Coral Sea Affair

by Drew Lindsay

The CIB basement was dark. It wasn’t supposed to be dark but no-one seemed to bother about the fluorescent tubes which had expired long ago. On B2, eight tubes worked, 3 flickered and eighteen were dead. Ben manually unlocked his battered Commodore sedan. The remote control locking had never worked from the day he bought it. He opened a rear door and slid the box of possessions onto the seat. He slammed the door and the booming echo off cold painted concrete startled him for a second.

  He knew he should head home. Fay would probably be out but she would be back later and things needed some straightening out. A car roared up a ramp, its tyres screeching on the painted concrete.

  ‘Bugger it…’ he whispered. Ben locked his car and walked to the lift. He wasn’t going home. His mind was too stirred up and restless for that. He had to get somewhere cool and quiet and think for a while.

  As he exited the building, a crowd of laughing teenagers ran past him heading for the Hyde Park subway. He walked towards the centre of Sydney, sweat rolling off his face and neck and soaking his shirt. The George Street cinema complex was cool and at least it would be relatively dark. Once again, teenagers milled around everywhere, sipping coke and laughing at nothing, or at least to Ben it seemed to be nothing. A group of elderly men and women were being ushered into a new released screening of Gone with the Wind. Cinema 4 was about to show ‘Relative Humidity’; starring Brenda Grant and a cast of others unrecognisable to Ben. It didn’t matter. He paid for a ticket and went to the Cinema doors.

  A girl in her late 20’s took his ticket. He noted her short jet black hair and very white face with bright mauve lipstick. He considered that she had not actually been exposed to any kind of sunlight for years. She wore a tight fitting, light grey business suit. She smiled at him. ‘You’re in luck. Brenda is out and Vampires are in.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Vampires. Blood suckers. Brenda doesn’t do that although she has potential.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What are you talking about?’

  ‘You’ll see when you get inside.’ She led Ben into the Cinema. It was almost empty. A middle aged couple sat in the third row back from the screen to the left. An elderly male sat in the centre of the cinema, 6 rows back from the screen. He was wearing a bright red baseball cap. Two young girls sat in the front row on the right. They were feeding each other popcorn from a very large yellow cardboard container. The lighting was dim. The screen was dark.

  ‘Where you want to sit Mister, and why are you wearing an empty gun holster?’ Ben looked back at the usher. He’d forgotten about the pancake holster. ‘At the back. In the middle.’

  ‘Figured.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothin.’

  ‘Look, I just got fired. I need somewhere dark and cool to chill out and I happen to think Brenda Grant is an amazing actress.’

  ‘Sure you do. You a cop?

  ‘Was.’

  Ben moved along the back row of seats and dropped into a cool leather chair. The usher came up behind him and bent down. He could smell perfume and knew instantly what it was. It reminded him of a very torrid affair almost 30 years ago.

  ‘What do you want lady?’

  ‘What do you need Mister?’

  Ben turned and looked at the white face close to his. ‘You’re a lovely girl. Now leave me alone.’

  The usher vanished into the darkness at the rear of the cinema.

  The lights slowly dimmed. The screen burst alive with advertisements for mouth wash and the most affordable car in the world.

  The curtains widened for cinemascope and the opening credits.

  Brenda Grant dominated the opening scene. The camera panned up from the sparkling blue Caribbean ocean to a blindingly white yacht with Brenda standing at the prow. Her skin was tanned and glowing with oils. A brief white bikini clung tightly to her curves.

  Ben looked around to see if the usher was watching him. She was gone.

  Brenda’s long blond hair cascaded around her face, occasionally blown back by the ocean breeze. Ben let his eyes soak up everything about this woman. He was thrilled by her amazing beauty, larger than life on the big screen. He was saddened at the same time that he knew he could never even get close to someone like that. He listened to her soft deep voice as she gave instructions to the Captain as to their course home. She had such confidence about her. She addressed the yacht Captain with respect and authority. It was an amazing mix. There was magic in every move she made. Ben was spellbound.

  The story unfolded.

  Ben forgot about the Police Force. He forgot about Fay and their difficult domestic problems. He forgot about the death and misery he had experienced for years as a Detective on the streets of Sydney. He forgot about the white faced usher. He entered willingly into a world of make believe and hoped it would never end.

  Ben resented the crowd as he walked onto George Street. He looked back at the Cinema complex and realised how depressing it appeared after basking in imagination and the larger than life impact of Brenda on the big screen. His large, empty pancake holster was attracting more attention than was comfortable so he moved quickly in the direction of the CIB.

  Building shadows lengthened as the sun plunged towards the horizon. The air felt cooler as he caught the lift to the basement car park. His air conditioning hadn’t worked for years but he wound down all the windows and drove up the winding ramps onto the street.

  It was just after 7 pm when he drove into his driveway. The old Roseville home had seen better days. White paint peeled from window shutters and he was going to get around to replacing that cracked glass panel in the front door. The garage door was closed and he didn’t know if Fay was home. He unlocked the front door and entered the cool, dark foyer. The place was silent. Fay couldn’t be home. She always had music blaring.

  Ben had no idea where his wife might be. He pulled a mobile phone from his trouser pocket and realised that it had been switched off all day. He turned on the phone and put it on a side board while he poured a very stiff scotch.

  A text message beeped on his phone. It was from Fay. WON’T BE HOME TONIGHT. OUT WITH ASHLEY. MIGHT SEE YOU TOMORROW. FAY.

  Ben dropped the phone on the kitchen sideboard and opened the refrigerator. There was little on the shelves. Half a lettuce and a tomato together with a few opened bottles of jam, some olives and a small bowl of limes. One opened can of dry ginger ale. No milk or butter. The freezer wasn’t much better. He found one small lamb chop, slightly shrivelled, half a loaf of frozen bread and an out of date packet of fish fingers.

  Ben took out the chop, emptied the fish fingers from the packet and dropped the lot in a pan. He poured a smell of dry into the scotch, swallowed it in a few gulps and turned on the stove element. He put the pan on the heat.

  Number two scotch and dry disappeared down his throat in a similar manner. He poured a third. This one was straight scotch as the can of dry was empty. The ice trays in the freezer were also empty.

  Ben felt the warmth of the scotch spread quickly through his body, dulling the tension and relaxing the muscles of his face. He sat at the kitchen table and sipped the amber liquid. The house was deathly quiet. A clock ticked slowly in the lounge room.

  A burning smell pervaded his nostrils and by the time he had jumped up and retrieved the pan from the stove top, one side of the chop and all the fish fingers were giving off grey smoke. He ran a little water over them and the hot pan sent plumes of steam upward. The smoke alarm began to scream. Ben dropped the pan back on the stove top and began to wave his hands at the smoke alarm. Finally it became silent. The chop and fish fingers bubbled in the water. They looked dreadful but he hadn’t eaten lunch and was starving. Black and soggy, he laced the meal with tomato sauce and ate, washing it down with the remainder of the scotch.

  ‘You’re drunk Detective Hood.’ He said to himself. ‘I mean ex Detective Hood, that’s what I mea
n, but what the hell. I’ve got one shot of scotch left and then some port in the lounge.’ The sound of his voice seemed somehow comforting in the dark, quiet house. He emptied the last of the contents of the scotch bottle into his glass and sipped it as he walked somewhat unsteadily into the lounge room. He turned on a lamp at his desk in a corner. The study was currently being used by Fay as a ‘design studio’ where she painted and sewed and performed other acts of ‘art’ that Ben wasn’t even remotely interested in. His desk and computer had been moved into the lounge area; not that he ever used it much.

  He sipped more scotch and turned on the computer. It was an ancient thing; the subject of constant ridicule by Fay. In comparison, she had a tiny laptop which ran 20 times faster and presented in designer silver.

  Internet access typically took around 3 minutes. Ben waited patiently. He had nothing else to do. He drained the scotch and searched for the port bottle. It was in a cabinet nearby and he poured the ruby liquid straight into his empty scotch glass. It tasted good. Smooth and sweet.

  He had some trouble getting his eyes to focus on the computer screen and even more getting Google to load. Typing in ‘Brenda Grant’ took a mammoth effort but finally her web page appeared. She looked so amazingly beautiful, he was overwhelmed.

  A tiny voice in the back of Ben’s head told him to turn the computer off and go to bed. He ignored it. He clicked on ‘contact Brenda’. The voice in his head got a bit louder but two mouthfuls of port silenced it.

  Focusing on the keyboard presented yet another obstacle but once mastered to some extent, Ben slowly typed:-

  Dear Mis Grant. My name is Ben Hood. You don’t know me. I am a great fan and I watched one of your pictures today here in Sydney, Australia where I live. I used to work here as a cop but I sort of got sacked today becasause I shot some people. They needed shooing by the way because they were bad. I really enjoyed watching your picture. I’ve fo4gotten the name but you were beautiful and stunning. I’m married but Fay hates me. Jamaka Blue I think was the name of your film…..no Relative Heat or something. It’s playing in Sydney just now but the vampires are in and you are out so I’m told, but you have potential. You don’t have to convince me about your potentnail. I think you are wonderful. I had a photo of you in a frame on my desk at the Police Squad room but they kept doing stuff to your teeth with black texta. I’m just a little drunk right now so forgive me. I over boiled a chop and some fish fingers and the fire alarm went off. We will never meet of course but I wanted to write to you. There must be a side to you that we don’t see in your pictures. Things people like me will never see. Perhaps sad things. There is lots of sad stuff happening with people.

  Ben stopped typing and sipped more port.

  I hope you have a happy life. You look very happy. You must have good people around you, taking care of you. Watching your movies is good for me but they only go for an hour or so and then you have to do other things. Now that I’ve got no job I’ve got to try and do something else because they don’t like me shooting people. I don’t mean to shoot people. It just happens.

  Ben’s focus was almost totally gone. He was going to type more but knew it was impossible. He hit the send button and the message disappeared.

  That’s when he fell off the chair and passed out on the deep pile carpet.

  “****”

  Chapter Four