The Knife Sharpener (3)

3.

‘Haven’t seen Paul in yonks,’ said Bohemian Bob.

            Nichola watched the man across the road. His steps were unsure and uneven as he swayed back and forth. First heading towards Dandenong Rd and leaning on a shuttered Asian restaurant. Then reversing back in the direction of South Yarra past a well-lit X-rated bookstore. She had never seen a silver robed person enter the building.

            ‘How do you know who he is?’ asked Nichola.

            ‘His resplendent accoutrement. Never takes it off.’

            ‘It could be someone else wearing it.’

            ‘Nah, not a chance. It’s like his personal uniform, sayin who he is and where he belongs. Like my eye patch used to do,’ said Bohemian Bob. ‘Also, Paul is a spindly fella. A bit of torso. A lot of arms and legs.’

The silver robed man across the road was sitting on the ground in front of the X-rated bookstore. His knees were wrapped up by his protruding elbows and long forearms. High enough to nearly cover his face. Nichola couldn’t deny that he was certainly unusually long limbed.

‘Beanstalk bastard. Have a look at him, will ya? I wonder where he’s been?’ asked Bohemian Bob, slurping at his beer and checking his black digital watch. ‘Nearly time to head out, love. Gotta chase the hour on down the street. Cheeky bugger always creeping on.’

‘How do you know Paul?’ asked Nichola. She was still doubting the veracity of his claims. It could be Geoff under that silver robe. He’d arrived at 4:15pm. Although she wasn’t sure if Geoff was quite so skinny and knobbly. The silver robed man across the street was struggling to rise. A few orange tanned women and men in yoga pants and puffer jackets, accompanied by three terriers in Versace alpaca sweaters, gave him a wide birth as they yakked there way down the footpath. Their noses wrinkled through the botox.

‘He used to occupy that very seat of yours, Nicky. Come in all silver sparkly and the like, inhale a few, talk endlessly about outer space mostly. Couldn’t even get a word in. Me? I know right? Verbose fella. Passionate about his role in that Church of his,’ said Bohemian Bob, pointing across the road to the building. ‘I remember one night he met me after his congregation and followed me down Chapel. Might’ve been one of the last nights I saw him, too. Dunno. My brain could be making a foggy rumour out of the whole affair. I think he appeared when I was most of the way to Toorak Rd.’

The silver robed man had managed to get to his feet. There was a frantic jerk to his motion now. A marionette movement of hurrying away but trapped on the same stage.

‘He say anything else about his Church?’ asked Nichola.

‘Not much that I can bring to mind, love. I was properly carouselling Chapel by then, succumbed to the froth fever,’ said Bohemian Bob, finishing the last dregs of his beer. His knees audibly creaked over the stoner rock on the speakers as he stood. ‘I don’t think he was having fun there anymore. I get that. You know how I hold fun at a high premium. Paul was just rambling about apocalyptic changes to the doctrine. “Not the spirit of it. We were community,” he was saying.’ Bohemian Bob dwelled for a moment. ‘Might’ve been saying. There’s a lot of voices up here, Nicky,’ said Bohemian Bob, tapping on his stackhat.

Kent and Todd, still in their black and silver robes, ran out the front door of the building. The silver robed man spotted them and tried to take off down Chapel towards South Yarra. His legs buckled and he fell two steps past the X-rated bookstore. Quickly, Kent and Todd surrounded the fallen figure and hurled him up by the crook of his elbows. His hood tumbled off his head, revealing a pinched face with a huge nose.

‘That’s Paul’s proboscis, alright,’ said Bohemian Bob. He looked down at his sweater and pulled at a loose thread. The two black and silver robed men hauled Paul back into the building. Nichola could almost hear his whimpering. There was no muscle or fight in the man. A couple of Chapel St tramps nearby ignored the whole scene. They hit their goon sack and asked a trio of Southside hipsters eating burgers for a smoke.

‘Time to jostle onwards,’ said Bohemian Bob.

‘Ok. See ya, Bob,’ said Nichola.

A few motoboys stood up and made their way to the entrance of the bar. Bohemian Bob removed his orange stackhat and left it in the communal bucket.

He turned back to Nichola. ‘I don’t know much bout your interest in them over there, love, but as I’ve said before, they’re a harmless bunch. Middle of the road people trying to find their rock to get off. Get a little freaky. A bit noteworthy in an otherwise unspectacular existence.’

‘They just dragged your mate Paul back into that building. Their Church,’ said Nichola.

‘So, they’re a bit kinky? Don’t worry your emotion on them, Nicky. Leave em be. Nothing to be done,’ said Bohemian Bob. ‘Tell you what, come with me down Chapel. Give this stuff to your memory and let it lie. I’ll tell you all about that time I got lost in Forest Hill. Got out just before the Wastes. We’ll have a good old time.’

‘No thanks, Bob,’ said Nichola. ‘I’ll probably see you tomorrow.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yeah.’

Bohemian Bob bumbled out of the bar, half looking at Nichola. ‘Righto,’ he said and disappeared in a circle of motoboys, seeking the Windsor Station pub that was always his next stop.

Nichola watched him go and drank her cider. She turned back to the building. She had gone down the alley to its right a few times. It led to a fenced, gravel pit carpark that backed onto a gully where the Sandringham train line ran.

She had always thought that there was only the one entrance and exit to the building. To this Church.

But, maybe?

She dwelled on her mission and waited for it to get dark.