The Amateur Science of Love by Craig Sherborne Page A

If I am a murderer (and I know what pious folk say—there’s a God of wrath and a day of judgment on the issue), then Tilda is co-murderer with me.
    She said, ‘I’ll make a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. They’ll be looking up me, so no more entering.’ She spoke quietly, no tears. You’d have thought we would have one argument at least. One outburst of pleading—‘Change your mind, Colin. Let’s have this baby.’ Even some ‘stuck your dick in me’ savagery. But there wasn’t.
    Not mentioning Richard or Alice was like living a convenient lie. But live that way we did. The abortion was arranged for the following Friday. I sat in a café across the road from where it happened, just around from her studio. The café’s still there; the doctor’s place isn’t.
    I kept smelling the sewer under my feet. For all the concrete and tarseal, my mind had wind of it. Richard and Alice would be flushed down there, I expected. I lifted my soles off the ground. As if that would disconnect me! After all, sewers run to the sea. The sea gets turned into oxygen. My lungs would end up breathing it in. There was no escaping.
    Ever since, if I go to Melbourne I avoid Fitzroy. I loop right around it.

Chapter 30
    I have a theory: Tilda adored the idea of motherhood but was relieved we never went through with it. She’d had a lovely, if brief, experience of having life inside her without the reality to deal with. If the episode haunted her she had me, Colin, to blame. She had the upper hand on me. Morally, I mean. She was absolved.
    Makes me feel better, this theory. Why else would I have invented it, sitting in that café? It helped rid the sewer smell. It was a comfort once the abortion was done and I drove Tilda to a motel in North Melbourne. She was silent and pale in the passenger seat, head back, eyes closed. Her hand over her stomach as if nurturing it.
    The motel wasn’t some cheap dive. It had air-conditioning and a king-sized bed and six pillows for Tilda to treat herself.
    ‘Treat myself for what?’ she said. ‘You make it sound like I’ve achieved something.’
    ‘Treat yourself in the convalescing sense. We can afford two nights. I’ll wait on you.’
    Doctor’s orders banned her from exerting herself or having baths for three days—baths can bring on haemorrhaging. She had pads between her legs, which made walking uncomfortable. She reclined, legs apart with the blankets over her and looked at the television, more staring at it than watching. She didn’t laugh when the canned laughter prompted us. Or look sad when movie music wanted it.
    The only food she felt like was wonton soup. I found a takeaway place and ferried in two lots a day. She craved the salty juice and hardly pecked at the wontons.
    I asked, ‘Is there nothing else I can bring you?’
    She shook her head, said no . There was an irritable sound in the no. My theory put that down to punishment. The more I wanted to do some little thing for her, the more she was determined to deprive me of the pleasure.
    It worked too. I had never felt so miserable. I hoped that by telling her this she would converse with me, be finished with punishing. ‘I want you to know I feel terrible,’ I said.
    ‘How does that help me?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    On one visit to the toilet her bleeding became heavier.
    I panicked. ‘Is it normal? You want me to call someone?’
    ‘No,’ she said. Still an irritable no, but she repeated it quietly and then said, ‘ I’ll make a call. I want to call my lawyer.’
    Was she intending to sue me? I didn’t know what law I’d broken. ‘Lawyer? About this ? We can solve this. No need for lawyers.’
    ‘About Scintilla. I want to speak to him about my place. I want to check something with him.’
    ‘If you want to get out of the sale, I’m sure they can do that.’
    ‘Who wants to get out of the sale?’
    ‘After what’s happened. We, well, we wouldn’t be going ahead.’
    ‘I am going ahead. I want to speed up