if you’re talking?’
There was something about the more demanding of the two voices that struck a chord with me. It was as though the unbridled spirit of Barbara had returned — a pure instinct of sex unhampered by fear of perversion, unshaped by ambition; agendaless sex inspired only by the primal instincts of the developing mind and body. I felt a deep affection for the voice, but had no desire to watch. To see her would change everything.
There was a further silence, then: ‘That’s better … THREE … Oh, a bit harder … FOUR …’
‘Be quiet, Alice! Someone’ll hear us!’
‘Don’t stop! Anyway, the risk of someone coming is part of it … oh … FIVE … oh, that’s so good … SIX …’
So her name was Alice?
‘SEVEN … oh, that’s right … put your tongue in … ooh … EIGHT …’
From that point, the counting stopped, but a thin scream, like the wailing of a kettle in another room, gradually rose in intensity and, before I knew it, I was painfully aroused.
Then the wailing kettle was interrupted by the stuttering whine of a trail bike in the distance — of several trail bikes — and the spell was broken. I struggled to my feet, but before I headed back to Kenley Park I was overcome by a mischievous whim.
I picked up a piece of red sandstone and chalked a message onto the rock shelf: I love you Alice, and signed it, Mengor.
Then, after drawing a big red heart around the message, I rolled the rock towards the cliff ’s edge — it bounced a couple of times, then disappeared. Two seconds later came the smack of rock against rock and a couple of squeals, and I bolted for the park.
All I could hear was the sound of motorbikes.
3 L Equals One Over X
I stepped out of my sweaty shorts and walked into the green-tiled chamber I use for a shower. The room was like a conservatory — glass to the ceiling, lots of palms and ferns for privacy, and several strong shower faucets which blasted me from all sides.
I was feeling fantastic after my run (I’d done another few laps back at the park), but was suddenly irritated at the prospect of going out.
I’d been seeing Jill for a few weeks. I’d tried to keep it low-key, but against my will she’d fallen for me. Tonight I was being presented to ‘the friends’ — Sonia and Derek — and was bored in advance by the inevitable banal conversation.
I turned off the shower and began to dry myself, a little brusqueness creeping into my actions as I allowed myself to get the shits for a minute. I have this theory that L equals one over X. Love — or lust — can only be present while X remains unknown, but as soon as X is nailed down, the mystery’s gone and L becomes fixed. I realised that in the case of Jill, X was no longer a variable.
It was time, therefore, for a parting of the ways. But I didn’t have the heart to break up with her immediately, which meant I would have to go to this fucking dinner, play the gormless boyfriend and break up with her later, like the kind and sensitive fellow I am.
We’d already had one argument. Apparently Sonia and Derek don’t drink, and Jill had pleaded with me not to take any alcohol. But fuck that. Two bottles of wine should do it. Jill would only have half a glass, in deference to both sides, so I’d have the best part of two bottles to myself.
Suddenly, I was smiling as I pictured myself wolfing into the vino under the disapproving eyes of Jill’s teetotal mates. Maybe there was a little promise to the evening after all.
I finished dressing (in surgical black) and pulled the little wooden box from my bottom drawer. Inside were three different types of heads, a couple of grams of coke and half a tile I’d been saving for a special occasion.
The half tile went down with a glass of water — it’d be an hour at least before that kicked in, so I rolled a cocktail joint with a pinch of all three varieties. Then I fired up and wandered out on to my balcony to watch the sunset over the Lane Cove River Valley. It was a fucking cracker I decided after several tokes — and then a few tokes more to be on the safe side.
I found myself grinning as I anticipated snatches of the evening’s conversation. I’ve often been complimented on my wit, or how fast on my feet I am in a courtroom, but the secret, both legally and socially, is to be prepared. Never get into a confrontation unless you’ve already been through the whole thing in advance, anticipating every point and shooting it down with arguments you’ve had hours, days or years to hone.
I roached the joint and looked at my watch — still plenty of time. The dope would slow me down, so what about something to get the engine running? I chopped up a small line of coke and fought the urge to laugh. I always have a bit of trouble with coke — the idea of sticking something up your proboscis seems so ridiculous that I can’t help but laugh at the critical moment. I’ve pissed off numerous friends and associates as their precious white powder has been sprayed into the air by my grunting mirth.
But this time I was able to compose myself, even managing to switch nostrils for the second half and threw my head back in ecstasy as the powder hit the spot. The J Spot they ought to call it — the breathless Joy Spot.
Okay, I was ready for anything now. I strode back inside, grabbed two bottles of my favourite sauvignon blanc and popped them into my wine cooler — one of my few concessions to the bourgeois existence expected of a lawyer of nearly twenty years standing. I reckon you could break into Kirribilli House shouting anarchist slogans and clutching a Kalashnikov, but as long as you also had a wine cooler they’d think twice before shooting you.
•
I love driving stoned — although driving in sunshine is a lot easier than night, when the oncoming lights can be deceptive.As long as you get through the first few minutes, you eventually become one with the car, which is exactly what happened that evening as I made my way out of darkest Lindfield and turned my black Jag into the neon chaos of the Pacific Highway — the power of the engine rumbling in my loins, shooting up my backbone, purring in my brain.
It was nice to drive the Jag for a change. More often than not I got about in my nondescript Mazda. Brand new Jaguars tend to be noticed.
I was content to stay in the middle lane, which would normally drive me mad, but I was too stoned to risk movement in more than one prevailing dimension. Besides, I was in no hurry. It was a fantastic evening, violet black with the first jasmine of summer — the sort of night which enables and empowers my art.
Then the news came on, which meant I was late. Where does the time go? There was the usual crap about the economy, something about the prime minister’s prostate, and then a two-minute piece on the discovery of another body in Galston Gorge. Apparently the body had been partially dismembered.
Takes all sorts.
Jill was waiting out the front of her building in North Sydney, which pissed me off. I really enjoy the view of the harbour from her bedroom balcony, and I think the coke would have appreciated the express lift to the forty-second floor. Maybe later.
I had to say one thing for Jill, she was a class act — or so I thought when I first met her. She’s the sort of person who always seems completely uncontrived while strictly obeying the latest directives in clothing,
