by Peter Corris
‘I’m sorry about all that,’ she said.
‘He’s got troubles.’
‘You know, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘The… the nature of his troubles.’
I knew all right, from the way he looked at her and behaved, but I said, ‘I’m not sure that it’s my business.’
She sucked in a deep breath. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Look, Cliff, I’m whacked. I’m going to take half a pill and go to sleep. I’d be glad if you’d just stick around until I’m off. Would you mind?’
It was a subtle request. I topped up my coffee and added another drop of Scotch while she got ready for bed.
‘Lock the door, would you, Cliff. Key goes in the flower pot.’
Dark red silk pyjamas, a scrubbed face, a slightly toothpaste-flavoured kiss and she was gone. After a while, I went into the bedroom and looked at her. She’d turned over and drawn her legs up and seemed comfortable. I had an impulse to strip off and crawl in beside her but I knew that wasn’t what she wanted. Just as well I didn’t because when I was putting my jacket on the mobile rang.
I answered, keeping my voice down.
‘Cliff, this is Geoff. Mum’s in hospital. It looks pretty bad. I’ll get back to you when I can.’
19
I didn’t know what hospital Cyn would be in and with family gathering round it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to be there anyway. I was tired and somewhat dispirited. Ramsay Hewitt’s abrupt departure had closed off an avenue of enquiry. I doubted whether Geoff had picked up anything useful at the protest site. It was possible and that it had been put out of his mind by his mother’s crisis, but it seemed unlikely. If I’d had the manpower I might’ve staked out Dr Macleod’s compound to see if Talbot turned up there, but I didn’t, and there was no real reason to think he would.
I checked on Tess again, followed her instructions about the key and left the house. There was nothing for me to do but go home. I felt sober, very sober, but I might have been over the limit. I thought back over what I’d eaten and drunk in the past few hours and decided it was line ball. I drove sedately and caught a late night news bulletin on the way. The police were still hunting what the media were now calling ‘the Tadpole Creek Killer’. I was working at the centre of one of the city’s major news items but felt that I was on the sidelines with no chance of getting into the game.
I turned into my street and cursed when I saw that my usual parking space outside the house was occupied by another car. Inner city dwellers tend to establish conventions and protocols about these things and it was rare for one of the other residents to pinch my spot. The occasional visitor or Glebe diner-out offends, but they were usually gone by this time. I parked further down the street and walked back with the gun in its holster under my jacket.
As I approached the house a woman came out of my neighbour’s place and walked smartly towards the red hatchback parked in what I considered my spot. I stopped and watched her and she stopped and looked at me. I guessed I must’ve looked threatening at that time of night with the experience of the last few hours showing on my face and a suspicious package under my arm
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I live next door to Clive. My name’s Hardy. We’re mates.’
Relief was apparent in every muscle in her body. ‘Oh, the private detective. Clive’s told me about you. Oh God, I’ve taken your space.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I won’t shoot you.’
She laughed. ‘I should hope not. Sorry again. There was a van pulling out from here when I arrived. I didn’t know it was your spot.’
‘Only by convention,’ I said. ‘First come, first served really.’
‘Well, I’ll be off. Goodnight, Mr Hardy.’
‘Goodnight.’ I stood, debating whether to move my car as she pulled neatly away and drove off. Clive is a taxi driver and we both keep irregular hours and live alone. The woman who’d left was thirtyish, about Clive’s age, and attractive. Good luck to you, I thought. And good luck to me, too. I’d decided to leave the car where it was when I saw Clive standing at his gate and beckoning to me.
I wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but I was always ready to give Clive the time of day or more usually, night.
‘Gidday, Clive.’
‘Cliff. Look, it’s probably nothing, but there was a strange-looking van parked outside your place briefly when Sally arrived. I didn’t think anything of it at first. You’ve had that other young bloke staying. Thought it must’ve been to do with something you’re working on. But he gave me a funny look and drove off like a hoon.’
‘What d’you mean, strange looking?’
‘All colours of the rainbow – psychedelic. What’s wrong?’
My brain snapped on the connections: van – psychedelic design – Damien Talbot. He’d been here!
The tiredness had dropped away as I felt a reaction rise inside me I hadn’t experienced for a long time – that of the hunter becoming the hunted. ‘Tall bloke? Long hair?’
‘That’s him. Anything wrong?’
‘No, mate. Probably not. How long was he here?’
‘In and out I’d say. Well, I’ve gotta clean up and start my shift. ‘Night, Cliff.’
My security is reasonably good. The front door is a solid job, deadlocked. The house is freestanding on one side but the bougainvillea grows so thickly in the front that you’d lose a hell of a lot of skin trying to get through. At the back is a drop of a couple of metres to the lane and there are a couple of blocks of flats opposite with windows looking out. Hard to break into. All clear there. I inspected the front porch as best I could in the dim light but there didn’t appear to be anything of concern – no suspicious parcels, no bodies.
I unlocked the door, turned on the light and saw the sheet of paper that had been slipped under the door. I closed the door behind me and picked it up.
LEAVE ME ALONE OR I’LL FUCKING KILL HER!!!
Capitals in heavy black Texta on a sheet of quarto copy paper.
The adrenaline rush that had hit me outside ebbed away and I felt bone-tired. The ‘her’ had to be Megan and I had no idea of where to look for her. I dropped the holster on a chair, stripped off my jacket and went to the bathroom where I washed my face and hands. I drank three glasses of water and made coffee, keeping my mind a blank. When the coffee was ready I drank half a cup scalding hot and refilled it, then went through to look at the paper again and think.
What if the ‘her’ referred to in the note wasn’t Megan French? Bad images were jumping around in my head: sick women, dead women, women sleeping or maybe dead. Tess.
I swallowed a couple of high-octane caffeine tablets, grabbed my gun and jacket and raced out to the car. I headed back towards Tess Hewitt’s house without any of the caution I’d employed before. If Talbot knew where I lived and where Tess lived what was to stop him hurting her?
With the caffeine kicking in I drove too fast and badly, narrowly missing other cars and shrieking around bends on tortured tyres. I didn’t care and I was lucky there were no cops on the road and that I didn’t encounter anyone as out of control as me. I pulled up outside Tess’s house and sprinted for the verandah, stumbling on the path and almost falling up the steps. I clawed the key out of the flowerpot where I’d left it, unlocked the door and strode through to the bedroom with my heart thundering in my chest and my vision blurred.
She was there. A curled-up shape in the centre of the big bed. One arm lay outside the bedclothes and her other hand was clenched and near her mouth. In my hectic state I didn’t quite believe it. I bent down to make sure I could hear her breathing and only eased back when I heard it and saw the slow rise and fall of her body under the blanket. I must have made some noise because she stirred and changed position. She muttered something I couldn’t catch and then settled back into untroubled sleep.
I was sweating from a combination of emotional reaction and chemical disturbance as I backed out of the bedroom. My mouth was sandpaper dr
y. I went into the kitchen and filled a glass with water and drank it. The Scotch bottle was sitting beside the sink and I poured myself a generous measure and added a little water. I took the drink into the living room and dropped into an easy chair.
I drank the whisky and checked on Tess again. Then I drank more whisky and did another check. I told myself I was there to protect her but I was really there for the comfort of her presence. I acknowledged that just before I fell asleep to the sound of falling rain.
20
‘Cliff. Cliff. Are you all right? What’re you doing here?’
Tess shook me awake from an uneasy sleep that left me with half-remembered dreams and an all-too present crick in my neck. I struggled to the surface and found her standing over me wrapped in her kimono with her hair standing up, tear stains in the remains of yesterday’s makeup. She still looked good and I stood creakily and put my arms around her.
‘It was a hell of a night,’ I said. ‘Things happened after you went to sleep and I had to come back to make sure you were all right.’
‘What things?’
‘Let me get cleaned up and I’ll tell you.’ I was reluctant to let her go and she didn’t seem to want me to. I smoothed down her hair. ‘I’m sorry about Ramsay. I’m very sorry. I feel partly responsible.’
She released herself, backed off and looked at me. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean if I hadn’t started poking around things might not have turned out like this. Probably wouldn’t have.’
She shook her head. ‘No. This goes back before you. Both things – me and Ramsay and the protest. I knew there was something wrong about the Tadpole Creek protest and about Damien Talbot. But the thing had given Ramsay a focus and me too for that matter, and I didn’t want to admit it. You’re not responsible, Cliff. Don’t think that. Have a shower. Ramsay left some shaving stuff here, I think, before he started growing the beard. I’ll make coffee.’
I showered and shaved using one of Ramsay’s disposable razors and a cake of soap. The razor had been used before and soap doesn’t make the best lather. I avoided nicking myself but the result was pretty rough. I tamed my hair with Tess’s brush, but there was nothing I could do about a shirt that had been sweated into, made wet with tears and slept in.
In the kitchen Tess pointed to the coffee pot and a plate of buttered toast and went off to the bathroom. I was feeling seedy and hungover from the Scotch and the caffeine of the night before so I did the only thing possible. I poured the last dregs of the whisky into an inch of black coffee and slugged it down. Then I poured a full mug, added milk and drank it with sugar and three slices of toast. Then I had another mug. It was the most liquids and solids I’d taken in for breakfast in years and I have to admit that it made me feel better.
Tess came in wearing a dark dress and low heels. She’d put on her makeup and her hair was still wet but brushed so that it’d dry into a neat, slightly severe, shape around her head. With a start I realised that she bore a resemblance to Helen Broadway, a lover of some years ago. That relationship hadn’t turned out well and I pushed the thought away. She poured herself some coffee and cut a piece of toast into small squares.
‘I saw the gun,’ she said.
I’d left it on a chair in the living room meaning to put my jacket over it. I nodded.
‘Tell me what’s happened.’ she said.
I told her about Talbot being at my place and the note and my uncertainty about whether the note had referred to Megan French or her. I told her about Macleod and Miss Cartwright’s accusations and the connection with Talbot. She drank coffee, nibbled toast and listened without responding. I still didn’t tell her about my attempt to infiltrate the protest group with Geoff Samuels. I felt bad about it, but I couldn’t think of a way to make it look right. I finished talking, ate some more toast and drank some more coffee.
‘You have to go to the police,’ Tess said.
‘It wouldn’t do any good. They don’t know where to find Talbot any more than I do. And I haven’t got enough to make the police even knock on Macleod’s door.’
‘I wonder if Ramsay knows anything about Talbot and this doctor. He and Damien were close at first, or so it seemed. Until they had a falling out over tactics and… leadership.’
‘That was one of the things I was going to ask him last night, before he blew his stack.’
‘And what else?’
I fingered an irritating patch of stubble I’d missed with the blunt razor. ‘I suppose about Megan. He told the interviewer that he hardly knew her. D’you think that’s true?’
Tess was slow to answer. ‘We’re getting to it, aren’t we?’
‘Getting to what?’
‘C’mon, Cliff. You’re not that dumb. You saw how Ramsay is with me, about me. Isn’t there something you want to ask?’
‘No. Is there something you want to tell me?’
She gave it serious thought, then snapped her fingers. ‘Okay. Why not? I worked it all out with a therapist a long time ago. I’ve moved on. I’m ten years older than Ramsay. As I said, I looked after him from the time he was fifteen, when our parents died. He took it very hard. He was very close to Mum. Inconsolable. One night he came into my bed. Remember I was young, too and trying to cope with grief and responsibility. Anyway, it happened. A few times. Then we stopped. I thought I’d got through it without damage and I pretty much did. As I say, I got some help later. Ramsay didn’t get through it and he’s refused to discuss it, let alone have therapy. I don’t know anything about his sex life now. I don’t think he has one.’
I nodded and scratched at the stubble.
‘Your reaction?’
‘Admiration for you, sympathy for him.’
She put her arms around me. ‘Thanks. Look, I’m going to have to try to get in touch with him, calm him down. You understand?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’ll try to get him to talk to you. Might be hard.’
‘Okay. I should go and check on a few things. See if there’s anything I’ve missed that might go somewhere.’
‘I’ve got all your numbers, mate. I’ll track you down.’
I wondered if she meant it.
21
For no good reason I drove to the Homebush site and stopped at a point where I could see a lot of the activity. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I could see progress in just those few days. Staying clear of the security posts, I drove as close as I could get to the Tadpole Creek protest. There were fewer people around and one corner of the banner had broken free of its mooring and drooped down. It had the look of a show about to fold. I ran my eye along the unimpressive, sluggish little watercourse with its few scruffy mangroves and general air of insignificance. It was hard to tell what purpose the area on the protesters’ side of the creek had served before their arrival. Part playground, part rubbish dump perhaps.
The rain hadn’t amounted to much and the sky was rapidly clearing. From my vantage point I could see back towards Concord and Tess’s neighbourhood. I wondered what she’d meant about knowing there was something not right about the protest and why I hadn’t asked her. I wasn’t displaying my best form and I knew why.
I was worried about failing Cyn, worried about the young woman who might be my daughter and caught up in a relationship that might or might not go somewhere. Too many cross-currents for efficient work.
Back in the car, I fingered the irritating patch of stubble and felt like a drink, like several drinks. I was thinking seriously about a visit to the former Sheep Shit Inn when the mobile rang. My first thought was of Tess and I grabbed the phone.
‘Tess?’
‘This is Geoff Samuels, Cliff.’
‘Oh, Geoff, right. How is she?’
‘Not good, but she got through the night and they think she can pull up a bit. She doesn’t really want to except for this business about Megan French. She wants to see you, Cliff.’
‘Okay. Where are you?’
He named a priv
ate hospital in Willoughby and I said I’d be there as quickly as I could.
‘I should warn you that my sister’s here. Annie. Mum was muttering something about Megan and Annie’s latched onto it. She wants to know everything. I’ve stalled her. I’m afraid I’ve sort of lumbered you with it. Annie’s always had the edge on me. I thought you could handle it better.’
‘Well, I’ll do what I can.’
‘The thing is, she knows all about you. Has for a long time. Apparently she found some letters or something Mum had. You’re not her favourite person, Cliff.’
‘Great. See you soon.’
I forgot about alcohol and headed towards Willoughby. As I drove I thought of the time Cyn and I had spent together. Mostly, I remembered the fights and the silences and it was hard to say which were the worst. The big silence was coming and it was beginning to look as if I’d let her down, again.
Propped up against pillows, wearing a white cotton nightgown with a high neck, Cyn looked shrunken to half her proper size. I tried to arrange my face so as to conceal the waves of shock, sympathy and sadness that washed over me but, sick as she was, she could still read me accurately.
‘Pretty bad, huh,’ she said in a surprisingly strong voice. ‘Fact is that it’s worse for all of you than it is for me.’
I approached the bed and took her hand briefly. I couldn’t speak. Geoff was sitting in a chair by the window and a woman a few years older than him, but bearing a strong physical resemblance, sat close by the bed.