Lawyers, Sex and Money

 
Je suis consumé par chagrin.

A few days ago I got the most recent letter from a solicitor in Gympie, who’s doing his best to blackmail me into giving money to Catherine’s former husband. A nasty little man, pickled in beer and marijuana; dull, unappetising and obsessed with fish. The husband that is, I don’t know about the lawyer. It plunged me into depression again. Real depression, not just a black mood or moment; sleeping all day and awake all night, clothes and bedding scattered around the room, clean laundry under the heap, subsisting on a diet of chocolate bars and double strength coffees. Most unhealthy. It’s hard to tell what’s causing the gloom, the husband or the lawyers.

On the one hand Catherine’s ex is still trying to gouge money from her, long after she’s left him and long after she’s dead. He’s like a louse that doesn’t know when to stop, doesn’t realise that the warmth has fled the flesh, that the host is no longer a banquet for this unquiet parasite’s pleasure. Have we have a plan for him? Let's say no more now, but wait until all knots are tied and all deals sealed. Then we’ll see what may be done to bring him undone.

“First thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.”
– Shakespeare, King Henry VI Part 2: Act 4. Scene II

On the other hand we have lawyers, enough to make you slap that hand hard against a wall. I loathe lawyers. Not hate, not despise, just a cordial loathing for a necessary evil. I’ve never had anything to do with them that hasn’t cost me in spades: emotional capital as well as simple lucre. They wear upon the soul, grate upon the nerves, abrade the self-respect and strength I carry with me.

The last one I hired was clean enough. Top end of town and glass-faced high-rise, sharp-faced blonde and efficient with the work, which was done by a middle-aged brunette, but billed for the blonde. They were a front for me, representing my good self to the Supreme Court, arranging the grant of Letters Of Administration over Catherine's estate. Clean, simple, efficient enough, money for new old-rope.

The one before that cost me $8,000, failed to represent me in court, reduced me to tears for failing to deal with the magistrate on my own, bullied me over the phone and gouged me for work that didn’t address the issue. In the end I solved the problem myself. Inveigled a written confession from the slimy bastard in question, held it over his head, that of my disgusting first wife, and made them shift to my tune. Justice was acquired, I suppose, sufficient unto the day. Then, after it was all over, I went to the police station and got my guns back in person.

The lawyer in question was an ugly old boot, with a Latin inscription over her door which translated as ‘Old dogs for hard roads’. I should perhaps have spotted that I didn’t need an old dog chasing me along a hard road when I had problems enough in the first place. They say if you’re innocent you have nothing to fear. They lie. Being innocent doesn’t prevent you from being involved in the shit of others, and it almost guarantees that you’ll wind up paying in some form or other. Pounds sterling, pounds of flesh, a shit-load of grief, a wagon-load of someone else’s shit.

This evening I went to see a free lawyer, the Caxton Street Legal Service, which, naturally, is in Heal Street, New Farm. You turn up, fill out the form and then wait until a ‘pro-bono’ brief calls your name. I had the reply to the Gympie swine ready with me. I’ve spent the last four days writing and re-writing it. I just needed a legal eagle-eye to weed out any weaknesses and let me see it clear. It was quick, and done with good-natured good humour by a brace of well-educated ladies. Once I saw it through their eyes we were done in minutes. It helps that I’ve enough practice now to craft a fissile missive. But that wasn’t the interesting part.

L’exigence de guerre, l’exigence d’amour.

I’d dragged the carcass out of bed at the crack of three pm, drained bleary-eyed cups of coffee while watching an excellent French film about torture during the war in Algeria. Showered and scraped with razor, steam-ironed a black shirt and got myself in the car and there with sufficient alacrity to be at the head of the queue. Then filled in the form and sat to wait with a H.H. Kirst novel which quickly palled.

And then it happened. I began to write. And not just any writing. I’ve been working on a chapter about Colleen, my Eurydice that was. And I’d hit the wall. Stopped cold when it came to a hot point about lust and the mechanics of seduction. And there in the lawyers office, sitting among the dim and destitute, the divorced and despairing, I began to write about sex. Just a sentence or two at first as an idea struck me that needed recording, but then it began to flow.

Soon I was writing as fast as my blue biro would scrawl. Hot, wet, steam-powered legatos of lubricious lust. Clauses dripping desire onto taut fabric. Long, hard sentences about long, hard thoughts. Moments of sublime sensuality and sheer stockings topped by black-lace bands. Scotch and ice, and sex for the sophisticate. Wicked, wilful sins held in check by the bondage of anticipation. Every so often I’d pause, searching for the mot mauvais, but it didn’t take long. Soon it was on again, on for young and old, novice and necrophile, wench and wanton..

I waited for almost two hours to be seen by a lawyer. But it didn’t matter a damn, because I filled six A4 pages with a wealth of fabulous, luminous sex-magic. The man sitting in the plastic chair to my right was reading it over my shoulder when they called his name. I was still writing it when they called mine. Tomorrow I’ll transcribe it, edit and add to it. And edit the legal letter. Right now it’s 3.52 am and after dining rather late I think I’ll hit the sack for a few hours of well-earned.

I think Pan is starting to talk to me again.
It’s been quite a while but I’m glad to hear his pipes.