The Jesus Man Page 8

  Do I too believe this, that a woman like that deserves to die?

  At Box Hill she got off, swaying drunk to the doors, shooting off final insults. The young men followed her into the dark of the underground station. The train pulled away and Tommy peered out into the grey and black. She was riding the escalator, still mouthing curses, the boys behind her.

  Rape her. I hope they rape her.

  He relaxed back in the seat. He could not look at the couple. He felt that his silence had been a betrayal, though what could he have done?

  You could have said something. Again, his mother’s voice.

  The Indian woman sighed deeply and she looked up at him. He smiled and she, tentatively, she smiled back.

  He walked home quickly, in the dark, bashing against the cold. The flat was freezing. He tore off his tie, threw his shirt and trousers in a corner and jumped into track pants and a windcheater. As his arms shot into the sleeves he glimpsed his body in the bedroom mirror. Fat. In the lonely room Tommy rang out a cry. I’ve got to go to the gym, I haven’t been all week. He thought of the sausage roll and chips he had eaten for lunch. He traced the path of the fat, of the grease, of the salt. He banged his fist into the hideous softness of his body. He checked the time on the alarm clock. 6.53. The red numbers blinked. He grabbed his keys.

  The gym change room was quiet. An old white-haired man was dressing slowly. A young swimmer showering. Tommy changed into a T-shirt and shorts and walked upstairs to the gym. In the fluorescent cavern he began his routine.

  He stretched. And thought of the bogan bitch on the train. How he should have punched her, shut her up.

  He began the weights, twenty lifts of twenty-five kilos, and thought, No, I couldn’t, she’s a woman, someone would have stopped me. I’d have been arrested.

  He cycled and listened to the thundering music from the room next-door, the thumping of aerobics. He pushed his feet hard against the pedals, felt the muscles in his thighs stretch. No, the boyfriend should have done something, fucking gutless Indian prick.

  The rhythm of movement stilled his mind. He withdrew into counting and action. There were six men in the gym, and three women. A blonde in lycra shorts and a black bikini top. An older woman, overweight, grunting on a bike. And the woman in the wheelchair.

  There was the man, the man with the beard, the tall man. His legs, shocking in their barbaric strength.

  The minutes began to lag into a shuddering boredom. He looked around the cavern. The woman in the wheelchair, her black hair in a ponytail, was pulling down on a bar, her face closed, she never smiled at him, working the machine. The time code on the bike read 3.58. Twelve minutes to go and the world began to come in again. Pathis, the obscenity of his sneer. That was who Tommy should punch. He pedalled furiously on the machine.

  4.43. He had never fucked a woman in a wheelchair. Did their cunts have any feelings?

  5.13. The song on the radio was Roberta Flack, ‘First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’. His cycling slowed, he was unaware of it, the song soothed him, made the time go faster. Pathis was going to get rid of him. Tommy closed his eyes. Rent due. He closed his eyes tight. He had to make more money.

  7.02. Soo-Ling. He was so fucking lucky to have Soo-Ling. Jesus, he had forgotten to ring Soo-Ling.

  8.02. He wasn’t going to go for fifteen minutes. Ten, he’d make it ten minutes.

  9.13. Again, the 13. Was he willing it?

  9.28. His fat was shaking as he pedalled. He was being lazy. He should do fifteen.

  10.00. He stopped. The sweat was pouring down his back, his T-shirt sticking to his skin. The smell of man. Tommy breathed heavily, picked up his towel and walked out of the gymnasium. He stood on the balcony overlooking the pool. Two boys diving. They laughed and shivered on the board, pushing each other, daring each other. Tommy walked downstairs to the showers.

  He did not often shower at the gym, waited till he was home and safe in the isolation of his own bathroom instead. But tonight the change room was empty. He stripped and relaxed into the hot swoosh of the water. The rush fell on his head, on the back of his neck, and he had an urge to piss. Tommy opened his mouth to the water and closed his eyes. The water was a sea in which he floated. He opened his eyes and looked down to the swirl of soap at his feet, the hair on his chest and belly splattered long and thin on his skin. Abruptly Tommy leant across, jerked the hot water tap off and the cold blast of ice tore him out of dreaming and into a savage present. His body jumped back, startled by the shivering cold.

  In front of the mirror Tommy looked at his body. Shouts from the swimming pool. He dried, first his hair, then his chest and shoulders. Between his thighs. In the mirror his body was warm, red and warm.

  Tommy was the darkest of the brothers. His hair, his lips, the olive of his skin, they were Maria’s, and though he did not know it, they were also his grandmother’s. The dark swirls on his chest and his legs. Tommy was not ugly but this too was not known to him. The mirror reflected back the asymmetry of his weight. His tits hung, just a slight podge, but he could only see a hideous limp bulk. The heavy lead of his stomach. The long thin piece of foreskin that made his cock a spike. Tommy turned from the mirror. And thought of nothing more but the ecstasy of excising his body from the world.

  A man entered the change room. Abruptly Tommy turned his back to the stranger and quickly put pants over his nakedness. Tommy dressed and ran a red comb through his hair. The man was in the shower, his back to Tommy, soap and water. Tommy looked into the mirror, then quickly, a flash, glanced over his shoulder to the showers. The man’s cock was short, the balls shrunken and cold. Tommy sighed, relieved, and left.

  Still hot from the workout, he did not feel the cool of the night. He walked to the car and the hunger gnawed. No, fuckwit. Don’t eat tonight. You’ve got to lose some weight. Tommy pushed a cassette savagely into the stereo. A blast of U2. The War album. He revved, he revved hard, and journeyed home.

  He loved U2. Had been there from the beginning. ‘Gloria’. He had loved U2. Three years ago, three young people, students, on the train. He had not long been a worker. They were discussing U2. They were laughing at U2.

  Daggy.

  Boring.

  Pompous.

  People who liked U2 were into cock-rock, that’s what they said.

  Tommy was not to know that these were adjectives they had learnt from the Rolling Stone. He was not to know that the three students were simply playing at snobbery, innocuous snobbery but, like all snobbery, meant to ruthlessly extinguish all opposition.

  It was Tommy’s failure that instead of embracing the opposition—I think you’re wrong, I like U2—he acquiesced to their opinion. It did not make him stop listening to the band, to his music, but something changed for him, the belief in the integrity of his own opinions. If he had resisted the shame—because it was shameful, his belief that he was proven wrong—he could have laughed instead. He could have leant over and explained to the three young people that taste should never be the basis for an ethics or a politics.

  Daggy, maybe. Depends on your class and social circle.

  Boring. Yes, some of it is.

  Pompous. Yes, often.

  All people who like U2 were into cock-rock. An absurdity. A statistical impossibility. A prejudice.

  I’m blushing. I’m intervening here. It was me, I told Tommy U2 were pompous.

  He played U2, drove home.

  The first thing he did on entering the flat was ring Soo-Ling.

  —Hi, it’s me.

  He could hear her smoking, the stilted puff. She sounded tired.

  —Where have you been?

  —I worked late. Then I went to the gym.

  —What are you doing tonight?

  A high pitch on the last syllable. He was tired, the thought of collapsing at his own place, within his own space, was very attractive. But on the other end of the phone Soo-Ling was breathing, waiting, and he also desired her softness.

  —I thought I might come
over.

  —Good. I’d like that. He could sense her smile. Have you eaten yet? she asked.

  —No. I’m not that hungry.

  —I’ll cook you something, something small.

  —You don’t have to.

  —I know. She sniffed on the other end. Waiting.

  —Okay, thanks. Is Sonja home tonight?

  —No, she’s out at Ronnie’s.

  Good. Tommy found it difficult to communicate with the diffident, suspicious Sonja.

  —I’ll be over soon.

  He put down the phone.

  He stuffed underwear and a T-shirt into a bag, grabbed the old mustard jar where he kept the dope, and locked up the flat. He debated leaving on a light but thought about the money.

  Rent, he recalled, frustrated, angry, rent was due. He switched off the lights.

  They kept flashing her picture throughout the night, in between every program break. Soo-Ling pointed the remote at the screen and the little girl’s face jerked, flashed and disappeared into darkness. Soo-Ling jumped up and walked into the kitchen, grabbing food and saucepans, but she could not forget the face. It was not that she was particularly shocked by the rape and murder. Nothing new there. It was the vulnerable youth of the victim that hurt. Soo-Ling sliced the chicken fillets methodically, neatly. The violence of the murderer struck her as absurd, a madness in men which she had no wish to understand.

  God says forgive, she thought to herself, her fingers wet from the carcass, but He surely can’t ask me to forgive this? Soo-Ling prayed, silently, only a tremor of the lips.

  Pray, she had taught Tommy. Just pray, because even if it is not answered, the praying helps.

  She prayed that the child’s parents could live with the annihilation the rapist had wreaked.

  I wish I hadn’t watched the fucking television.

  Music. She put on a tape of Sonja’s, a compilation. And the music did its work. She concentrated on the cooking, coordinating sauce and pasta, a quick washing up. The tape segued across time and genre, and she sang along to the words. Cat Stevens, ‘Father and Son’. And it made her think of Tommy.

  The little girl’s face. From the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen. She swept hair away from her eyes with the back of her hand and attempted again to forget the image. Thank God Tommy will be here tonight.

  The kitchen, bathed in electric light, seemed large tonight and very cold. The backyard was dark. She turned away from the darkness and glanced up at the clock. It had been twenty minutes since Tommy had called.

  She was praying. Please come, Tommy, please get here soon.

  Soo-Ling had first seen Tommy when he’d delivered a set of pamphlets to her work. She was on the phone, doing reception, and he had waited patiently for her to finish. He had tried to pretend that he was not looking at her but he was not successful. Soo-Ling made no such pretence. She had initially thought him sweet rather than handsome, a little boy still hiding somewhere in the shy young man. The unruliness of his dark hair, the large eyes, a dog’s sad eyes. Injured. It had been the eyes.

  They had talked, a perfunctory exchange. Where do I deliver this? Here will do. She had signed, he smiled and left. At the glass door, he had turned, looked at her again.

  She smiled back.

  They had met again over a lunch. Nadia, whom Tommy worked with, was friendly with Soo-Ling; they had been at TAFE together. They were having lunch and Tommy was in the same cafeteria. Nadia invited him over. He had sat in silence for most of the conversation, nervous. He left quickly and blushed on saying goodbye.

  —He’s strange, real quiet.

  —That’s okay, replied Soo-Ling.

  And they did not talk of him again. On leaving the cafeteria they discovered that he had paid for both their bills.

  Their third encounter was again over the reception desk at work. This time he was more effusive, away from the alert Nadia, and he made her laugh, quietly, by impersonating the staid English prickliness of her boss. And she asked him out to lunch.

  This was not characteristic of Soo-Ling, for in her aloofness from men she resembled her mother. But her assertiveness, its very accident, in this instance was to cement the future.

  —Would you have asked me for a date? she demanded from Tommy a year after their first outing.

  —No, replied Tommy, honestly, I wouldn’t have had the guts.

  She had thought at first that Nadia was right, he was strange. His shyness, though attractive, had initially disturbed her. Conversation proved difficult but she found herself touched by his generosity. He followed her, let her decide which films they watched, paid for most things. She was impressed by his attentiveness and was considerate of his hesitancies.

  But it was after fucking that Soo-Ling discovered she was in love. In bed, freed from the contract of conversation, Tommy allowed himself to express the depth of his devotion. His kissing first hurt, he bit into her and drew blood. He pummelled her body and his sweat covered her. She had been with men more experienced, possibly even more considerate, but Tommy was the first to show her the immensity of passion. His body, which when clothed had appeared clumsy, assumed a potent grandeur when naked. Tommy’s body, in its softness and its solidity, was the first body in which Soo-Ling allowed herself to disappear. His smells, his touch, the roughness of his hands, the swell of his cock inside her, the taste of his mouth. His lips praised every part of her body. She emerged from their lovemaking convinced of the virtue of their union. His silences continued to disturb her but she began to learn to listen to his kisses instead. On occasion, on making love, he would cry, tears would fall on her. This, in a man, this amazed her.

  For Tommy, it was far more simple. He could not believe that Soo-Ling had chosen him for a partner. He thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. In sex he worshipped her.

  And only in sex with her was he not ugly. And, for him, his silences proved that he could protect her.

  Tommy arrived with stubbies of beer. Soo-Ling laid out the food on the coffee table. Tommy turned on the television—David Letterman beamed in from America—opened a beer and began rolling a joint.

  —Can’t that wait till later?

  Fuck you.

  —Sure.

  They ate in silence, watching the television. It’s nice, Tommy nodded to Soo-Ling and continued eating. When he had finished, had wiped the plate clean with bread, he sat back and lit the joint.

  Soo-Ling took three quick puffs, coughed and passed it over. The effect was immediate. She sunk back, she sunk into torpor.

  —I must clean up. She got up, steadied herself on the armrest and cleared away the plates. Tommy took hold of her hand.

  —It can wait.

  —I know. But you know me.

  He let go.

  In smoke they found an equilibrium. For Tommy he could relax into silence, close to her, smelling her. In smoke Soo-Ling found a slowness that numbed her lips and tongue.

  She washed up, the warm water falling smooth on her hands. She dried the dishes, rubbed oil into her palms, sniffed the fruity aroma. She could hear Tommy laughing.

  The television did annoy her. It created a space between them, a white noise, a stranger separating them. She hated Letterman.

  —Anything else on?

  She sat down beside him, took his arm and stretched it around her shoulders. She leant in to him, smelt the soap and the sweat. She put her hand under the sweatshirt and rubbed her palm across his wiry hair.

  Tommy shifted, a slight move away. Her hand was feeling his fat, the horror of his weight. He looked at his beer. The tan thick liquid. He drank from it, returned to the television, straightened, and Soo-Ling fell back. He began rolling another joint.

  —How was work?

  —All right. Pretty busy.

  —Same.

  Soo-Ling was a secretary in an accounting firm. Twenty-four thousand six hundred and twenty-eight dollars per annum.

  The comedian on the Letterman show was not funny. />
  —I don’t see why we have to watch crap from America.

  Tommy offered her the joint, laughing.

  —Haven’t we been doing that all our lives?

  The comedian was making New York jokes.

  —Do you want to go to America?

  Soo-Ling shook her head.

  —I think I’d hate it.

  Tommy wanted to visit Graceland, maybe Disneyland, hire a hooker for the night. A sexy black hooker who looked like the girl from Salt N Peppa. Was she Salt or was she Peppa?

  —I don’t know, some of it would be all right.

  Soo-Ling handed him the joint, rubbed his palm.

  —We’ll travel.

  I want to see the world on my own, thought Tommy, no-one there with me. Then I could be a stranger, do anything I wanted and no-one would know, no-one would see me, no-one could tell on me.

  Except God.

  And God knows already.

  Tommy stretched his arms, yawned, kissed Soo-Ling. She smelt of the moisturiser on her hands. His cock shifted, suddenly he was aware of her. The smoke had dulled his movements and accentuated his senses. He rubbed her thigh slowly.

  Soo-Ling rested back on the couch, shifted her legs.

  Tommy moved his hand under her skirt, traced his finger along the mound of her crotch.

  Soo-Ling took the joint.

  Tommy pushed his thumb tight into her cunt.

  Soo-Ling expelled the smoke.

  Tommy took her hand, placed it on his thigh. He slowly guided it along the crescent of his erection.

  Soo-Ling squeezed the cotton, squeezed the cock head.

  On the television a phone sex ad. Blonde girls with big tits.

  Tommy pushed Soo-Ling’s hand vigorously across his crotch. He pushed her panties down, sunk his fingers into her still dry hole. He pushed far into the coarseness.

  It hurt. Soo-Ling pushed his arm away.

  Tommy butted out the joint. Her hand slid off his body.

  —I’m sorry. Later. I’m a little tired.