Perilous Adventures
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Pandora

 
 

Knee-capping

by Michael Wilding
 

Press OnHenry sat in the Golden Bowl glowering as Pawley and Dr Bee arrived. He scrutinized their expressions to detect whether they had seen the weekend papers and the bad review of Henry's latest in one of them. He fluctuated between surges of incandescent rage and the cool zephyrs of lordly disdain. Such things should not disturb one. But they did. Both Pawley and Dr Bee denied reading the press. So did Henry. But that did not preclude the odd glance at a paper. Over someone's shoulder. Discarded on a chair in a doctor's surgery. Abandoned on a bus seat. Crumpled in a rubbish bin. For that matter they might have been lying, and been regularly reading the papers without admitting it.

He could tell nothing from their expressions. He waited for their conversation to give them away but all Dr Bee talked about was the thrill of the chase, whether of wild pigs or young women Henry neither knew nor cared. And all Pawley talked about was imperialist wars in the Middle East, whether the Crusades, the 19th century, the 20th century or the present day, Henry failed to register. All the same war, Pawley would have said, anyway, probably was saying it at that very moment. But Henry remained distracted, waiting for the wine to be poured before broaching the subject. His subject. The house white in these days of retirement and economic stringency. Except for occasions of celebration. This was not an occasion of celebration.

In the end Henry had to introduce the topic since they either had not noticed or were being scrupulously tactful.

'Who wrote it?' Dr Bee asked.

'Some wretched little weasel.'

'Whose name you forget.'

'Yes.'

'Or suppressed.'

'Never knew it.'

'Deep into denial, are we?' Pawley asked.

'One of ours, was it?' said Dr Bee.

'What do you mean, one of ours?'

'Used to be a student. Or tutor. Something or other. He was around and then he went.'

'Another failed academic,' Henry snorted.

'Aren't all academics failures by definition?' asked Dr Bee.

'Speak for yourself,' said Henry.

'I do,' said Dr Bee. 'But I speak for all of us, too.'

'Communality,' said Pawley approvingly.

'Why do they hate me so?' Henry asked. 'I don't even know the wretch. Never even met him that I can remember.'

'But he no doubt knows you,' said Dr Bee. 'He no doubt met you and met your dis-remembrance.'

'And you never did him any favours,' said Pawley. 'You're sure you never helped advance his career?

'No.'

'So why would he attack you?'

'Perhaps he didn't like the book,' said Dr Bee.

Henry glared.

'A failure of taste on his part and of education on ours, I hasten to add,' Dr Bee hastened to add.

'Probably never even read it,' said Pawley, more emolliently. 'The press,' he said, as if no more need be said. The Press. Imperialism. Control. War. 'You know what reviewers are like. You've been one yourself,' he couldn't resist adding.

'I never reviewed a book I hadn't read,' said Henry.

'Read it? I haven't even lectured on it,' Dr Bee tossed in. They had to reiterate these phrases once in a while, give them currency, bring them out into the light like some collector looking over his old coins or rare jade. Mantras that required repetition, liturgies to keep it all in place, ensure the continuity of a culture in a context that seemed intent on destroying it.

'Never mind,' said Pawley. 'As long as he spelled your name right. Which you always assure us is the only thing that maters.'
Henry grunted.

'Or did he get that wrong too?'

The waiter came over, drawn by their anguish.

'Everything all right?'

'No,' they assured him.

He brought them a limoncello each on the house.

*

Henry was still fuming when he reached the Writers' Centre. The house white had not mellowed him. It had stoked rather than quenched his flames of rage. And instead of striking him comatose, as had been known to happen, the limoncello had, if anything, sharpened up his taste for combat.

'Henry!' said the Director. 'What is the matter? You look impassioned.'

'Ever hopeful,' muttered the Criminal at his work station.

The Director whacked him a couple of times on the knuckles with a ruler from his desk kept there for that purpose.

'Do it again but slower,' said the Criminal.

She smoothed down Henry's tousled hair, brushed away some of his writer's dandruff from his shoulders, cluck clucking at it as she always did.

'Dandruff is the insignia of a writer in Britain,' he told her.

'But we're not in Britain.'

'Still got the same Queen, though,' he said, to rub a bit of salt into the wounds of her frustrated Republican sentiments.

He slumped down into a chair. On the desk was the reviews section of the offending paper. Henry crumpled it up and tossed it onto a rubbish bin.

'Henry! That's our library copy.'

'It isn't now,' he said, pushing it further into the bin.

The Criminal opened his drawer and produced a Writers’ Centre book of matches which he offered to Henry.

The Director whacked him on the knuckles again. The Criminal. Henry thrust his hands into his pockets as a precaution.
'What's got into you?' she said.

He was withdrawn to speechlessness. But his eyes gave him away, straying to the rubbish bin.

'Oh, poor old Blokey O'Kee!'

'Who?'

'Your review.'

'Not my review.'

'The review of your book.'

He grunted.

'It was rather - .' She searched for words.

'Rather?'

'I'm not sure how to put it.'

He stood up and took the two volume Shorter Oxford Dictionary from the shelf and handed it to her. 'Try this.'

'At least it hasn't dampened your wit,' she said, carefully putting down the two volumes onto her desk, how to avoid back injury when heavy-lifting.

Henry laughed, bitterly. The bitter laugh of the badly-reviewed novelist, a distinctive cry.

'I wouldn't worry about it,' she said, 'he's rather a sad figure. We went through uni together. You must have taught him.'

'Never heard of him.'

'He was a mature student. He came from an earlier generation. He'd never learned to type. Never learned to drive a car. A propelling pencil was the height of his high-tech skills.'

'Never learned to write, either,' Henry added. 'Or read.'

'Oh, Henry. Don't be uncharitable. He became a failed priest.'

'How do you become a failed priest?' Henry snapped. 'Write a doctorate on the novels of Graham Greene?'

'Don't be so pedantic, Henry. He tried to become a priest, and didn't make it.'

'Like putting B. A. Calcutta (failed) after your name.'

'If you want to, Henry. Should I print you some new business cards?'

'Failed priest,' Henry growled. 'That explains everything.'

'He left the church and took up bicycling.'

'On his acupuncturist's advice?'

'He wrote a book about it.'

'About being a failed priest? How many more of them can the literary world sustain?'

'About bicycling.'

'Ah!' said Henry. 'A pedalphiliac.'

The Director smiled. A trifle thinly, but still a smile. But it was a better reaction than being suspected of homophobia and getting a sharp rap on the knuckles. Let alone on his other less public parts.

'You want me to put a spoke in his wheel?' the Criminal asked. 'Get him knee-capped.'

'Knee-capped?'

'Put an end to his filthy habits.'

'The ones he wears or the ones he practices?' Henry asked.

'Whichever,' said the Criminal. 'Just say the word and it's done.'

'Oh, who will rid me of this pedalphiliac priest?' Henry intoned.

'They don't stand for pedalphiliacs in jail,' said the Criminal.

'You can't do that,' said the Director in alarm. 'They'll stop your day release.'

'That's my problem,' said the Criminal.

'Then where would we be in the office?'

'Don't worry,' said the Criminal. 'Who said anything about me doing anything?'

'Just make sure you don't,' she said.

'My hands are clean,' he said, showing them, cracking his knuckles. They seemed to be tattooed, but whether merely ink or stencils or real tattoos, Henry did not want to know.

'So,' said the Criminal.

'It's a thought,' said Henry.

'Just say the word and it's a deed.'

'How?'

'You don't need to know how. I've still got a few favours to call in.'

'You better find how much it will cost first, Henry,' the Director warned him, a conscientious administrator's sense of fiscal responsibility before everything.

'No cost,' said the Criminal. 'Strictly favour for favour. No cash. No paper trail. No tax. No GST.'

'What sort of favour?' Henry asked.

'Won't know till I need it, will I?' said the Criminal.

'Need it? Like what? A kidney transplant?'

'Nothing wrong with my kidneys,' said the Criminal.

'I don't know,' said Henry. 'I'll have to think about it.'

'Consider it done,' said the Criminal.

*

'I see your bad reviewer came to a sticky end,' said Dr Bee.

'No.'

'Don't you read the weekend papers?'

'No,' said Henry. 'Not that one. Never again.'

'Ah, well, nor do I,' said Dr Bee. 'But I couldn't miss that.'

'Miss what?'

'Misadventure. Hit and run. Got knocked off his bicycle into a ditch.'

'Shit,' said Henry.

'Indeed it was. All over. He was cycling through the country. Ended up covered in cattle shit. Slurry, they call it.'

'Ah, well,' said Henry. 'The ways of the Lord are mysterious, particularly to those who have turned from him. Was he hurt?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Maybe that'll stop him writing any more bad reviews.'

'I doubt it,' said Dr Bee. 'Shattered knee-caps. Won't be able to bicycle for a while. If ever. But his wrists are all right. He'll still be able to write. And he'll have a lot more time so he'll be able to review a lot more.'

'Of course,' said Pawley, 'you realize poor old Blokey O'Kee was just the hired assassin. The person who really had it in for you was the person who hired him.'

'Go on,' said Henry.

'The reviews editor, obviously,' said Pawley. 'He's the one who would have chosen Blokey. He would have looked for someone who would give you a bad review.'

'I guess so,' said Henry.

'You taking out a contract on him too?'

'I didn't take out a contract,' said Henry.

'Just a form of words,' said Pawley. 'But you know what I mean.'

'I didn't ask for it to happen,' said Henry.

'Still, never look a gift horse in the mouth.'

*

The Criminal put his finger to the side of his nose in a gesture of silence, and gave Henry a broad smile. All missing teeth and tongue stud.

'Anything else I can do for you?' he asked. 'Get you some dope, maybe?'

'I don't know,' said Henry.

'Consider it done,' said the Criminal.

***

About The Author

Michael Wilding is the author of Wildest Dreams, The Phallic Forest and Academia Nuts and many, many other wonderful works of fiction. His latest publication, The Prisoner of Mount Warning is being released through a unique publishing initiative: Press On. Press On is the initiative of a number of novelists, publishers & booksellers to intervene actively in the publication & promotion of new fiction in Australia.

Adopting the classic 18th & 19th century strategy of subscription publishing that worked for Henry Kendall & others, it needs just 200 subscribers to get the first three titles of this innovative, exciting program into print & onto the web.

Subscribe now for $50 ($80 overseas) and save a third off the recommended retail price on the first three titles.

Discover more about these new novels by: Peter Corris (Wishart’s Quest), Michael Wilding (The Prisoner of Mount Warning), Phillip Edmonds (Leaving Home with Henr), & Inez Baranay (With The Tiger

just press on www.press-on-publishing.net

For More Information:

phone Michael Wilding in Sydney (02) 9979 7689,

or Phillip Edmonds in Adelaide 0407728401,

or email Michael Wilding or Phillip Edmonds

Press On

***

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