Diana! Episode 4

5 "Christine's key slid easily into the lock."

Christine emerged from the shadow of the David Jones building on Elizabeth Street. Keeping to the sunlight, she passed the buildings of the Supreme Court. She had begun to feel quite cold: her toes especially, in her canvas shoes, each aerated by a fraying hole at big-toe level. A car passed close and she felt the slip-stream on her neck. The hump on her shoulder was sensitive to chills, so she gave it a rub. Further along, brass plaques announced: Solicitor, Solicitor. One said: 'Lawrence, Ferguson, Gass and ass'. She snorted: "Lawyer territory."

Christine would not usually choose the morning after a late night to hassle around for equipment, but last night, tired as she was, sleep had eluded her. She had given up trying by about six. By eight her eyes had been sore from reading, by nine her washing hung from the line, and by ten her dishes were stacked drying by the sink. After a second breakfast, she began stretching a few friendships with Sunday morning calls.

The first to relent was Pia. It's hard to know whether ex-lover status qualified you for lesser or greater leeway as far as favours go. This morning at least, Pia had been in no mood to make light of inconvenience, making it clear that she wanted no visitors until twelve at the absolute earliest. So Christine had decided to walk the few kilometres to the Wynyard buses.

Christine exhaled condensation onto the polished brass plaque riveted to the convict-brick wall. With the tip of her finger she drew a pair of crescents joining tip to tip, then a smaller pair inside, to create the shape of a cunt. Before walking on, she watched her art-work slowly vanish.

By the time she reached the corner of Market St, her armpits were becoming moist, though her toes were still numb. She thought of heading down to the GPO Building to check out the gargoyle Queen Victorias that ringed the façade. They were supposed to represent the conquered peoples of the world. Christine liked particularly the Indian Queen Vic - the one with a nose-ring. The Empire had a dyke for a Queen - no doubt.

She was about to turn off Elizabeth when, almost before knowing why, she halted. Stiffened. There is something about the squeal of tyres. Sweat had risen from deep within her, quick and hot, before the echoes faded. Her skin itched. That sound must be in our racial memory, she mused; like the wail of an infant it will unravel the nerves; it will not be ignored. With her nerves all a-jangle, she could not tell if the sound of impact she seemed to recall was real or imagined.

She did not have long to wait. On the corner ahead, Christine walked into a crowd of about a dozen. Even on a Sunday, this end of town was lawyer territory. A couple of suits jockeyed for position. Through the knot of people, talking, speculating, comparing stories, Christine heard: "Thank you. I am all right now." A man stood in the way. She bent at the knees, lowering her centre of gravity as she had been taught in Ninjutsu classes, and shoved him hard in the back: next, a little kid, who said 'fuck off'. She saw a taxi stopped in the street at a strange angle. Then she saw a woman prone on the bitumen, or rather she built a woman's form from a compilation of glimpses snatched through the shifting crowd - a bare calf, the glint of jewellery, the creamy arc of a neck, a hand held palm outwards. It appeared the woman was trying to get up. A man reached out to help her, and another reached to restrain him: "Let her lie still. Give Her Air!" Somebody else was holding a large coat in front of her matador-style, while the taxi driver alternated between apologies and insults. At last Christine's jostling and the crowd's movement conspired to give her a clear view of the victim. The woman on the ground fixed her blue eyes onto Christine: alone, bewildered. "Get me out of this! Please."

The woman from Raphael's appeared thinner and sicker in the sunlight. "Get me out of this." People tugged at her, casting their black shadows over her. She looked as if she wasn't too far from screaming, her eyes growing brighter, more urgent and more blue. Christine took pity on her distress. A man in a suit tried to push past, proffering a small white card, but Christine steadied herself again and with her elbow gave him a good hard jab into the cavity beneath his ribs.

"What's wrong?" She beat him to it.

"I was only knocked to the ground."

Christine touched the red mark on the woman's pale forehead where her skin was slightly roughened and broken. Although the flesh was swollen, and meaty red, there was no blood to speak of. Taking Christine's hand, the woman rose to her feet. When she tried her weight on her left leg, she hissed through clenched teeth. "It is just the knee. It will warm up, I am sure. Please," speaking low, holding Christine tight by the hand, and now the elbow: "get me out of this."

The cab driver was still pressing his apologies, and his abuse. "Shut-up," Christine said and, as he took a breath to continue, "get us to Darlo." His mouth snapped shut, opened, and snapped shut again. "You going to drive or what?" Christine gave the driver her address and they made their escape.

"Do you think you should go to Casualty, see a doctor or something?"

"No!" the woman said quickly. "Thank you. I hate doctors. I never go to doctors. I am fine, honestly. I was just knocked to the ground."

Christine slipped her arm from under her seat-belt, stretching to touch the woman's forehead, where a pink mark now showed beneath a lattice of scratches. "You hit your head. Are you sure you didn't black out?"

The woman looked into Christine's eyes, steadily, like a knocked-down fighter trying to stay in the ring. "No. I am sure. I have had a fright, that is all."

"Then you need to rest a bit. You can have a cup of tea at my place if you like."

"Thank you. I would like that. You are very kind."

The taxi took them through the Cross and into Darlinghurst, dropping them off outside Christine's. The driver dipped his head to look across at them through the passenger window. The fare read $8.20. "You've got to be joking," said Christine.

The cab spun its wheels. Christine revised her thoughts on tyre-squeals - that one felt just fine. She smiled: she had a mean streak. She liked this about herself.

Christine took the woman by her elbow, but the she leant no weight into Christine's grasp as they crossed the footpath. "It's okay. I've got you," Christine reassured. The pressure on her arm increased slightly, but Christine suspected this was mostly for her own benefit. Together they took the three small steps up to the doorway. Christine's key slid easily into the lock. Inside the brass casing, the tumblers made slick contact. The door slid open across the inside rug, and Christine stepped back for her guest to enter. Taking the step, the woman bit back on a cry of pain and her injured knee buckled. Christine caught her, heavy this time, by the elbow, guiding her over the threshold.

"My name's Christine, what's yours?"

"Diana. Diana White." Her voice was heavy and distant. Christine cast her eye about for the best chair. As usual, her cat Annabel had herself coiled right there. The cat had no favourite chair, but seemed to know in advance where you wanted to be. Fussy cat. As Christine began to calculate how she could best leave Diana in order to shovel Annabel aside, the cat looked up milk-eyed towards her mistress, then across at her guest. And scrammed.

"There you go," Christine laughed, as she helped Diana forward, "you can have the best seat. Annabel must like you." Christine leant a hand on the back of the couch, which had a tendency to engulf the unwary. When she entertained mixed company Christine liked to arrange it so that a bloke or - even better - two blokes, sat on the couch. They looked funny: their knees up in the air, their crotches sunk out of sight. That mean streak again. But today she had given Diana the best chair, out of hospitality. Christine thought briefly of the pool of cat-warmth that Diana's bottom was about to settle into and looked in vain for a sign of pleasure or distaste.

"Well! Diana White," clapping her hands, trying to lighten the air, "would you like Earl Grey, chamomile or rose hip?"

"Rose hip please."

"Good choice. Very warming after a shock."

Christine left the room, and Diana looked the place over. The three arm chairs, including the one she was sitting in, bore absolutely no resemblance to one another. A two-seater with concave cushions backed against the wall that joined the flat next door. On the wall opposite, above the bricked-in fire place, hung a Man Ray print of a woman's bum. Records, CDs, and books on shelves. One stack of shelves was devoted to stereo equipment: two turntables, a CD player, a cassette and a reel-to-reel; a mixer, amplifier, and a tuner. On the shelf among the records rested a small framed picture. Diana was about to leave her chair when Christine returned with a tray of provisions.

"So, what's the damage?"

"Please?"

"Give me a look at you." Christine set down two cups of tea, a large bowl of warm, fragrant water, and some bandages and cotton balls. She pushed back Diana's cool, soft hair, and tilted her head so she could inspect the injury. Her forehead was yellow around the red-raw centre, but there was only a slight grazing. In an hour or so there would be a nasty lump. But it was the skin around the wound that bothered Christine: pasty, almost grey, the blue veins showing through. Her cheeks showed no colour, but this was as you might expect after a shock. Her lipstick had been rubbed mostly away and, on her lower lip, there was a small cut where her skin had been torn.

Christine tried to keep her mind on what she was doing. "This'll sting for a bit, but in two days you won't see a thing." She began to press the warm, soaked cotton lightly onto Diana's forehead, cleaning it first, then gently massaging to stimulate the circulation. She enjoyed holding Diana's head in her hands. Diana looked up, and Christine held her glance for a long moment. Perfect eyes. Deep black pupils, clear blue and sharp white. The tiny red blood vessels were beautifully defined and healthy. She had not expected this. Perfect.

"Now, what about your knee? How does it feel?"

"It is a little stiff," flexing her leg back and forth. "It does not hurt."

"I can look at it if you like, but you'll have to take your dacks off."

Without speaking, Diana slipped off her black shoes. A little awkwardly perhaps, but showing no pain, she stood and turned side-on to Christine, unzipping and removing her jeans. Her legs were skinny, and not very pretty. She sat again in her chair, while Christine took her by the leg, holding her in the crook behind her knee. "Stretch out now. Good. Does pressure here hurt at all?"

"Not very much."

She lifted Diana's leg gently by the calf. "Put your foot against my shoulder.  Good. Now, push against me. Anything?"

"No."

"Not much wrong here. Just be kind to yourself for a couple of days. Ms White: you may re-robe."

Again Diana turned to the side, the same side, as she pulled up her jeans. Christine found this modesty attractive.

She returned to her place in the two-seater. Opposite, Diana took up her tea as she reclined in her chair. She cradled her cup in both hands, the steam lingering about her face, then drew in a long mouthful. Reaching for her own cup, Christine didn't notice the rising heat until the liquid seized her skin, scalding the tip of her tongue. She hissed, snapping her head back, then stared suspiciously into her tea's shiny surface. Beneath the moving light the liquid was a deep and rich red. Christine leant back into the couch and took another sip, small and cautious. "So, Diana," she said after swallowing, looking up, "what happened?"

"The lights said walk. I walked. The taxi turned the corner and must not have seen me, at least not straight away. He braked, so by the time he actually hit me, he was not travelling fast. I am sore from hitting the road. I fell awkwardly." Diana had an accent that she could not trace.