Struggle

Struggle.

By Matthew Durban.

Pat sat cross legged on the living room floor in the triangle of light from the north facing window. There was not a stick of furniture left in the house save for an old spring mattress which even the debt collection agency had rejected, and a few kitchen utensils. Strewth, they’d even taken the curtains. He sighed and rubbed his face for the upteenth time. He couldn’t quite believe it had to come to this. He always thought things would turn around in the end. ‘A mug's game’, his disappointed father had called it but he had won before. He just couldn’t hold onto the winnings. Didn’t matter whether it was the dogs or the gee-gees. Now he was in deep. 

A bluebottle buzzed over his head and became caught between the window and fly screen. The way out was seemingly clear but the insect stubbornly refused to backtrack and became enmeshed in a cobweb. Pat stretched out one leg and tried to straighten his back against the nearest wall. Absent-mindedly he ran his fingers over the indentations left in the linoleum. His bony shoulders crunched on alignment with the plasterboard and garish flowered wallpaper. The tremor in his left hand was getting worse. He slipped it under his thigh. Out of sight, out of mind. Pat was not without redeeming qualities however so his ever patient mother had said, and what he lacked in the looks department, he made up for with a degree of charm and mental acuity. Such qualities were useful to get money out of others. 

Mild anxiety, a familiar state, had escalated to alarm over the last week as Pat found his debts around town - almost five thousand to a bookie and the same to a fellow card player (both already incurring a criminal rate of interest), a thousand from a distant relative (now estranged relative), a few hundred from a friend (now ex-friend), and two hundred from a sympathetic shopkeeper (now no longer sympathetic) - had been disappearing. Curiously no one was reticent in sharing the details of his benefactor. The debts had been paid by one man, the local publican and erstwhile loan shark John Tucker.

Tucker, who understandably had no acceptable nickname, was around 6 foot with a V-shaped torso and thick hairy arms. A pale, narrow face, large nose and small green coloured eyes suggested some intelligence. Topped by a bald crown and circular fringe of hair, he looked almost monastic. A little older than Pat and originally from the English west country, his voice had a surprising feminine lilt. Indeed behind the bar of The Stuck Pig, Tucker could be both warm and humorous when the occasion demanded. In the ‘lending’ profession, Pat knew however him to be both calculating and volatile. 

…

Pat expected a beating. It had happened before. The trick was to protect your most vulnerable parts, head and groin mostly and the lower back if you could and let the bastards get it over with. You’d writhe on the ground in an unedifying spectacle but at least you might have something left at the end.

In the fading light, he had been examining the contents of an old cake tin retrieved from a shallow grave just under the step behind his back door. Sitting on the same back step, he looked over his father’s war service record, some letters to his mother, the deeds to the house and a well oiled service revolver wrapped in muslin. What would he put in his own tin box when the time came, the sum of a man’s life, he thought ruefully. Perhaps when you have nothing or less than nothing, you really begin to appreciate the value of stuff he thought. As the light faded, he discarded the muslin, snapped shut the tin and turned to go back in the house. They were on him quick, he gave them that but there the professionalism ended. The blows were clumsy and ill aimed. Pat was able to rip a shirt and scratch a face before a lucky blow to the head by one of his masked assailants put him down.

As he lay on the damp ground with a mouthful of blood and dirt, a beer soaked voice spat in his ear, “Tucker wants a word.” He kicked him in the gut one more time, “see you soon c***.” 

A little later, he was aware of someone else talking to him. A gentle voice, a woman’s voice,”still alive Patrick?” Only his mother called him Patrick but she had gone to her grave years ago, optimistic to the last that he would come good. He groaned and looked up through the one eye not closed over and saw an angel in a police uniform illuminated from beneath by the heavenly glow of a torch.

…

It was raining heavily when Pat approached The Stuck Pig just before noon. It had taken the best part of a week to recover from the beating - he was definitely feeling the wrong side of 40. Nevertheless he needed to negotiate or at least try. A plaintive call to the pub had confirmed a time with Tucker the following day. His heart was beating fast and his hands were clammy. Shivering a little as raindrops ran down his neck, he lifted his shoulders up and back in a mock military show, rubbed his still sore jaw, took a deep breath and pushed through the saloon door, a bell announcing his entrance. Immediately his nostrils were assailed by the smell of stale beer and cigarettes. The carpet was sticky and stained underfoot. Chairs were stacked on tables and the only light came from the pokie machines and overhead bar lights. To his surprise the saloon was devoid of patrons.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” said Tucker, appearing from a room behind the bar. They stood opposite each with only the bar gate between them. Pat stood there in wet jeans and jacket, making a little puddle on the floor. Tucker’s white sleeves were rolled up to the elbow emphasising his biceps. He uncrossed his arms and produced Pat’s tin from below the counter laying the contents on the bar. “Just what I always wanted.” Tucker fingered the deeds and after examining the chamber, pocketed the pistol. “I’ll give you the letters and military stuff. They don’t mean nawt to me. But this,” he tapped the deeds,”these are mine.”

“Youse have me debts, take it but leave me alone,” Pat replied weakly, his mouth dry and voice raspy. His nerves were further frayed as he became aware of a second person who stood off to his right, his lower face visible in the poor light. One of his assailants, he guessed judging by the scratches on the man’s cheek. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed that only one of them was needed. Still, Tucker did have the gun. “Happy to oblige, sign the deeds transfer here… and here,” he pointed out various locations on a form which was already pre-filled with a lawyer’s scrawl. “And everybody gets what they want. Almost,” Tucker grinned.

…

The rain had stopped and as he exited onto Broadway wiping his hands on his trousers, Pat took a deep breath and smiled as much with relief as exhaustion. Removing the wire uncomfortably taped to his chest, Pat knew he would have to leave town for a bit but it was a small price to pay. The brief burst of sunshine quickly retreated behind the clouds and he shivered at the drop in temperature. He rubbed his hands together and at the upended palms. The future looked grand. The slight tremor in his hand had resurfaced - was it nervous excitement or an inability to let go. Who cares? He could draw down on the equity in his home and get some cash for the track. The Police piled in behind him to make their arrest.