The Low Road Read Online Free PDF

shook his head and tried to ignore the smell of alcohol and bandages as Wild dressed his wound, which he seemed to do with much anxiety. He doubted this guy was a doctor at all. Probably swiped the bag from someone. It was, however, an act that seemed to require an exchange of minor intimacies.
    I’m meant to be at my sister’s.
    I see. And where is that?
    Lee hesitated, unsure of how much he should reveal to this stranger. Out near the ranges. Small town.
    Ah. The country.
    Yeah. There’s a lake. She’s expecting me.
    Wild stopped what he was doing, as if reminded suddenly of something unpleasant. Well. That’s nice. Perhaps you could go there when you’re better.
    Yes. I think I will.
    With your ill-gotten gains.
    Lee allowed himself a smile. Yeah. Wild’s grizzled profile hovered above him and he could feel the old guy’s anxious breath on his chest and the tight warmth of bandages being strapped across him. The burn of antiseptic. The bandages felt secure. Perhaps it would work out after all.
    And where are you meant to be?
    Wild straightened. What?
    Can’t imagine anyone ends up here because they want to.
    He shook his head. We don’t have the time for that particular conversation.
    When Wild had finished, Lee fumbled his way into his bloody t-shirt and grabbed his leather coat and the suitcase. He picked up the phone.
    What are you doing?
    Calling my sister. I should tell her everything is OK, that I’ll be there soon, in a few days.
    Wild shook his shaggy head. I don’t think we have time for that either. Do it later.
    Lee wondered about Wild. Was it foolish to go with this stranger, or no more foolish than anything he’d done in the past day or so? He knew there were moments in life when everything changed but invariably they emerged from nowhere with their own logic, from angles never considered. Accidents and disasters and acts of God. Then there were other occasions when you felt the breeze and all it required was a step. A particular and terrifying sort of abandonment. This was one of those times. He grabbed the suitcase. OK. Let’s get out of here.
    Wild was already standing by the door with his bag. Yes. Let’s sally forth.
    What?
    Let’s go.
    Lee nodded and they stepped into the cold night air.

5

    J osef made tomato soup from a tin. It plopped into the saucepan with a fleshy sound. He heated it and ate with concentration, blowing on each mouthful before sliding the spoon into his dry mouth.
    It fell dark and he drew the curtains. Some neighbours talked loudly on the stairwell outside his door. There was laughter, followed by frantic shushing. It would be that idiot from flat seven. He had the sense of a tiny bomb detonating within his chest. What was it about the laughter of others that could be so devastating? He ran a finger around his collar and sucked at his gold-capped eye tooth, fondling the surface expertly with his tongue. The noise died down, but irritation swirled in his chest, like mud stirred from the bottom of a lake.
    After eating, Josef sat smoking hand-rolled cigarettes at his kitchen table. White Ox tobacco, a prison habit. He wore only trousers and a white singlet. His skin was pale. Beneath a prominent collarbone was a clumsy scar, a splash of differently coloured skin, where he had been shot a long time ago. A woolly cross was tattooed on the inside of his left wrist. The tattoo’s longer line was about two inches in length, easily hidden beneath a shirt cuff. He traced the faint threads with the fingertips of his right hand, sensitive to the ink beneath the surface. Occasionally, the tattoo hummed, a sound to which he alone was sensitive, in the same way that only the musician is aware of the vibration of a cello’s string long after the audible note has died away.
    One of his clearest memories of prison was of the monotone whine of tattoo guns assembled from a thick guitar string, elastic and a small motor. It was