Terry Dowling - La Profonde.pdf - Terry Dowling - widez2

La Profonde

TERRY DOWLING

Terry Dowling is one of Australia’s most awarded, versatile and

internationally acclaimed writers of science fiction, fantasy and horror. He is

author of nine books, among them the award-winning Tom Rynosseros

saga and the critically praised collections Blackwater Days and Basic

Black: Tales of Appropriate Fear , as well as three computer adventures.

Terry’s stories have appeared in The Year’s Best Science Fiction, The

Year’s Best SF, The Year’s Best Fantasy, The Best New Horror and many

times in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror , as well as in anthologies as

diverse as Dreaming Down Under, Centaurus, Wizards and The Dark .

Holding a doctorate in Creative Writing, he is also editor of Mortal

Fire: Best Australian SF, The Essential Ellison and The Jack lance

Treasury , and has been genre reviewer for The Weekend Australian for

the past eighteen years. His homepage can be found at

www.terrydowling.com

‘La Profonde’ is the result of Terry’s fascination with the landscapes

around Perth’s suburban railway stations under that unique western light,

and his chance discovery of the name for those special pockets in a

magician’s coat.

* * * *

here was no mistaking how surprised Derwent was when he saw Jay

walking along the railway tracks towards him. Jay’s one-time business

partner was wearing sunglasses, so his eyes were hidden, but his mouth

actually fell open. Then, in true Derwent fashion, his surprise and fear

turned immediately to anger.

“Fuck, Jay, what is all this?” he shouted. “This ‘meet me at the station’

stuff?”

Jay just smiled and waved, then waited till he’d reached the end of the

otherwise deserted platform, and Derwent was glowering down at him over

the safety rail.

“Tell me, Dee” - Jay deliberately used the unwelcome nick-name -

“Do you know what a profonde is?”

But Derwent wasn’t up for any of Jay’s smart-ass questions. He was

hot and sweating, clearly upset. Though only thirty-seven, two years

younger than Jay, red-faced and agitated like this he looked ten years

older. One well-timed email had turned Derwent’s world upside-down.

Dee, we need to talk. I have documented proof of what you

and Cally did to Edilo Ltd. Take the 12:55 to Morley Station on

Sunday for a 1:30 pm meeting. You won’t tell the others and

you will come alone. This is your one chance.

Jay couldn’t see Derwent’s eyes, but he could easily picture the

determination he’d find in them amid the rage and desperation. Dee had

been threatened with having his scam exposed, the dangerous emails he’d

thought he’d purged from the office systems while he and Cally were

plundering Edilo in true insider fashion. Three years of enjoying the spoils;

now this summons to a deserted suburban railway station on a hot Sunday

afternoon. He’d had enough.

Jay hauled himself up onto the platform. Morley Station was almost as

new as the housing estates going up all about them beyond the cutting, just

a stretch of hot concrete between two sets of tracks, with nothing more than

a modest double-sided passenger shelter, two lamp-posts with signs

attached saying Morley , and a set of iron steps at one end leading up to a

deserted bus-stop and a car-park, both as deserted as the station at this

time of day. “A profonde , Derwent? Ever hear of one?”

But for Derwent there was only one issue. His sunglasses might be

hiding his eyes but his other features showed the full extent of his emotion.

“Three fucking years, Jay. What do you want?” Not, Jay noticed, how the

hell did you find out?

Jay grinned and gestured down the platform to where the rails

stretched off in the afternoon glare. “I want you to take a walk with me, Dee,

that’s all.”

“Christine and the kids know where I am, Jay.”

Jay doubted that, and ultimately it didn’t matter. “So what’s the harm in

taking a walk so we can talk about this?”

“Talk about it here. What do you want?” It was the old Derwent, the

pre-scam Derwent showing through, but it truly was a mere shadowplay of

how Dee had been three years before, a bravura display from a broken

puppet.

Jay squinted in the glare. He glanced up and down the quiet platform

in its lonely cutting. No sunglasses for him. Never. He listened to the hot

breeze pushing through the grass on the embankments, then glanced at

this watch. “Derwent, I’m going to start walking north along the tracks now. If

you’ve got any sense, any interest in saving your fat ass, you’ll take that walk

with me. It’s up to you, buddy.”

And, true to his word, Jay turned and began heading along the

platform.

Derwent swore, called after him, shouted abuse, even the beginnings

of threats - just the beginnings - but Jay kept walking. When he reached the

end of the concrete deck he crouched and jumped down onto the rail-bed,

then began moving north along the tracks.

There were more angry shouts from the platform behind him, but Jay

didn’t stop. He kept walking, smiling into the day, relishing the warm breeze

on his face and the realization that this could indeed be done exactly as he

had planned it.

Back at that hot quiet station Derwent would be running through his

options, railing at the universe, at the insufferable turn of events. Sooner

rather than later, he would accept that there was nothing else he could do

but follow. He’d been caught out. He could only try to survive this. Maybe

he’d blame Cally, say that she had persuaded him . That was likely.

Finally Jay heard, “Well hold on then!” But, of course, Jay didn’t slow

his pace. Couldn’t. He’d checked his watch and it truly could remain a

matter of timing. Let Derwent shed some of those happy fat-cat pounds

he’d been putting on during the past three years.

It was easy to tell when Dee was gaining by the laboured breathing

getting nearer, the growing thud of footsteps out of time with Jay’s own. It

was like someone imitating an old-style steam locomotive, exactly that.

Then Derwent was there, staggering, straining, hauling in big ragged

breaths. When he could get words out, they were the expected things.

“Wasn’t personal - Jay. Never - personal. Un’erstan’?” It seemed like

all he could manage.

“Glad to hear it, Dee.” Jay didn’t look at him, just kept watching the

way ahead, reading every detail of the route between the two sets of tracks.

“But how exactly do you mean that? Never personal?”

Derwent stumbled along, still trying to catch his breath but probably

exaggerating that, giving himself time to gather his thoughts and, hardest of

all, hold back his anger. Would he blame Cally, take the easy out and blame

it all on her? Difficulties for him later, certainly, but a solution now.

Jay savoured the breeze on his brow and wondered what line the

other man would take. However it went, Derwent would be sensing there

was hope, would believe he knew exactly how he had to play this. Maybe

he’d be thinking he really could reach some private settlement here, buy

himself out of trouble.

Derwent finally answered. “You were just someone, okay?” More

ragged breathing. “Could’ve been anyone.” Another pause, laboured. He

truly did seem to be judging every word. “You un’erstand? It was just - the

situation. An opportunity. It’s not like we ever - signed on to get you .”

Derwent emphasized the last word.

Finally Jay did look across at the man trudging with him between the

two sets of tracks. “Who’s we?”

“Aw, hell, Jay. What does it matter? It was just something that came

along, you know? Never thought about it too much.”

“Enough to get away with it for a while. Ruin the company. I trusted

you.”

“Yeah, well, some of us aren’t as trusting as you, okay? We don’t light

up as bright. We try, but it doesn’t always happen. You made it easy.”

“There was Cally. Who else?”

“Hell, Jay. It’s been three years! Why this now?”

“Brian had to be in on it. Those emails make that pretty clear. And

Mark, doing the accounts. You needed him. Barbara, Ashley and Hiro were

mentioned.”

“Christine knows where I am, Jay.”

“I grew up on a railway line, did you know that, Dee?”

“How the hell would I know that?” Derwent said, thrown by the change

of subject and forgetting for a moment how this had to be played.

“That was out in Leederville. As kids, friends and I would walk the

tracks between Leederville and Quinton, just exploring, you know. Always

loved what you found along railway lines.”

“Is that right?”

“Nothing forces patterns on a landscape more than a railway. All

those lines and curves. No barriers. Hills cut away, fields divided. Rivers

hardly stand a chance. It’s all so precise, so artificial. Then it changes. It

doesn’t stay like that. It’s almost as if the intrusion is resented, worn away.”

“Resented? That’s a bit much.”

“Not at all. It’s the elevator effect. People get in an elevator. It’s really

just a little room that moves up and down over a tremendous drop and

takes them to where they’re going. Most people don’t think of using an

elevator in terms of shafts and counterweights and terrible drops. It’s just a

room that moves and does a job. Same with railways. People notice the

trains, sure, maybe the tracks while a train is on them, but what about when

a train isn’t passing? The tracks are overlooked, forgotten. All that

precision, that regimentation gets blurred, roughed up. Pretty soon those

railside corridors become wilderness, bits of a rogue landscape. People

looking out train windows always look beyond the corridor, have you

noticed?”

“No, I haven’t. Listen, Jay, this is interesting but I don’t see what it has

to do with our situation.”

“Love that word, Dee. Situation. Tidies it up so nicely, don’t you think?

That’s why names are so important. Finding the right handles.”

“What can we do about this, Jay?”

“One thing at a time. You never answered my question.”

“What question?”

Terry Dowling - La Profonde.pdf

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