Straight Jacket. Adrian Deans

there was a little promise to the evening after all.

      I finished dressing (in surgical black) and pulled the little wooden box from my bottom drawer. Inside were three different types of heads, a couple of grams of coke and half a tile I’d been saving for a special occasion.

      The half tile went down with a glass of water — it’d be an hour at least before that kicked in, so I rolled a cocktail joint with a pinch of all three varieties. Then I fired up and wandered out on to my balcony to watch the sunset over the Lane Cove River Valley. It was a fucking cracker I decided after several tokes — and then a few tokes more to be on the safe side.

      I found myself grinning as I anticipated snatches of the evening’s conversation. I’ve often been complimented on my wit, or how fast on my feet I am in a courtroom, but the secret, both legally and socially, is to be prepared. Never get into a confrontation unless you’ve already been through the whole thing in advance, anticipating every point and shooting it down with arguments you’ve had hours, days or years to hone.

      I roached the joint and looked at my watch — still plenty of time. The dope would slow me down, so what about something to get the engine running? I chopped up a small line of coke and fought the urge to laugh. I always have a bit of trouble with coke — the idea of sticking something up your proboscis seems so ridiculous that I can’t help but laugh at the critical moment. I’ve pissed off numerous friends and associates as their precious white powder has been sprayed into the air by my grunting mirth.

      But this time I was able to compose myself, even managing to switch nostrils for the second half and threw my head back in ecstasy as the powder hit the spot. The J Spot they ought to call it — the breathless Joy Spot.

      Okay, I was ready for anything now. I strode back inside, grabbed two bottles of my favourite sauvignon blanc and popped them into my wine cooler — one of my few concessions to the bourgeois existence expected of a lawyer of nearly twenty years standing. I reckon you could break into Kirribilli House shouting anarchist slogans and clutching a Kalashnikov, but as long as you also had a wine cooler they’d think twice before shooting you.

      •

      I love driving stoned — although driving in sunshine is a lot easier than night, when the oncoming lights can be deceptive.As long as you get through the first few minutes, you eventually become one with the car, which is exactly what happened that evening as I made my way out of darkest Lindfield and turned my black Jag into the neon chaos of the Pacific Highway — the power of the engine rumbling in my loins, shooting up my backbone, purring in my brain.

      It was nice to drive the Jag for a change. More often than not I got about in my nondescript Mazda. Brand new Jaguars tend to be noticed.

      I was content to stay in the middle lane, which would normally drive me mad, but I was too stoned to risk movement in more than one prevailing dimension. Besides, I was in no hurry. It was a fantastic evening, violet black with the first jasmine of summer — the sort of night which enables and empowers my art.

      Then the news came on, which meant I was late. Where does the time go? There was the usual crap about the economy, something about the prime minister’s prostate, and then a two-minute piece on the discovery of another body in Galston Gorge. Apparently the body had been partially dismembered.

      Takes all sorts.

      Jill was waiting out the front of her building in North Sydney, which pissed me off. I really enjoy the view of the harbour from her bedroom balcony, and I think the coke would have appreciated the express lift to the forty-second floor. Maybe later.

      I had to say one thing for Jill, she was a class act — or so I thought when I first met her. She’s the sort of person who always seems completely uncontrived while strictly obeying the latest directives in clothing, hair and attitude. That’s one of the great things about being a man — dark pants, a sports jacket and an enigmatic frown never go out of style.

      I pulled up next to her.

      ‘How are you, Gorgeous?’

      She smiled nicely, but bunched her brows as I removed the wine cooler from the passenger seat and went to place it on the floor. But as soon as she sat down, I plonked it in her lap.

      ‘There you go, Beautiful. Look after that!’

      She went to say something, but I revved the engine and pulled into the street. It was only a couple of minutes to her friends’ place in Cremorne, and I wanted to give her minimum opportunity to instruct me on how to behave.

      ‘Can you turn the radio down, Morgen?’

      ‘Pardon?’

      ‘Could you please turn the radio down?’

      As she raised her voice, I strategically muted the radio, making it sound like she was shouting. In response, I thinned my lips and my eyes went flinty-hard. I stabbed a vicious finger at the radio console, and the car was suddenly silent.

      She just stared at me in shock for a few seconds — I’d seemed so happy only moments before.

      ‘Darling,’ she said, mystified and a trifle concerned. ‘You didn’t need to turn it off … I only asked for you to turn it down a little. I wanted to talk to you.’

      ‘No need to shout!’ I snapped.

      Her face went white and then green in the glare of neon at the top of Neutral Bay.

      ‘I didn’t mean to shout … are you alright?’

      ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘I rang your office this afternoon and they said you’d gone home early. You’re not sick are you?’ she asked, clearly hoping I was. It might explain my mood swings.

      ‘Sick? I’m not sick. It’s Feargol that’s sick.’

      ‘Feargol, your boss?’

      ‘How many Feargols do you think I know?’

      She ignored my sarcasm and soldiered on.

      ‘What’s wrong with Feargol?’

      ‘Cancer.’

      ‘Oh no … that’s terrible!’

      ‘That’s not the worst of it.’

      ‘Really … what could be worse than cancer?’

      ‘He’s gone and picked bloody Affridge to be head of Compliance.’

      ‘Morgen! How can you compare someone getting cancer with you being passed over for promotion? I had no idea you were so heartless!’

      But she seemed relieved. She obviously thought she understood the reason for my disquiet, and it was nothing to do with her.

      •

      Sonia and Derek’s house was one of those understated semi-mansions on the harbour side of Cremorne — an annoyingly long walk both uphill to the restaurants and down to the water. It was fucking inconsiderate, and I felt my sense of justice becoming engorged — even tumescent, you might say.

      There was a powerful smell of turpentine from some huge piney conifer and the marble steps were cracked, worn and yellow with age. The air temperature was perfect and there were flashes of jasmine from somewhere. The various drugs fizzing in my system made walking down a path feel like a triumphal progress with a fanfare of trumpets. Is that acid I feel?

      Before we could ring the doorbell, light streamed out and I felt my pupils twisting like an itchy demon’s, and realised I was grinning widely at the woman who materialised in the doorway.

      ‘Jill! How lovely to see you!’

      Sonia was very like Jill in appearance, but without the uncontrived aspect I’d initially found so attractive. In fact, I suddenly thought rather less of Jill for being friends with her — more judicial ammunition.

      The two women exchanged air kisses, then Sonia turned to me.

      ‘Welcome, Morgen …