From Under the Overcoat Read Online Free PDF Page B

his door, heard nothing and decided not to wait.
    He lies back down and rolls to the cool side of the bed. His stomach heaves and he slides out of the bed and into the bathroom. He retches violently into the toilet.
    The grey tiles are cool against his skin. He slumps backwards against the wall, feeling the delicious chill of the marble work its way through the waves of nausea, through his body, cooling it down. The desire to go back to sleep is strong — almost hypnotic — but when he closes his eyesthe room spins in grey circles.
    The night before comes back in snapshots. The rich food, the menu with no prices. The foul, burning brandy, the rain slashing against the glass cube. And the spoofing — the little white sharp matchsticks pressing hard into the palm of his hand. The spoofing. Christ. How had that finished up? David feels his skin prickle; hot, then cold, then hot again, and he puts both hands down flat on the floor to steady himself. Then he remembers. He won the second round, exited the competition. David owes nothing for the evening — for his meal or for anyone else’s.
    He lifts himself off the floor and into the glass shower cubicle. The copper shower head spits hot needles over him. He leans against the wall. It’s absolutely clear, through the fog of the hangover, what he has to do. He has to go home. He has to get out of the shower, pack his clothes, zip the leather cover back over his golf bag and say goodbye to Neil, Ciaran and Mitchell.
    Luck has been on his side, but he is not a lucky man. He must quit with total damage of $700 for the weekend, maybe just $350, if the woman at reception takes pity on him.
    His head thumps as he pulls on his socks. The conversation in the car on the way over the hill comes back — the talk about the fourth guy, the one he replaced. How he’d cheated with the scoring. David remembers the scorn at the man’s lack of form oozing through the conversation.
    How would it look if he appeared in the lobby and claimed a convenient emergency at home? After he had fortuitously escaped paying for an evening of extravagance? David feels himself blushing at the thought of it, imagining the carconversation next time around, about that guy who freeloaded the first night of the trip, then ran home. He imagines facing Neil at work each day — Neil, always pleasant, always fair.
    David finishes dressing and takes two painkillers. He sits on the end of the king-sized bed and looks around the room. Smooth, cool grey lines; uncluttered, clean, simple. Extravagance in terms of what is missing, not what is there: the detritus of family life.
    A life could be lived simply, like this, he thinks. Imagine that.
    He curses himself for not asking more about the trip before agreeing to come. He curses again, for not mentioning that the cost of Jamie’s treatment falls on him, not the government . For all of these failures, he curses.
    The paracetamol is working. The shirt he wore last night is on the floor beside the bed. David takes his cellphone from the pocket and dials home. The line is engaged. He sends a text to Trudy’s cellphone: Need excuse 2 come home. Ring me @ 11 with ‘emergency’ .
     
    IT IS NINE O’CLOCK ; the early morning golfers teed off hours ago. They’ve agreed on match play. The first hole is a 554-metre par 5 — a finger of land poking at the line where the Pacific meets the sky. To the left and right, the fairway drops away to the sea far below. At the very end, teetering on the edge of the sharp verdant fingernail, is the flag.
    The four of them are on the tee, staring at the impossibly thin fairway.
    ‘How would you play it?’ asks Neil. The question is directed at no one in particular but they all look at David.
    ‘There’s only one way, straight down the middle,’ says David.
    Ciaran groans. ‘Thought you might say that.’
    David lines up the centre of the fairway and swings. The three wood is an extension of his arm and once more he feels the rush