Look to His Like

Chapter Eight

Warning: The author has noted that this contains strong language.
Warning: The author has noted that this contains strong sexual content.

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I retrieved Harry's box from Damien and hurried home. As the microwave nuked a frozen meal, I fed Wolf a tin of tuna and raced upstairs to change into shorts and a singlet. Just as I pulled the latter over my head, the phone on my side-table pealed. I sank onto the bed and answered it inattentively, my mind on Harry's case.

"Seems I just missed you," said a mellifluous, male voice in my ear.

I nearly dropped the receiver. "Adam?"

"The one and only." As my mouth opened and closed like a fish's in utter astonishment, he went on, "I just went by the hotel to check if I had mail...Lorraine told me someone was asking after me. By her description, I assumed it was you."

Finding my senses, I said, "How did she describe me?" The extent of vapid Lorraine's powers of perception intrigued me.

"I thought she was quite observant, actually. Sorry if it sounds crass, but she called you 'a tall sheila with nice tits.'"

"Sheesh." Affronted, I said, "And you could recognise me from that?"

He breathed shakily a few times into my ear before saying in a low voice, "You'd better believe it, blossom. It was the 'tall' part that rang a bell, of course."

I laughed, my nipples tingling with the memory of his mouth and hands.

"How did you get my number?" I said, now clutching the receiver with both damp palms.

"The opportunist that I am, I took note of it the other morning when I saw it written on your phone ... you do remember the other morning don't you?"

I made some sort of strangled sound of affirmation. Adam laughed, a low, seductive sound, which sent shivers skating across my skin and had hot fluid trickling from my vagina.

"Was there something you were after?" he asked.

"When?" I said, stupefied by arousal.

"At the hotel?"

"Oh. You mean, apart from an Adam Drake-induced orgasm?" I asked, not one to mince words.

He laughed again. "Now I know why I like you! So that's why you came to the hotel?" he pressed.

"Well, I - er -." Now I floundered. Of course, I had gone to the hotel in the hope of being able to bonk Drake like there was no tomorrow, but I already felt humiliated enough by recent occurrences to admit further to it; I'm a forthright sort of girl, but I did have some shreds of pride left. "I - er - have been thinking about getting a boarder." The words gushing from my lips surprised even me. "But of course," I hastened to add, backtracking like mad, "you've already found a place now obviously, so ...not to worry."

A taut silence reigned. My cheeks - not to mention certain other parts of me - were burning, my pulse racing.

"Well," said Adam thoughtfully, "the place I'm at now is only temporary while I look for something more permanent - one of the other cast members had a room going begging, and it's better than that hotel. But - " he paused, as I waited in breathless anticipation, "there is a bit of a problem with me sharing your house, in any event."

"Oh!" I struggled to contain my acute disappointment. "Well, sure. I understand ...just thought I'd mention it, you know. Anyway, thanks for ring--."

"No, I don't think you do understand," interrupted Adam, smooth and fluid as warm honey. "The problem is I know I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you, if I was living in your house - not after the other morning. And from what I recall, you can't be intimately involved with anyone, isn't that right?"

I swallowed. "Right now," I said, my voice sounding husky even to my ears, "you could probably persuade me into almost anything."

A long exhalation of a breath in my ear raised goose bumps on my skin. "You don't say?" mused Adam. "That's good to know. Because I can't stop thinking about that interesting sixty-nine position we got into after the shower ...what are my chances of persuading you to wrap your legs around my neck like that again?"

My muscles went to jelly at the thought. I collapsed onto my pillow. "I'd say they were pretty darn good," I whispered.

Down the line, our tremulous breathing mingled.

"What are you doing now?" said Adam abruptly.

"Just lying on my bed. Why?"

"Stay right where you are." There came a rattle as if he was about to hang up the phone.

"Wait! Wait!" Oh, shit, shit, shit! I couldn't do this, just couldn't. I sat up, gulping in steadying breaths of air, struggling for control. "Adam, Adam, I can't, I'm sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry! I shouldn't have gone to the hotel today...you can't come and live with me...I can't see you...there's my career, and Steve, my plans ---." As I panted, his breathing hissed in my ear. When I could not analyse his silence - or did not dare to - I whispered, "I like you too. 'Bye," and with shaking hands returned the receiver to its cradle.

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Seeking relief, I had a rather dissatisfying interlude with my vibrator. When I figured nothing was going to drive thoughts of devouring Drake's thigh region from my mind except good, old-fashioned brain strain, I rose from the bed and staggered downstairs. My meal forgotten in the microwave, I fell upon the box from Harry with relief. After all, native title law must be as far removed from erotic thoughts of sixty-nine positions as you can get. I only had to immerse myself in it to gain some relief from aching desire.

I could not have asked for a better refuge: The material in the box kept me engrossed until after 3 a.m. When I placed the last handwritten document aside, I felt like Henry Higgins must have felt when Eliza Doolittle finally said 'the rain in Spain' with perfect diction; in glee, I even muttered out loud, "By George, she's got it!"

I leaned back in my armchair, rolling the cricks from my neck, and stretching my arms, my present troubles temporarily forgotten as I planned the approach to the Gilden Hawke partners about the Jabujawarra claim; this case was going to be huge! Another Mabo!

Wallowing in barely contained excitement, it was a while before flashing lights outside my window distracted me sufficiently to wonder what was going on. Shaking away my daydreams, I yawned widely, rose and padded over to investigate, twitching the curtain aside.

The neighbours on the other side of me - five students, all of whom I vaguely recognised even if I had forgotten their names - were gathered on the lawn in various stages of dishevelment. I had exchanged polite pleasantries with some of them over the years, but generally regarded them somewhat askance. Years ago, the City Council had wanted to cut down some trees in The Domain, for reasons I was never sure of, and my neighbours responded by tying themselves to the threatened species; the pictures were of course broadcast across the nation. Now look, I like trees and nature as much as the next person, but I've always thought there were better methods of saving them than putting yourself in the way of bulldozers and chain saws. Although my neighbours were unsuccessful over the trees, I couldn't quite avoid feeling wary of them after that incident: they had done the spray-painting of anti-nuclear slogans on ships and had hung Stop the War banners on the Opera House; what was next? Parachuting off Sydney Tower to stop poverty? Picketing Bondi Beach to draw attention to the plight of the hairy-nosed wombat? The mind boggled.

A police car provided the eye blinding, flashing lights. As I watched, two police officers burst from the house, a staggering man between them. The man I did not recognise - he looked to be about fifty, with wild grey hair, wearing only black track pants; his thin, white torso even from my distance, appeared flabby. He yelled and struggled in the grasp of the police officers, and a few of the students mouthed angry words and shook their fists as he was dragged past them to the car.

My interest piqued, I hastened outside.

"She's a solicitor," I heard a female voice shout. "Hey wait on, his solicitor's here!" The scream at the police was taken up by the other students, and immediately gave me pause. When I saw the police had hesitated outside the car and looked in my direction, I drew a deep breath, and as dignified as I could in my skimpy singlet and even skimpier shorts, I walked gingerly over the broken pavement in my bare feet towards the vehicle.

"Is there a problem, officers?" I said coolly. Ask me to liquidate a company or charge a business with restrictive trade practices, and I'd find it a breeze, but I hadn't touched criminal law since university. I had though, seen cop shows on TV, and was pretty sure based on those, that my question was the way to go.

However, one of the cops - a tall, stout guy with a handlebar moustache - sneered at me derisively as I came alongside them.

"You're this man's lawyer?"

"I - er -." I looked at the captive, and met glowering dark eyes in a face deeply impressed with bitterness; in the halo of bright, pulsing light, his resemblance to portraits I had seen of Beethoven was remarkable, causing my breath to catch in my chest as I stared at him. Mesmerized, I said, "I - yes, I am. Is this man under arrest?"

"No - we would simply like Professor Bello to come to the station with us for questioning," said Handlebar's companion, a muscle-laden young man who looked barely out of high school. Very subtly, the two had dropped their hold of Bello and were looking at me with barely-veiled wariness.

I crossed my arms and pinned them with a stern stare, although it's a little hard to look authoritative when one is tousled and obviously bra-less beneath a brief singlet that has had its day. "Gentlemen," I drawled, "Professor Bello is not obliged to accompany you anywhere, unless you have a warrant for his arrest, or you have reasonable suspicion he has committed a crime or is about to commit one." Well, I remembered that much from third year university, anyway. Bello said "Hmmph" in apparent agreement, and took a step back to my side, glowering even more darkly at the officers.

The cops exchanged a quick glance. "We do believe he has committed a crime," said Handlebar, almost sulkily. When I raised cynically questioning eyebrows, he said, "We believe Professor Bello made obscene gestures towards a police officer on Pitt Street this afternoon. He's renowned for it, actually. We tracked him down to this address."

The cops seemed to sense my uncertainty, for they gripped Bello again and tugged him towards the car to chorused protests from the students. I was goaded into action.

"What's the basis for your suspicion? Do you have evidence? Witnesses?"

Both were prevented from responding. A screamed "PISS HO-O-O-OLES!" from Bello echoed through the night. Now leaning forward, his leering face thrust at the cops, he showed one middle finger, then turned around, lowered his trousers and waggled his bare, flabby butt at them.

It was hardly shocking in the broad scheme of things, especially to someone who spends most of her days in a law office, but as the echo faded, a tense silence settled. Bello hauled his pants up and swayed around to face the cops again, a humourless grin stretching his face. He wiped spittle from his lips, shook his fists at the sky, and this time gave vent to a stream of really vile verbal obscenities, which had even me raising an eyebrow. At last, apparently exhausted from the effort, Bello fell to his knees, panting.

Muscles gave me a told-you-so look, and bent to grasp Bello's arm again. Handlebar walked around to the driver's side of the car, as if the matter was settled.

"Gentlemen," I said, imitating toffee-nosed Major Winchester on MASH to perfection. "I think you'll find you cannot arrest this man, and if you do - you will be hauled over the coals by your superiors for mistreatment of a disabled person." To my ears, my threat sounded weak, but it was the only thing I could think of.

However, I certainly gave them pause. They looked at me suspiciously.

"What do you mean?" Handlebar said at last with reluctance.

I regarded the cops with a tilt of my head as if they were recalcitrant children.

"Professor Bello has a condition known as Tourette's Syndrome - you've heard of that of course!" The cops looked at each other then back at me, uncertainty in every line of their stances. "Well, in case you haven't - it's a neurological disorder, characterised by involuntary and rapid movements or vocalisations. In the Professor's case, these tics are manifested in the characteristics known as coprolalia - which is involuntary uttering of obscenities - and copropraxia - compulsive, obscene behaviour."

Another deep silence. I felt perspiration prickling my forehead and held my breath. I had no idea if I was right, and certainly didn't know if I had even pronounced the words correctly, but they had sounded impressive. I had only heard of the disorder at a professional staff meeting before Easter. At that time, Gilden Hawke had been representing a firm in an unfair dismissal case. The employee who had been dismissed, and who was making the claim against our client, had repeatedly written curse words and drawn pornographic pictures labelled with obscenities on the walls of his office, prompting his employer to fire him; his claim was that he had another symptom of Tourette's known as coprographia, although along the way, the other manifestations of the disorder had been enunciated, providing my fuel for this encounter. Of course, Gilden Hawke had attempted to debunk the claims, making the employee out as some debased creature who knew exactly what he was doing and could have stopped it if he chose to do so. That night as I fought for Bello's freedom, I recognised the irony of using a defence that had resulted in one of Gilden Hawke's few failures in the courtroom.

As the silence endured, I forged on with desperation. "Professor Bello has doctors' reports, which he can show you if you require."

Muscles stepped back from Bello, who scrabbled away on his hands and knees and came to stand beside me again. Handlebar appeared sullen. I raised haughty enquiring eyebrows.

"That's not necessary," Handlebar grated at last. "Only - next time these doctors' reports will have to be shown to the judge!" He directed a jerk of his head at Muscles and swung into the vehicle. Muscles followed suit. The beacons on top of the police car were switched off, momentarily casting the surrounds into inky darkness as our eyes adjusted to the lack of brilliance. As the car rolled off, leaving us bathed only in emerging, murky street light, I breathed a sigh of relief.

At once, the students surrounded me, exclaiming and patting my back.

"Bloody oath, that was unrool!" said a lad with stringy red hair dressed only in jeans that sat low on his hips, showing underwear riddled with holes. "Onya, girl!" He stuck a limp joint between his lips, took a suck and dealt me a gap-toothed grin before blowing the smoke in my face. My head swam.

"Come inside and celebrate with us!" said a girl with a shaved head, in a black t-shirt emblazoned with the pentagram and a peasant skirt. She threw a plump arm around my neck, urging me forward to sounds of agreement from the others.

Only Bello was silent. He regarded me with narrow, angry eyes and a brooding expression. My pulse gave little excited tip-taps, for it was like looking at Beethoven's doppelganger. As I hesitated on the brink of hero-worship, he grunted and passed us, heading towards the house.

"Come in, if you must," he grumbled. "I suppose I owe you my thanks."

"Don't mind him," said the shaved girl, leading me after him; the other students fell into a murmuring group behind. "That's just the way he is. My name's Rita by the way. I don't think we've ever been introduced, for all we've been neighbours for years!"

I responded with my own name, my gaze unable to leave Bello's retreating form.

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I should have left after the first cup of bad coffee, but couldn't drag myself away. Rita had fallen asleep, curled up on the ratty divan beside me; the other two girls had retreated upstairs, and the two guys, including the one with holey underwear whose name I gathered was Derek, sat cross-legged on the bare floor, sharing a joint and lost in highbrow reflection, no doubt. The other guy, whose name escaped me, had a bird's nest of fair hair, which looked like it had never seen a comb or shampoo, and wore only a tie-dyed singlet over grey cotton boxers; as Derek would hand him the joint, he'd murmur "Peace, man," take a suck, and hand it back. The sickly sweet smell of the joint filled the air, and, combined with my lack of sleep, made me feel quite light-headed.

I couldn't leave - because Professor Mark Bello sat at an ancient, upright piano, playing beautiful, melodic music I didn't recognise, but which I figured from its lack of refinement was something that flowed straight from his head. My admiration of him had heightened - he clearly had a musical ear. (Unfortunately, although I love instrumental music, I am a hopeless musician myself, and tend to revere those who have the talent I missed out on). In the dim light of the one naked light bulb on the ceiling, and influenced no doubt by fatigue and the smell of the joint, it was hard to believe he wasn't Beethoven. My spirit soared.

Hard to believe that, as Rita had informed me, he was a professor of Human Geography at the University of New South Wales. I didn't even know there was such a discipline, but it sounded noteworthy. He lived alone at Hornsby, on the upper North Shore, and Rita and Derek were two of his graduate students. Ignoring how he had emerged from the house with the police in a scruffy state, and had the faint scent of marijuana about him, his dedication in visiting his students impressed me. He now wore a crimson sweatshirt over his puny torso, and the colour seemed reflected in his pale skin, and flicker in his eyes whenever he lifted them to look at me. The dour expression never left his countenance, amplifying my enthralment and emphasising his likeness to one of my musical heroes.

A lull in the music roused me from my daze. As I straightened in my seat, Bello glanced at me, gave a bitter sort of smirk, and turned his regard back to the piano keys. He flexed his fingers and lowered them again. Tears sprang to my eyes as the glorious melody of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata filled the room.

I was dimly aware of staggering across the room to stand by the piano, clutching hold of it for balance. I stared down at Bello/Beethoven, heart thudding erratically, breathing hoarsely, my seduction complete.

When he finished, I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I coughed, and tried again as he looked up.

"Will you marry me?" I whispered.

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I convinced myself he was a perfect candidate for a husband - he had an impressive-sounding career, a home on the North Shore, and drove a Landcruiser. That he was a penniless academic, lived in a tiny apartment in one of the less wholesome North Shore suburbs, and that his car was a second-hand old model, I conveniently ignored, as I did his indifference to cats. About the only thing I was clear-headed about was the knowledge that I wouldn't want to drag him to bed to engage in sexual hi-jinks, despite the spiritual and mental allure he had for me.

We sat outside on the front porch, drinking more appalling coffee, as dawn streaked the sky and the first cars of the day began to roll down the street.

"I've got to say," he said in a gravely, sour voice after I had told him about my predicament and my requirements, "that I'm not a bit tempted by your proposition. I mean, what the fuck's in it for me?"

As the caffeine and the chill of early morning cleared my head, I could see he had a point. While I struggled for something to say, he leaned back in his spindly wrought-iron chair, and regarded me with a nasty sneer.

"The only way I'd marry you on your terms, frankly, is if you paid me - a lot," he said, and for the first time looked interested in the idea.

The chill seemed to penetrate to my bones, and more fog parted in my brain. When I did not reply, Bello continued.

"And, look," he said, "while I'm being honest with you, and in case you feel sorry for me because I have a disability - I don't have that friggin' syndrome you told the police about. There are no doctors' reports." He leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees and grinned at me without humour, displaying yellow, broken teeth. "Those obscenities were deliberate. I can't stand the cops, and can't abide authority! I must say though, that you were very clever and cunning - congratulations, my dear! You do your profession proud!"

I sprang to my feet, the last tendrils of brain fog evaporating, and seeing this man for who he really was; Beethoven's spirit faded away...or more likely than not, had never been there. In the pale light of dawn, Bello now just looked like the slovenly, embittered, nut case he was.

"For your information," I snapped, "Sympathy never entered into my decision to - to - proposition you. I withdraw it now - and not because you are not disabled, but because the notion of having to pay a maniac like you to marry me makes me sick. I'm not that desperate." I laid my coffee cup down on the ground. "Goodbye, Professor Bello," I said with as much majesty as I could muster in my shame. "And if you get yourself into trouble again, don't bother calling me."