Blind Spot – Chapter 8
Perspectives
In the days that follow, Mercy tries to phone me, several times. I refuse her calls, delete her messages unread. I go to block her, but each time I stop short.
I just don’t know how to process what happened.
There’s only one person I can talk to about something this intimate, and it has to be face-to-face. In the end, I drive to Colac, catch the ten forty-five to Southern Cross.
For two hours I watch the countryside go by, punctuated by building sites and new estates of tight-packed houses. Then the outer suburbs: big-box stores and warehouses on the right, forlorn scrubby grassland on the left. Inner suburbs: spraycrete walls in tunnel-like cuttings, then views of brick buildings across urban streets. Graffiti increasing in density from isolated tags on posts and barriers to tangled masses of bright lettering. The great sinuous curve of the West Gate Bridge far off to the right, carrying toy cars and trucks across the Yarra.
Cavernous Southern Cross with its sickly diesel fumes, vertiginous escalators. Down the concrete spillway past Docklands Stadium. Ahead the expanse of Victoria Harbour with its architectural extravagances in steel and glass: the gigantic cylindrical Banksia Flower. The NAB building: a three-dimensional Mondrian. The cleft Leaning Towers with the kink in the middle. My eyes hurt trying to make sense of them.
Jeannie meets me in a café overlooking the water.
‘Hello, stranger! So, Ben from the Bush returns to the Big Smoke. At last!’
The venue’s a good choice: soft music you don’t have to shout over, discreet waiting staff, a decent Asian fusion menu. Not too crowded, even on a weekday lunchtime.
We chat about inconsequential stuff, just catching up. Then, after we’ve ordered and have more privacy, she listens to what I have to say about the afternoon with Mercy. Mostly without interrupting or getting the wrong end of the stick.
‘Wow, intense,’ is her lame comment when I finish. ‘So, how do you feel about it?’
‘Dunno,’ is my equally lame response. ‘Not sure what to feel about it.’
She’s silent for a few moments, obviously reviewing how to say what she wants to say.
‘Has this ever happened to you before?’
‘A forced sexual act?’ I don’t want to say the r-word, don’t even know if it’s appropriate. ‘No.’
‘It happens to women a lot.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘It’s not always violent, brutal like on TV or in the newspapers. And it’s not always clear-cut.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Do you have any idea how often, as a young woman, I came away from an encounter that turned sexual, thinking “What just happened there? Was that what I think it was?” Like, whether it was just a misunderstanding, or he knowingly forced me to do something I didn’t want, or did something to me that I hadn’t decided I wanted, or maybe I wanted it but not like that, because I needed more time to get in the mood?’
‘No, I didn’t know that.’
‘Because like a lot of women, maybe most women, I didn’t want to discuss it. I wanted to put it behind me and get on with my life. The line between a clumsy, insensitive, impatient man and a rapist … it’s not always a line. Nobody wants to talk about that, put a label on that, ’cause that label is life-changing for both parties.’
‘I’m sorry that happened to you, Jeannie.’
Yeah, I know: dumb comment. She waves it aside.
‘Not asking for sympathy. The thing is, nobody – including me – has the right to tell you how to feel about this, what to do about it. You’ve got to work that out for yourself.’
‘Right.’
So, back to square one, then.
‘How do you feel about her, generally?’
‘Conflicted, now. I thought I liked her. I mean, even though she’s really pushy …’
‘You adore “pushy” women, Benny! You love being pushed. I mean, not like that, but …’
I feel momentarily offended, but I guess she’s right.
‘Does that make me a pushover, then?’
‘It makes you sweet, actually. “Sweet as fuck”, my kids would say. An intelligent, capable, wildly successful man who doesn’t feel the need to be in control all the time? In good shape? Not too hideous? You’re a little unicorn, Benny!’
She pats me on the cheek in a sisterly way.
‘So tell me more about this woman. Odd name. You think she might be a dominatrix? Does she get up in tight black leather? Have an unhealthy obsession with whips?’
She’s not really treating this with the gravity it deserves, but I can’t help smiling at the mental picture of Mercy in S&M gear. Lovers begging Mercy for mercy …
‘It’s short for Mercedes. And no, if she’s got a whip, it hasn’t come out yet.’
‘Yet. So you haven’t definitely decided to stop seeing her.’
She’s got me. Moving swiftly onward, I tell her about Mercy’s career change.
‘Sounds like one clever, manipulative woman. After your money?’
Well, yes, I had considered that.
‘After all, being a rich bastard is your most attractive feature. It’s the only reason I sleep with you.’
It takes me a moment to realise she’s taking the piss.
I do notice her use of the present tense, though.
Next week in Blind Spot:
Chapter 9: Trick or Treat?
Mercy and Ben do some straight talking.
Acknowledgement of Country: This story is set on the lands of the Djargurd Wurrung, while the author lives on Wadawurrung country. I pay my respects to their Elders past, present and emerging.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned herein are the product of the author’s imagination. The locations are based on real places.
Is introducing a whip like introducing a gun? If it's onstage in the first act it has to go off in the third?
That was unexpected, Steve. Waiting for the next chapter. Ben and Mercy do need to talk.