STORY: ‘This Time, Next Time and Forever’

He came up to me at the café, clutching a cup, his grey goatee neatly clipped.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, an apologetic look on his half-familiar face.

I stirred substitute sugar into my skinny soy latte, rattling the cup. ‘Hi. How can I help?’

By then, though, his gaze had shifted to the wall behind me, where a mirror stood between two leggy potted plants. His eyes narrowed as he seemed to see his reflection. ‘Fu-uck,’ he muttered.

I jumped, dropping my spoon into the saucer with a clatter.

‘You’re the writer, right?’ he said, looking straight at me.

I nodded sourly. ‘Right. The writer.’

Dumping his cup on the table, he dragged out a chair. He sat on it straight-ways before spinning and straddling it like a motorbike.

I stared at him.

‘That’s better,’ he grunted. ‘This way I can feel me balls.’

I glanced around. ‘O-kay.’

He leaned forward. ‘You still got balls?’

‘Oh, please.’

‘It’s a metaphor, man. Come on – you’re the writer. Least I think you are. When’s your next book coming out?’

I stayed silent.

‘Exactly. Here’s my next question and it’s the big one. When did we lose our balls?’ He waved at our cups. ‘When did we start drinkin’ this shit?’

‘After the first heart attack,’ I said. ‘Look, what’s your point?’

‘Not so quick on the uptake today, Smithie old boy? My point is that we’ve both sold out. We’ve both gone soft.’

He sat back, his big hands gripping the back of the seat.

‘If I wasn’t such a pussy,’ I said, slowly, ‘I’d smash your ugly face in.’

He grinned. ‘Later. Right now we gotta get something straight. We’re as good as dead if we don’t.’

I studied his big serious face. Then I looked down at my blank screen. The writing wasn’t going so well, not this morning, not any morning.

‘Shoot,’ I said, snapping the laptop shut. ‘But first, would you mind telling me who the fuck you are?’

‘Curtis Marshall, that’s who.’

He watched my face for a reaction and got one.

‘Crooked Kurt.’ I said. ‘I thought you were dead, like Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Maybe I was.’

‘What happened?’

He shrugged. ‘I got married.’

‘Married?’

‘To the prison psych. Reckon now I was over-grateful. Guess I thought I owed it to her.’

‘You didn’t?’

‘I paid my debt. Maybe almost with my life.’

I laughed. ‘That’s ironic, seeing they sentenced you to life.’

‘You’d know irony, I guess, you being the writer and all.’

‘Ex-writer,’ I said, sourly.

‘Got a block?’

‘Only as big as the one at Barwon they locked you in.’

‘Not so big from the inside,’ Kurt said. ‘Anyway, yours is self-protection, probably.’

‘Self-protection?’

He nodded. ‘I saw your last few books. Me psych wife reads that sorta slush. But even she couldn’t stand it after a while. Said they oughta come with a health warning. I mean, she does PC to a T, but your kind of PC needs a PG.’

I grinned. ‘Either you’re really clever or I’m really dumb.’

‘You’re dumb all right, but not that dumb. Not dumb enough to look a gift horse in the kisser.’

Glancing around, I pushed my cup away and leaned forward.

‘What you got?’

‘Crooked Kurt, that’s what. Crime and corruption, dames and dirt – real dirt. ‘Cause that’s what you need right now, isn’t it, Smithie old boy, more than anything. Something real to write about. Something to get those pretty white hands of yours nice and dirty.’

‘Careful,’ I said. ‘I’ve just had my nails done.’

‘Suit yourself,’ he said, standing suddenly, his chair falling with a clatter. ‘But I’m going back into business and I’m gonna need someone who knows the score, someone to keep the books. I’m gonna need someone who can bring Crooked Kurt back to life, to give him back his bad name and make it worse. Someone who can write hard and fast and live that way too. Someone who needs his bad name almost as much as me.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ve come to the wrong bloke.’

I watched in alarm as he reached for the edge of the table. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Getting started,’ he said, and with a heave turned the table over. A clamour went up as the cups smashed on the polished concrete floor.

‘Fuck me,’ I cried, clambering to my feet. ‘It’s a metaphor!’

‘Well, hello,’ Kurt said, with a grin, ‘the writer is back. He’s seen the light. Grab that gadget of yours, Smithie, and let’s go get us a drink. A real one this time. This time, next time and forever.’

(Image by Martin Vorel)