. Still, no shame in losing.”

“So you say.”

“Trust me, I know a thing or two about failure.” Mal looked over his shoulder at Roland, still smiling. Roland turned his head down.

“You wear suits, you drive a nice car, you have rich friends with holiday houses and a mysterious job that takes you across the country. Just what do you know about failure?”

“Well, for starters...” Malcolm left the stove cooking and started opening cupboards in search of something. “I know failure is more a frame of mind than an actual thing.”

Roland rolled his eyes. He braced himself for the feel-good, self-help bullshit.

“I know that even when you think you fail, there's usually another opportunity to try again. I know that as long as you're trying, you haven't failed; it's just a work in progress. It's all about perspective. I won't go into details because it's not important – but I
have
failed. I've failed and people have died because of my failure. Sometimes that's the world I live in. It hurts; sometimes it hurts worse than anything. What keeps me going in the face of that is the knowledge that, if I just gave up and walked away from the world, all my failures and the deaths I caused would have been for nothing. My self-pity would be an insult to them.”

Mal found a bottle of tomato sauce and sat it down on the counter top. A burning smell started to permeate the kitchen and Mal rushed back to the stove. Cursing under his breath, he started turning the sausages. When he had everything under control again, he went on:

“I don't know anything about you or why you fight, Roland. But I've seen my share of fights, and people always fight best when they have something to fight for. Maybe that's why you lost the last one. Maybe the little guy had more to fight for.”

“He was an idiot who wouldn't back down.” Roland said through a sip of water.

“But he won, didn't he?”

“Yeah, he won. Sometimes you lose fights. I don't know why you're making this into such a big deal.”

“I'm just trying to figure you out. It's not every day you find a top class fighter lying hung over and beaten by the side of the road.”

Roland couldn't argue with that.

“Feeling any better?”

“I've still got a headache and your questions aren't helping.” That would make him feel bad. A good start. He'd had enough of Malcolm's crap and the only way to stop it was to put Malcolm on the defensive.

“Remember where your home is, yet?” Malcolm turned off the stove and piled the sausages on a plate. He picked up the sauce, retrieved some cutlery from a drawer and brought it all over to Roland.

Roland skewered a sausage with his fork and bit into it. There were no good answers to that question. Malcolm was winning the conversation.

“Let me refill your glass.” Malcolm took hold of the half-empty glass of water. Roland put his hand on top of it and swallowed, clearing his throat to talk.

“Let me ask you something,” he said, staring Malcolm down. The edges of Malcolm's mouth turned up into a subtle, almost invisible smile.

“Sure.”

“Who picks up a stranger by the side of the road, takes him to their friend's house to feed them, learns that they get their kicks beating people up and still tries to pry into their life?”

“I guess, I do.”

“Why?”

“Helping people is what I do.”

“Why?”

“Because it's the right thing to do.”

“You're an idiot – and you're the second idiot I've met recently who thought they could save the world.” Roland let go of the glass.

Malcolm took it to the sink. “We should all be so lucky to know that many idiots.”

“I just insulted you. I called you an idiot. Doesn't that bother you?”

“No.”

“Well, why the fuck not? What does it take to make it clear that I don't need your help?”

“Need or want?”

“Both.”

“All right.” Malcolm brought the glass back and set it in front of Roland. “Tell me you're okay. Tell me you're fine with your life and then tell me where I can take you, and that will be the end of it.”

Roland stared at his plate of sausages. They were crispy and oily and everything he needed for his hangover. But he couldn't enjoy them or the relief they provided. He took another bite so he wouldn't have to talk.

“That's a nice ring you're wearing,” Malcolm said.

“You actually like it?” Roland looked down at the stolen jewelled ring. His right hand was bare. That ring was still in his pocket.

“Yeah. It's simple but gold suits you.”

Roland followed Mal's gaze to his left hand and the gold band on his finger. He clenched that hand into a fist and glared up at Mal.

“Is there another one that matches it on somebody else's finger?”

“You want to know if there's a Mrs. Roland somewhere that you can take me to?” Roland forced another chunk of sausage into his mouth.

Malcolm shrugged. “Is there?”

Roland swallowed. The chunks of meat burned his throat on the way down. He kept staring Malcolm dead in the eyes.

“Can't remember that, either?”

Roland didn't answer.

He gulped down another mouthful of water without looking at Mal before standing and leaving the bar. He followed a corridor towards the back of the house. He claimed the first bedroom he found, closed the door and dropped himself on the bed. The mattress and covers nearly engulfed him. It was the most comfortable bed he'd ever laid on. More fucking luxury.

Roland sat up and began to untie his shoelaces. Half-way through, he erupted into a coughing fit. Red specks sprayed his hand. He stood up and took a step to the door. He needed more water. The motion of standing sent a surge of pain through his body. His chest felt like a New Year’s fireworks show. He couldn't draw breath between coughs. The world started to blur and blacken at the edges of his vision. The words
heart attack
flashed in his mind. The room spun upside down and Roland hit the floor. He tried to cry out but only coughed. He beat his hand on the floor, hoping Mal would hear. He thrashed harder, making as much noise as possible, until the pain became so bad he couldn't move.

The last thing Roland saw before passing out was Mal kneeling over him. His lips moved. He touched Roland chest. Then everything was gone.

He was lying in bed when he woke up; shoes off and hands blood free. He hurt in all the places he'd hit the floor; otherwise, he felt okay. He was confused but he was getting used to waking up confused. Every time he woke up these days he was somewhere different. A different hole in the ground, a different motel bed. He'd seen a poster once that said
Home is where you hang your hat
. If he'd been hanging his hat in all these places, did that mean they were all his home or did he have no home? Why did it even matter? He didn't own a fucking hat. That was a stupid poster.

Roland fought his way upright and out of the bed, freeing himself of the needlessly comfortable mattress. He stopped to listen for the sounds of Malcolm. He couldn't hear anything above the sound of his own breathing. It was safe. Trying not to make too much noise, he opened the door and made his way back to the kitchen. Sleep had left his mouth feeling like the Sahara in a heat wave. Roland's glass was still sitting on the counter but the sausage plate had been washed and left to dry by the sink. Roland took the glass over to the fridge and searched for liquid – anything would do. The only thing in the fridge was a spherical jug of something orange. Roland pulled it out and sat it on the bench in the centre of the kitchen. This was the orange juice Malcolm had mentioned- at least, he thought it was orange juice. Whatever was in the jug bubbled and had some kind of white sediment floating on the top. Roland unscrewed the top of the jug. An alcoholic smell, like methylated spirits, wafted from the bubbling orange liquid. Roland found a spoon and scooped off as much of the white sediment as he could, before replacing the lid and pouring the juice into his glass. It didn't look any better than it smelled but booze was booze. You weren't supposed to like it.

It tasted horrible but he forced it down. He told himself that he had to drink something to wet his mouth. Not drinking wasn't an option. After the first glass, his mouth still felt like it was made of sand, so he poured himself another drink. He told himself that going for the disgusting accidental home brew instead of the tap water was an innocent mistake. The next glass wasn't any easier to swallow and neither was the third one. By the fifth glass, he'd stopped caring and stopped making excuses. The sixth glass left the jug half empty. Whatever the orange juice had become tasted awful and there was no end to the white sediment that kept floating to the top. Roland didn't care. It felt good.

“Besides, I drink whiskey.” Roland shouted at the empty kitchen. “It's not like I have any taste, anyway!” He downed his seventh glass in one long slurp. His body finally screamed ‘enough’ and his stomach threw a tantrum. He vomited a hideous mix of sausage and fermented orange juice into his cup until it was overflowing, at which point he dropped the glass and the rest of his stomach contents into the sink. When the torrent ended, he fell to the floor and burst into messy, gurgling laughter. He couldn't help it. He couldn't beat Lloyd or Pentdragon in a fight, he couldn't beat Griffith or Malcolm in a conversation and now he couldn't even drink some piss-flavoured, accidental home brew without chucking like a teenage girl doing her first tequila shot. The whole miserable tragedy of his existence hit him with one crushing blow and it was hilarious. He had to laugh. Crying would take away the last shred of dignity he had in his bruised, unwashed, vomit-soaked body.