Morning rose in glorious light, but I didn’t
make it to Bedbarn.
A
newspaper had been stuffed through my mailbox, even though I’d killed the
subscription a month ago.
I
read it over breakfast. It was on page seven that I found the article about the
assault.
The
previous night the victim—described as being in her early twenties—had been
jogging the path that winds around Point Walter on the river, when a hooded man
had leapt from the bushland adjoining it and wrestled her to the ground.
I
didn’t want to hear if she’d been successfully sexually assaulted. My eyes
flicked forward by habit to the next article.
But
they caught on a word in italics: kyoketsu-shoge.
Kyoketsu-shoge.
It came after the
words ‘knife’ and ‘cord’ and was in brackets, and was no doubt the late-night
research of some bored intern, but there it was.
The
attacker’s intent had not been rape. He had meant to garrote the girl. Murder
her. With a kyoketsu-shoge.
My
vision glazed for a moment, then refocused to read the rest of the article. With
relief I read that she had ‘fought her attacker off”, escaping with minor
lacerations to the throat—and the weapon.
The
kyoketsu-shoge was the sole reason the assault was news, and perhaps why it had
been crammed into the stop press.
A
tearing sound briefly drowned my senses. It came from within, and I think it was
the sound of my life peeling away from what the average guy calls Reality.
When
it subsided, my head tried anxiously to stick it back down.
Hiero’s
dossier had said “Asphyxiation”. Sure. But how many assaults did the city of Perth
host each year? Tons. Whole handfuls. And assault by museum artefact...?
The
dossier said “Evening”. Well, that was the obvious time to strangle someone.
It
said “Female”, too. So what? Weren’t
they all.
No
photos, so I couldn’t check if she had red hair or big boobs.
It
said, “Kyoketsu-shoge”.
Shit. (Peeling sound).
I hurried to my
writing bureau, where I’d left Hiero’s dossier, hunched over like an old man,
and pawed through the sheets for the one I wanted.
When
I found it and read the notes on asphyxiation, a ripple of relief rolled through
me. No — it didn’t say kyoketsu-shoge. It mentioned
kyoketsu-shoge, among many, many alternatives. The stats were looking up again.
Come on home, Reality. The coffee’s on.
I stuck her back
down, but as fast as I did, a corner dog-eared up: and what if this _girl_ who
was attacked _jogging_ by a _river_ near _bush_ in the evening—with a kyoketsu-shoge!—had auburn bangs
and big tits?
“Murdoch Police Station,” said a voice. “What
can I do for you?”
I
pressed the phone receiver to my ear. My mind went blank.
“Hello?”
said the receptionist.
“Hi.
I— Do...” Professor of literature, note.
“Sir?”
she said, and the sunshine had dropped out of her voice. “What is your name,
and who do you want?”
“My
name?” I said. “I’d rather not say.”
There
was a pregnant pause on the line. It may have been my imagination that heard
the line suddenly hiss as if it had been switched to speakerphone.
“Would
you like to be transferred to Crime Stoppers, sir?”
“Yes,
yes. Crime stoppers.” What the hell was I saying?
There
was a click, and the line swelled with a community announcement about opening
hours and the commissioning of a hospital. Then it cut out mid-sentence.
“Crime
stoppers,” said another female voice.
“I’m
calling about the assault last night—the girl. The kyoketsu-shoge. I...” What?
“Do
you have information pertaining to the crime?” said the voice.
“Yes.
No. I wanted some information.”
“This is not a reporting service, sir. If you
would like to—”
Then
the mind-fart: “The girl. Did she have red hair and large breasts?”
The
receptionist said a word I didn’t catch, then one I did: “Sicko.” She hung up.
I
laughed. It was an odd sound.
I
dialled emergency.
“Emergency
services,” said yet another voice. “Which service do you require: police,
ambulance, or fire?”
“Police.”
Why weren’t all the questions multiple choice?
The
line cut-over to a call tone, which was promptly picked up.
“Police.
Please describe the nature of your emergency.” A man’s voice. Clipped tones.
“I
need to know—”
“Is
there an emergency, sir?”
“No.
I—”
“Then
I must inform you that two false calls have been logged originating from this
number. If you persist, charges will be pressed. Do you understand?”
I
hung up. Dropped the phone like a snake.
Then
I walked circles in my study with a palm pressed to my forehead.
A
police man had just been rude to me. Me, who had never had so much as a speeding
ticket.
Okay. Okay.
I picked up the
phone again and dialled international.
The
call ping-ponged through the network, and rang for what seemed an age.
“Sparkes,”
said my ex-wife.
“Jean,”
I said.
“Shit,
not today, Jack.”
“Good
morning to you, too,” I said.
“It’s
not morning here, Jack. It’s the afternoon. The morning finished hours ago, and
I’m still trying to wash off the stink of faculty politics.”
“Play
their game, Jean, and you stink their stink.” I couldn’t help it.
“Oh!”
she said, and the sarcasm came dripping out of the handset. “I forgot I was
talking to the man with the pristine arse. How’s that novel coming, Jack?”
“How’s
Tracey,” I said.
“Always
the segue,” she said, but the venom dried up. “Tracey’s on the east coast for
the month. She’s taking a holiday. There’s a seminar by Robert McKee—some
screenplay guru.”
“Screenplays?
When did my daughter develop Attention Deficit?”
Jean
laughed, and it made me smile till I remembered why I’d rung.
“Jean,
be honest—”
“Always
am.”
I
told her about Hiero’s notes and the assault.
She
said, “This Hiero—he’s in your exchange group?”
“Yes.
What do you think?” I said.
“What
do you mean, what do I think? Attention deficit. That would make a nice
screenplay—you could be played by Tom Cruise in the movie, and your student
could be Leonardo Di Caprio.”
“I’m
serious.”
“So
am I. Or maybe Tom Hanks.”
“You
think I look like Tom Hanks?”
“Call
me later, Jack. I feel like crap.” She hung up.