Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(119)

The water had stopped itching and begun to sting by the time he reached the building, took several flights of stairs past dozing denizens in rags, and trudged along the corridor to his flat.

Two men lingered there right beside the door. They looked out of place on the litter-covered cement with their neat raincoats and hats, one plump and the other skinny.

“Jacob Curtiss?” the fat man asked.

“That’s me.”

“Swell to hear,” piped up his partner, the wiry one. “We’re not bothering you, are we? Tell us we aren’t.”

“No.”

“No, we aren’t bothering you, or no — we are?”

Jacob shivered. What would the Brick say in a situation like this? “Whichever you prefer, twinkles.”

“Hey, a tough guy.”

“Not at all.”

“I’ll say. Looks like you’d blow away in a stiff breeze. Well, now. Juvie Services sent us along. Not our usual jaunt — we have way bigger fish to fry — but what the heck, job’s a job, right?”

It looked like the skinny fellow was reaching for something beneath his coat, making Jacob renounce the shiver and tense up instead.

The fat man chose then to intervene, placing his considerable bulk between the boy and the thin man.

“Crosley, shut the fuck up and relax. There’s a good laddie.” He swivelled attention back to Jacob. “Listen, son, word’s got out you quit school and’re destitute. These are not good times for either road. I know what happened to your parents, so let’s avoid it happening to you. Re-enrol. Go to Juvenile Services and plead the case — you’re entitled to benefits, food-stamps, that kind’a thing.”

“Fuck that!” declared the other fellow. “Why give any thought? Let’s cut the crap and take featherweight in.”

“I have seniority here, mate.” The fat man glared at his partner. “Chill.”

“All right, all right. Whatever. Grumpy-bum.”

The fat man rolled aggravated eyes, and then returned to the boy. “Anyhow, I know the system sucks and they’ll give you shit-all help. But do what I say, make them happy. If ever you need advice, call me.” He shoved a card into Jacob’s hand. “For fuck’s sake, stay out of trouble. C’mon, Crosley. I have to go buy some kitty litter.”

“Didn’t know you had a cat.”

“Do now.”

“Guess so.” The rakish man took one last glance at Jacob. “Grab something to eat, kid — you look like a goddamned skeleton.”

That said, the two walked away towards the elevator without a backward glance.

Jacob examined the satin-finish plasticard: ‘Harry Jones’ it read, ‘Seeker Branch’, followed by a telephone number.

Jacob pushed this card into the Rat’s pocket, removed a key from under the doormat, and unlocked the door.





#175


The next two days took an eternity to pass.

During those forty hours it never once stopped raining outside. Initially, Jacob squandered time doing exercises to get his new, frail body functioning properly — but then got tired of doing that and went through old comicbooks, scoured The History of Art — anything to keep the defective grey matter occupied.

He also spent an hour at the window, watching the rain pelt down across a grey, hazy metropolis floodlit in places by gussied-up neon marquee sign advertising. Traced his finger along the greasy glass, following each fresh rivulet of dirty water on the other side.

His stomach’s rumbling reminded Jacob there was nothing here to eat and the out-of-action fridge housed paperbacks, but he ignored the hunger. Eventually the other thing, the thing he’d been ignoring all along, came home to roost and he couldn’t brush up anymore. The textbook read stuffy, the comics lame, the view depressing.



So Jacob eventually fled his flat, spent a few hours at the old, abandoned railway siding near Batman Station — a name that now struck him as funny, if he were in the mood to laugh, given recent experiences in Heropa — off Renown Street, close to Sydney Road in North Coburg.

There was a Southern Cross Station in Melbourne too, inside the Dome, but he’d never seen it and never would. Jacob could just make out the Dome in the distance, through a pall of rain, lit up like an enormous, grubby snowglobe.

Mostly, he thought about Louise.

About her face, so clear still when he allowed himself to remember. Her casually husky laugh and the way in which she toyed with her glasses as she thought something through. Lighting up, cigarette held between straight white teeth, while she poured another glass of champagne. The queen of caffeine. A bouquet of peppermint and citrus.

He kept at bay the still-life images — Louise in the hospital bed, these mannerisms and eccentricities diminished to nothing.