A Change of Texture Read online

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  ©2017 Paul Maxwell Taylor. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses

  permitted by copyright law.

  Cover design by Grayson Taylor

  ISBN: 978-1-54391-783-3 (print)

  ISBN: 978-1-54391-784-0 (ebook)

  This novel is dedicated to Jennie May,

  who motivated me to write it,

  and to Jennifer Marshall who gave me the

  unwavering support to see it through.

  CHAPTER 1

  “What? Come on, show me, what am I missing? Give me a hint, something, anything.”

  I push my hands through my hair so hard my fingernails break the skin. I swear and turn away, now I am looking out the window at my garden. There is life, I see flowers but they are the colour of bitterness, their bloom offers no solace. Keep turning, quickly, try to not see her photo that sits on the small oak table she chose. Then the circle is complete and once more I am staring at the canvas.

  I have never taken a great interest in art. I have not been a regular visitor to art galleries or exhibitions, and if on one of those occasions I’d been asked what I saw in a particular painting, my response would have been casual, I may have taken a moments consideration then responded with the first thing that came to mind. An answer that would have reflected no more than the scantest of concern. But the painting in front of me now is real, its interpretation important. I need to understand.

  Perhaps it’s not complete, maybe the artist didn’t finish and that’s why I’m not seeing what I want to see? Maybe it’s a trick, an apparition? Or is it no more than it seems; no more than a rectangle of canvas covered with paint, a garden scene dominated by a Moreton Bay Fig, a swing hanging from the tree, a bench seat settled under the tree. Invitingly, the sea glitters in the background. To the first-time viewer, to the innocent who did not know the price that had to be paid for this painting, it would surely be nothing more than it appears. It would hold no demons for them, their glance would be casual, they are the unsullied, the uninjured. And the few who have seen it, they say it looks fine. I could tell them it was incomplete, and if they wanted to know what was missing, I would say “the truth”. I am allowed to give that answer because by my right of grief I am the initiated, I know... but I don’t know. And this paradox is now my reality.

  But perhaps there is another request I would make, I would ask it to take some blame, beg it to share my guilt. ‘No’, I say the word out loud, shake my head hard, I know it’s a cop-out, the blame is mine.

  I am disconcerted. There is something crawling on my skin, something itching, threatening, but that something is as disgusted with me as I am with it. Keep looking. I try to change how I do it, I squint, move close then back away, change my angle, close one eye. Beg, yell, cajole. Quietly I suggest if not the whole story then at least a hint. Amidst my guilt, I feel betrayal and yet I know I shouldn’t. I’d betrayed her, but she could have shared more of this story. We usually shared, it was the nature of our relationship.

  If only I could look through her eyes, those eyes that I had known so well, eyes I loved to look into. The only eyes I have are mine and they are inadequate and shallow, unable to penetrate. They are good for crying.

  Since I brought the painting here it has challenged me. I’m not yet prepared to let it become part of this home. I may never be. Her essence envelops this home, her fire still smoulders in every corner. It is her. And this painting, this scene, how it intimidates me, it speaks unheard words, louder each day, it asks ... no, it demands I look deeper, it says - try again you weak insolent man. I am being tried and convicted by a force I don’t understand.

  I plead for answers, plead with this thing, this rectangle of canvas surrounded by a simple wooden frame.

  TWO WEEKS EARLIER

  I am watching a man running towards me. He’s balanced and compact, and he runs easily; his arms move like pendulums. I cannot take my eyes off him. Each step brings him closer. I hold my breath and my fingers choke the steering wheel. Now he is here, he stops and at the edge of the road where I sit in my car, waiting for the traffic; he puts his hands on his hips, and his chest expands as he seeks air. Beads of sweat glitter in the stubble on his chin. He looks each way, and then steps off the footpath and runs across the road. He doesn’t stop when he gets to the other side. He hasn’t looked at me and I’m glad. This man is my height, my build, my age, and his hair is the same as mine, he is wearing my clothes…and he has my face.

  I blink and look away, then quickly back. Nothing has changed, except now he’s further down the road and I am looking at the words ‘The Rolling Stones’ on his back. I know that T-shirt well; I’ve owned it for a long time. I nod my head, as if agreeing with myself, and then hear myself gasp. Now I’m aware of the rapid beat of my heart, and I try to laugh. It’s not because I’m amused, I just don’t know what else to do.

  He’s getting away from me and I can’t let that happen, so, without looking, I drive forward and force an oversized black SVU to brake hard. I glance at the occupants. Their faces are twisted; they are yelling at me.

  Soon I am parallel to the jogger, and I look at him for as long as I can until I realise I’m veering into the gutter. I correct the car, swear loudly and accelerate. When I’m about a hundred metres ahead of him, I do a U-turn and pull to the side of the road. Again, I watch him running towards me. My grip on the steering wheel is still tight, and I am motionless in my car, yet I’m moving. His steps are my pulse.

  I breathe deeply and slowly, a technique I’ve used before to calm myself. I say, ‘Details,’ out loud. Details – yes, look carefully, look for the obvious things that will make sense of this. Those black shorts, they are the same as I wear; then the jogging shoes, also the same. And that grey Rolling Stones T-shirt was a gift, what, must be seven years ago; I like that shirt. I
examine his running style – he does it well, and so do I. In my teens, I spent a year training with a running coach before it got too hard. Then I look at his wrist, the black band, the square silver case; my father gave me that wristwatch for my eighteenth birthday. I hold my right hand up in front of me. The watch is not there, but I only wear it when I jog, because I like to time myself. He is only about ten metres in front of me when he steps off the footpath and crosses the road. I know he will cross the bridge and then turn left. I know this because it’s the route I jog.

  I breathe deeply again…Come on, think, be logical. I know I’m sitting in my car alone and I know what has happened to me recently has changed me forever. The grief I live with offers moments of brutal clarity, but for most of my waking hours I dwell in a landscape of obscurity and regrets. But does that explain this, can I no longer trust my eyes?

  There is a sudden movement to my right. I look around, and a young man on a pushbike wearing a yellow beanie offers a strange smile as he cuts in front of me. Then a loud noise thunders through my car, my head jerks back, my shoulders jump, and my hands release the steering wheel. My rear-vision mirror reveals something large and green close behind me. It’s a bus, and again its horn reverberates. My hands re-grip the wheel, my right foot pushes down on the accelerator, I am moving. I look in the mirror again and see the bus driver’s gesticulations. But he doesn’t matter, what matters is seeing trying to make sense of what I saw, trying to see the jogger again. Yet I know he is gone. How can I see again what I could not have seen in the first place?

  I hear my breathing. It’s loud and heavy, yet it’s strangely comforting proof I’m here, that I exist. But I’m scared. My car seems to be shivering. I want to yell, but I keep driving, anywhere will do, eyes straight ahead; it’ll make sense, it has to.

  I wish I could tell her.

  CHAPTER 2

  I wanted to delete the memory, but I had lost confidence in my ability to be certain of anything. The desire to believe I could not have sat in my car and seen myself run past was matched by the fear that if I managed to hit the delete button then I might be permanently altering my reality. Did the horror of the last five weeks give me permission to delete? I felt I was confronting my own jury and admitting I was an unreliable witness. If I could erase the memory then there’s nothing to fear. But the erase button does not exist. What has happened is reality. I now know delusions and fantasy aren’t so bad, it’s reality that is to be feared, the blunt realisation your existence can explode into a nightmare imagination cannot surpass. The problem was no longer whether I saw something, or even what I saw; the problem was living with it.

  So, I told Lawrence. I waited six days and now the words were being heard by someone else. I re-lived those minutes with him, tried to recall every detail and every movement, willed myself to make sense of them so I could relay the story as I knew it at that moment.

  He asked me how much time had passed from seeing the jogger until the bus forced me to move.

  I had no idea. Maybe that was it, some disturbance in the usual sequence of events.

  Can time rearrange itself?

  ‘What did you do after you saw the bus?’

  ‘I think I drove around in circles for a while, trying to make sense of it…then I went home.’

  I didn’t mention that when I got home, I ran to my bedroom, pulled open a drawer and touched my Rolling Stones T-shirt. Then I turned and walked to my bedside table, and picked up my wrist watch. I also didn’t bother to tell him that I sat down on my bed and cried…or that, an hour later, I started drinking.

  Lawrence’s head moved from side to side and a frown creased his forehead, his big brown eyes moving like flashing lights on an advertising sign. If there was a scale of earnest, he was at maximum.

  When I had reacquainted myself with Lawrence a few years ago I had assumed there was something about him that people didn’t connect with. On the surface, he was ‘Mr Easygoing’, he always offered a genuine greeting and a smile. It took a while to realise he was a snob, and he had a low tolerance for anything that didn’t interest him. He wouldn’t be rude or confrontational; he’d just smile and, at an opportune moment, drift away, or act dumb. But dumb he wasn’t, his intellect was substantial, he reflected seriously on life and as I got to know him better it was obvious his analyses were astute and worthy, but he struggled to verbalise or socialise his reflections. It was not easy to coax him into prolonged discussion, and almost impossible to argue with him, so I decided I should be flattered at the attention. I was not sure how I’d passed the test he applied to people, but didn’t concern myself with it; he was easy to be around and, in recent times, had proved how good a friend he was. But now I was worried the bizarre tale of what I had seen six days earlier might test that friendship. Not only was I concerned it might be more than he could handle, I was worried he wouldn’t believe me. But he offered only support.

  ‘Don’t be hard on yourself, Carter. People go to pieces over a bloody lot less, no doubt about that.’ He gulped his beer. ‘What you thought you saw, it’s like all that shit working its way out. You should be proud that you’re handling it all so well – you’re moving forward, mate.’

  ‘Handling it well; that’s crap. I’m not handling it well. I cry every day and now I’m seeing things…’

  ‘It was just grief, Carter, a manifestation of all you’ve been through in the last five weeks. That’s all, forget about it.’

  ‘Forget about it…you’re joking, aren’t you…?’

  He grimaced, and shrugged uncomfortably. He got two more beers, we drank them quickly and quietly and then he asked if I wanted to watch the football on the TV. Football, yes, that would be good; anything that’s not me would be good.

  Richmond won and we were pleased. We’d eaten the home delivered pizza Lawrence ordered during the game. When it was over Lawrence left the room to get more beer and, when he returned he switched off the television. He put the beers on the coffee table, and paused and looked at me. He lifted his head slightly, as if about to speak, but then seemed to reconsider, he picked up a small cane stool and came closer to me. He sat and fixed his gaze on me. He leant closer, which was a surprise, close-up contact wasn’t his style. I nearly said, ‘What the fuck?’ but I knew whatever he was doing was an effort to assist.

  ‘So, tell me again, mate, you were in your car, on your own, hadn’t had a drink?’

  ‘Not one.’

  ‘Had you been taking anything – you know, any medication? You hadn’t been smoking anything?’

  I went through it again, slowly. Then, we sat quietly and I felt a sense of calm. He sat still, his head down, looking at his feet as if he hadn’t seen them for a long time.

  He looked up, leant in close again. ‘Jeez, this bloke you saw must have been bloody ugly.’

  ‘Get stuffed.’ I raised my hand as if to swat him; he made an exaggerated evasion and tumbled off his stool. We both laughed.

  Soon it was time for me to leave, and he patted me on the back as I exited the front door of his unit.

  ‘Any time, mate, you know that.’

  When I got home, I drank more beer. I didn’t need it but I didn’t need to be sober either.

  CHAPTER 3

  In the past, sleeping had been different: the part of the daily cycle where body and mind rested and were replenished, a necessary component in the rhythm of existence. Now it was something else: an escape.

  I’d been awakened by an unexpected sound. The gentle vagueness of half sleep departed, like a blanket being slowly removed from me. Bit by bit, I felt the icy grip of reality.

  It was a sound I knew. My mobile phone? No…but similar…it was my landline, I rarely used it. How dare it drag me back to now? My half open eyes eventually found focus, the clock next to the bed revealed that it was nine-forty and sunshine was leaking around the curtains. It occurred to me I should have been out of b
ed by now, but I wasn’t sure why.

  I didn’t want to move, the phone didn’t deserve to be answered, but one foot found the floor, and then the other, and soon I was where the noise was. I picked up the cordless hand-piece. I heard my voice say hello.

  ’May I speak to Maxine, please?’

  I staggered backwards as if I’d been shot and fell back onto the bed. I felt my mouth move but no words came, and then I heard the other voice again.

  ‘Hello, hello; are you there?’

  There hadn’t been anything like this before; some mail but no phone calls, I felt nauseous, I shivered and bent in half.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘didn’t catch that.’

  I cleared my throat and tried to form words that would be understood.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘My name is Sandy Arnold, from Kyneton Collectables. Can I speak to Maxine McPhee, please?’

  I don’t know any Sandy Arnold. She can’t be a friend or she’d know.

  ‘I…my name is Carter Burke. I’m Maxine’s partner. She’s…not available.’

  I tried not to listen to myself. Maybe if I don’t hear the words, they won’t hurt.

  ‘Oh, good; at last I’ve got the right number. I’ve phoned her mobile several times, left messages…anyway, all’s well that ends well.’ She giggled and took a breath. ‘Maybe you can help me. Maxine bought a painting off me and left a deposit. That was four – no, make it five – weeks ago, said she’d pay the balance when she collected it, and I just wondered what was happening. Can you get her to phone me?’

  I sat upright, my heart pushed at my chest. It would be easy to tell her to keep the painting and the deposit but I knew that would solve nothing. There were things I needed to know, this painting was important.

  I told Sandy Arnold that I would be there tomorrow, found a pen and wrote her address on the back of a receipt. I reached for the button on the phone that would end the conversation as I heard her say something about looking forward to seeing me. The phone bounced on the bed where I dropped it.