Mates
There was blood on the carpet and at the base of the door. He knocked and waited.
The door opened.
"Mate, grab a beer from the fridge. I'm on the veranda." His friend, J., was wearing a sarong and smoking a cigarette.
He got a beer and walked onto the veranda. Sun light sparkled from the harbour and the high rises.
"So, how's life?", asked J.
"She loves shopping."
"Eh? Oh, no. I said how's life.”
They laughed, J. slapped him on his back, then dug his fingers into his shoulder. It didn't hurt, but he could hear his heart in his chest, and when J. went to the toilet he took two pills from his pocket and swallowed them with a mouthful of beer.
"Right, let's get started", said J., he had an unlit joint in his mouth and was smoothing back his hair.
They went inside, sat on a white sofa and smoked.
"What's with the mud?"
In the hallway he'd seen skid marks leading to a closed door. There'd been more blood on the door itself.
"You had a haircut?", asked J., "you're looking good."
There was a scratching from behind the door, then a grunting sound.
***When she walked in the saleswoman smiled at her and said,
"Welcome back, it's good to see you again."
She held the tips of her fingers and took two deep breaths.
There were fresh flowers on a desk, but mostly she could smell leather.
"I'll try on each of the boots, I'm a seven."
There were three pairs: tan, puce, black to the knee.
She was carrying them from her car when he pulled into the garage.
"Cooking tonight?" he asked, getting out of his car. He was wearing his Lacoste tennis gear and had had three beers at the club.
He thought she hadn't heard him.
"I said, cooking tonight?"
"Is that supposed to be ironic?" she asked, turning around.
He waited, thinking she might laugh, but she shook her head and walked into their house.
He woke at 4am. He was sweating, and his back teeth were clamped together. He sat up in the bed and looked at his wife. He thought for a moment about waking her, but when he put his hand on her arm she twitched and pushed him away. He lay back down in the bed and waited. At 6am he got up and worked out with a set of dumbbells and then ran on a treadmill for forty minutes. Afterwards, in the shower, he leaned against the cubicle wall, clenched his penis at the base and aimed at the shelf his wife used for her toileting paraphernalia. He started pissing. When the pressure in his groin was painful he released his grip. Urine hosed the shelf and everything on it, knocking a bottle of Gucci shower gel to the floor.
***
He couldn't concentrate, he made a reservation at a restaurant then called back saying,
"Cancel that, I'm too busy."
He sipped constantly from a glass that he kept refilling from a bottle of Evian, and every time he put the bottle down he had to get up, walk to his office door and make sure the label was obvious from the hallway.
When the water was gone he left his office and told his assistant to buy more Evian, and to find a better flavour of breath mint. Then he went to the bathroom and locked the door.
He took a bag of the powdered pills from his pocket and pulled a credit card from his wallet. A photograph fell to the floor. He scooped the powder from the bag, chopped it up and divided it into three lines. He snorted them using a fifty dollar note.
There was a banging on the door, then someone shouted, "Hey, why's this door locked?"
"Hang on", he said, splashing water on his hands, then running a finger around the inside of his nostrils.
The knocking continued.
"Come on man! I need a slash."
He went to the door, fumbling with the lock before opening it.
"Jesus man, what the hell's going on?" It was one of the bosses.
"Sorry", he said, trying to laugh, but it sounded more like a dog coughing. He walked back to his office and was checking his hair in a mirror when the man from the bathroom appeared at his door.
"This yours?" He was holding the photograph.
"Oh sorry, yes it is", he said.
The man crossed his office and put the photo on the desk.
"Worry eventually turns to fear", said the man, raising his eyebrow and backing out of the office.
His wife had given him the photo a year ago, it was of a pair of boots.
"These are my new darlings", she'd said.
He felt sick and started to go back to the bathroom.
The phone on his desk rang.
"Yes."
"Mate."
"J.?"
"It's fish this time. Friday, 7 o'clock."
"Fish? How we going to do that?"
"Just be here at 7. You've got my new address?"
"Yeah I do, look I'm not feeling that good."
"Why? You crook?"
"It's more in my head."
"Your head?"
"Yeah, I feel like I'm losing control."
"Eh? Have a drink. I'll see you on Friday."
"But."
The line went dead.
She was in a department store when he called.
"Yes."
"I got a call from J., he's invited me over on Friday."
"So?"
"So? I'm just telling you."
She hung up and walked around the luggage: off white, Yves Sf Lavcrent. She looked at the man in the short sleeved shirt. He had his arms crossed and was looking at her through squinted eyes.
"I'll take it", she said.
There were four fish in different parts of the house. One each in sinks in the kitchen and laundry, and two in the bath. They were dark with down-turned mouths and sharp spines down their backs.
"I got them from a guy I know", his friend said, lighting a joint.
They put the fish in buckets, then released them into the swimming pool and went to get changed.
When they returned the fish were not looking well. One was belly-up on the surface. Two were on the bottom, bumping against the side like flies against glass. The fourth fish kept breaking the surface, its mouth opening and closing.
They drank two shots of vodka, they were both wearing swimming togs and carrying spear guns.
"You want to go first?" shouted J., a thick vein pulsing in his neck.
***
"I'm going to Hong Kong", she said, sipping at her glass of water.
"Hong Kong?"
A waiter walked past them carrying plates.
"You want us to go to Hong Kong?" His hand shook as he spun his phone on the table.
He stood up, leaving it circling.
"I have to go to the bathroom", he said.
She sat and smoked, using a serviette to wipe a speck of glitter from the tip of her boot.
He came back to the table, there was blood in his nostril.
She held a spoon next to his throat. "Blood", she said.
He took the serviette and dabbed at his nostril, leaving the glitter on the tip of his nose.
'That was J. on the phone", he said. "He's invited me over.'
She looked from her notes to the woman who was talking.
"I was only going for loo paper, but of course I walked out with a frozen ruddy cheesecake. And the girl at the counter, you should have seen the look she gave me", she said sobbed. "It was gone before it even had time to de-frost."
She nodded, smiled sympathetically and wrote who cares in black ink in the margin. She pointed at the box of tissues in front of the woman and thought about a pair of sunglasses she'd seen earlier in the day.
He could hear music when he stepped out of the car. He could feel his brain. He knocked on the door.
The music went quiet, he looked around thinking he'd heard a voice. The door opened.
J.'s hair had receded and he'd lost weight, making him look taller.
"Mate, everything all right?"
"Yeah, not bad." He put his hand up to lean on the door frame. J. looked worried and stepped back.
"What can I do for you?" J. asked.
"Ha, come on mate, let's get started."
"Eh?"
"It's Friday, you said something about fish?"
"Fish? Mate, that was last year."
"Last year? You rang me at work the other day. You said Friday at seven."
J. held up his hands. "Sorry mate, I don't know what you're on, but I've got people here. You're going to have to go."
"People? What fucking people? Come on, let me in. I need a fucking drink."
***
A clicking noise and a foul smell came from its mouth.
He tried to get up, but the blood was slippery. He fell forward onto his knees. He was tired. He rested his cheek on the floor. There was something under the fridge. He slithered through the blood and reached for it. It was a receipt for a pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses, written on the back in his wife's handwriting were the words My husband pissed on himself.
(c) Breton Dukes. All rights reserved.
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