by Berry, Tony
He wrapped the diamond in its tissue and pushed it across the desk. A reject. A thing of beauty beyond the budget of so many of the endless stream of people plodding their way along the footpaths 12 floors below had been dismissed as not worth further consideration. Bromo waited. He felt there was more to come. He was getting the man’s measure. There were years of experience and knowledge behind the watery old eyes boring into him from across the desk.
‘The price means nothing,’ said Jacowiscz. ‘No one will buy it.’
The sudden abruptness riled Bromo.
‘Who said I was selling? I didn’t even know it was genuine until two minutes ago.’
Jacowiscz nodded, accepting the rebuff.
‘True. I apologise. I accept your innocence and I have kept my promise to our friend Liz Shapcott to give you some time.’
He levered himself up slowly from his chair and gestured towards the door with one hand, the other gripping the edge of the desk.
‘Now I must ask you to leave and take your bloody diamond with you. We have never met.’
The door eased open, seemingly of its own accord. Bromo guessed Jacowiscz had his hand on a panic button. He paused and half turned towards the jeweller.
‘Can’t you—’
‘Sorry Mr Perkins, I can’t.’
The extended arm still pointed at the open door.
‘You should make your enquiries elsewhere. But be very careful who you ask.’
Bromo knew any further pleas would be lost before they began. Jacowiscz showed all the signs of a lifetime spent refusing to be swayed by anyone. A history of stubborn opposition was written deep in every gesture. They could bend him, but not break him.
Bromo moved on into the cell-like waiting room. The door whispered shut behind him. He looked at the receptionist’s mirrored window but saw nothing beyond the darkened glass. He went through the final door and stepped across the empty foyer towards the lifts.
The men who moved in close either side of him came out of nowhere. They were lean but solid. They came hard up against him, urging him forward, shoulder against shoulder, guiding him down the corridor and through a door marked “Exit”.
Bromo was stunned by the rapidity of the attack. So quick, so little time. They were in a stairwell – blank concrete walls, a steel handrail. The men, pale-faced, unshaven, lank hair trailing from beneath Carlton beanies, spun Bromo around and pushed him into the wall, his face scraping against the concrete.
He felt a pair of hands moving rapidly, expertly, over his body. Professionals. The frisking stopped as they touched on the tissue-wrapped package. A hand plunged into his pocket and removed the package. The pressure on his back eased off and he started to turn away from the wall. Bromo caught a brief glimpse of the men. He thought of twins, a matching pair. One of them stepped forward, a short cosh in his hand. He spun Bromo back into the wall.
‘Not so fast,’ he snarled.
The cosh crashed down high into Bromo’s shoulder, close to the base of his neck. He crumpled forward, his brow colliding with the wall as he slid quickly to the floor. Somewhere at the back of his mind he thought he heard a rush of words and the echoing sound of running feet. Then all was silence.
NINE
POLLY visited him in his sleep, sometime during the darkness of the night. They wrapped their arms tight around each other, clinging on, holding so urgently, the tears flooding out and neither wiping them away. He dreamed it so vividly. He recalled that she came to him in a park, by a seat at a corner where two paths crossed, avenues of tall, deeply dark green trees providing a sheltering canopy from the intermittent rain. He could still see her, running towards him, arms reaching out, that favourite old gabardine fawn raincoat flapping open, billowing out to the sides as she ran. Her gait was as awkward as ever; why was it so few women knew how to run? He had been on the park seat, waiting, standing up suddenly, the shock of actually seeing her (for some reason he hadn’t believed she’d come) rooting him to the spot before he responded, quickly closing the gap between them, stumbling into that long tearful embrace.
The dream remained vivid even now, hours later, as he sat slumped deep into the armchair, head bandaged, nursing a double shot of Laphroaig, Liz leaned over him, solicitous, worried, the long frizzy fronds of her golden hair forming a tight frame for her face.
‘Should you be drinking that?’
‘Why not? You don’t seem to have any Lagavulin. What else did you have in mind?’
‘I was thinking—’
‘I know what you were thinking. Find something else to worry about.’
He took a sip of the whisky and thought about apologising, at least for helping himself from her drinks cupboard. There was no call to be so curt. She had looked after him, dropping everything to rush into the city as soon as she’d got the call from Jacowiscz. Apparently he had blacked out, but not for long. He had groped his way out of the stairwell and staggered back to the diamond merchant’s office less than ten minutes after he’d been asked to leave. He received a cool but sympathetic reception, the woman who owned the voice behind the grille emerging to reveal herself as elderly and motherly as she gently cleaned his bloodied head with an ice-soaked towel. Jacowiscz had also emerged from his security sanctum to voice cautious concern but no surprise.
‘It happens,’ he said. ‘They lie in wait. So many diamond merchants and jewellers and so few security guards. So many people coming and going. We’ve all suffered. Couriers, customers, everyone.’
He spread his hands in a dismissive gesture. Bromo got the feeling Jacowiscz considered it merely a blip in a life that had seen and suffered far greater tragedy than a thump on the head. As for the theft of a diamond that may or may not be worth a couple of thousand dollars … Bromo made certain, patting his pocket, feeling for the package as the woman dabbed at his head. Nothing there.
‘They got the diamond,’ said Bromo.
Jacowiscz shrugged again.
‘No loss, Mr Perkins. You are better off without it.’
He turned away towards his office.
‘I will phone Ms Shapcott. Perhaps she will come and collect you.’
Bromo felt like unwanted goods; a package for pick-up and delivery that was taking up precious space. Maybe they would attach an invoice number and stick a delivery note on him: “Sign here, please. One bundle of damaged ego awaiting collection.”
And collect him she did. Sooner than he expected. She kept an arm around his shoulder – it felt good; he liked that – as she steered him into the lift (all eyes alert this time) and out through the arcade to hail a cab. Bromo could remember the driver giving a hostile stare and grunting something in his own sub-continental tongue when Liz gave the address – a mere five kilometres away. Not worth the driver’s effort. Bromo snarled back at him.
‘Fall of the dice, mate. Shut up and drive.’
Liz put her mouth close to his ear as she clicked his seatbelt into place.
‘And you shut up too, Bromo. You’ve had enough trouble for one day.’
He stared out the windscreen. A removal van blocked his view. An excruciating pain stopped him turning to face her in the back seat. The thieves’ thumping must have been harder than he realised. Anger was getting the better of him.
‘In this traffic he’ll probably end up with twice what the trip’s worth.’
The driver beat both hands up and down on the steering wheel. He flashed another glare at Bromo. Liz leaned forward, her head forming a barrier between them. She turned to Bromo.
‘Not another word.’
She turned to the driver.’
‘Sorry about this. He’s been in an accident. I just want to get him home.’
The driver’s mouth turned briefly upward; a token smile.
‘I understand, miss.’
Bromo remembered nothing more. Somehow they must have negotiated the inevitable stop-start traffic chaos along Wellington Parade and Bridge Road and walked – stumbled? Did the cab driver help? – i
nto Liz’s enormous warehouse apartment. And he had woken up in a bed – barefoot, jacketless and minus his trousers – with no idea how he got there.
That was when he remembered his dream. Or was it a nightmare? As he recalled it now, it was a disturbing encounter regardless of any label it was given. Bromo reckoned he never dreamed. He simply slept, refusing to accept the common wisdom that everyone dreams but that some remember the experience better than others. As for that malarkey about interpreting dreams … so much nonsense about finding meaning where none existed. Funny thing, Poppy was one of those dream believers. She could almost write a thesis on someone’s dream, every little symbol and nuance teased out into significance. Prognostications and warnings even. But she claimed she always stopped short of telling the whole story if the message was truly dreadful. So what would she make of last night’s little B movie with herself as the star? Bromo scoffed at the idea of messages from beyond the grave, yet he was rattled. The dream replayed as something terribly tearful and emotional with mordant undercurrents of farewells and finality.
He sipped the whisky; smooth and peaty. Fortunately, some things never changed. Almost. There had been reports that production of Laphroaig was being cut back. It was enough to make him start thinking there might be some truth in global warming after all. Liz moved away and settled into another armchair, deliberately relaxed.
‘Something troubling you?’
‘You mean other than the bloody great lump on my head?’
Liz smiled. Grumpy as ever, bruised head or not. Rarely a direct answer.
‘The bump will go. Another sleep like last night’s and you’ll be your normal testy self. I thought there might be something else. You seem even more self-absorbed than usual.’
He mulled over her words. Typical Liz. Always prepared to lend a sympathetic ear. If only she would put out a bit more than sympathy. A bit of the touchy-feely stuff, perhaps. They had shared many close moments. Lots of warmth there, and hints of something beyond. Yet neither had dared take that extra step. Bromo knew he had stood on the edge of the precipice. He believed Liz had too. One day, maybe, they would hold hands and jump.
‘I had a dream.’
Liz bit back an impulsive reaction. It was hard enough to get men to talk about their feelings (especially this man) without making obvious smart-arse references to Martin Luther King. She waited.
Bromo struggled for the right words. It was ages since he had thought of Poppy. Probably not since she walked out all those years ago. Or did he do the walking? Whatever. So muddled and messy. So unnecessary. And within months she was hitched up with that slimy marketing guy and spouting his slick mantra of “You make it, we’ll sell it”. Less than a year later she was dead. Bloody cancer. And she’d never told him she had it. If only …
Bromo put the glass to his lips and let the liquid trickle in.
‘The dream, it was all about Poppy. Her and me. All weepy and emotional, clinging on, not letting go. Both of us. Bloody Mills and Boon territory. Couldn’t shake it off.’
He shook his head, shell-shocked, still well below par. Liz was right; another night of solid sleep was needed.
‘It spooked me,’ he said. ‘Especially coming on top of everything else.’
Liz trod warily. He needed a prompt but not to be pushed or rushed.
‘You’ve never mentioned Polly.’
‘No need to. Anyhow, you never asked.’
And if I had, I would have had my head bitten off, she thought.
‘Your wife?’
‘One of them.’
More unexplored territory. Not a place to visit today. Liz avoided eye contact. She rested her head on the chair’s high back. She studied the high roof line and the beams of what was once one of Richmond’s many foundries. She saw too many cobwebs. It was time to get the cleaners in.
‘So what’s upset you – the dream or that it was Poppy?’
‘A bit of both. It was a shock after all this time. Not thinking about her, and suddenly she’s here and so full on. So many people seem to be sending me warnings … and then this. What’s it all mean?’
To Liz, the answer was simple; the confrontation outside Bromo’s apartment, his rejection by Jacowiscz, the bashing and the theft of the diamond were enough for anyone to cope with. The bad dream merely blew everything out of proportion. Give him a few days and it would all blow over. He’d be back to his normal grumpy, introverted self. There was no meaning, and she told him so.
‘Maybe we should get you back to your place. Lie low for a few days. Plenty of rest. Turn off the phone. It’s all in the mind.’
Bromo edged himself out of the chair and stood flexing his legs, rolling his shoulders. The pain of yesterday was ebbing. He probably looked worse than he felt but wasn’t game to front a mirror. He paced slowly around the room, enjoying the movement. There was a brochure on the coffee table, black edged, a picture of a young Asian woman on the cover. An order of service. He picked it up. Waved it lightly in Liz’s direction.
‘How’d it go? I should have asked.’
‘You had other things on your mind. It went OK. Considering …’
*
Liz hesitated at the head of the centre aisle, rows of chairs fanning out on either side. After a while she realised it wasn’t like a wedding: there were no questions of whose side you were on – his or hers. Only one person counted here, and she was no longer able to get upset by displays of misplaced loyalties. A woman of ample proportions – black skirt, black jacket, white blouse – oozed alongside. She was soft-spoken and cloyingly solicitous, fully into the hostess role. She handed Liz the order of service.
‘So glad you could come. I’m Cheryl. Would you like some help?’
Liz had no idea who she was – friend, workmate, relative or mere funeral parlour staff member. She took the brochure and moved out of the aisle, into the nearest seat.
‘I think I’ll just sit here.’
The woman stayed alongside.
‘Tamsyn was a lovely girl,’ she said. ‘You knew her quite well, didn’t you?’
Liz baulked. She had no idea who the woman was or how she’d got that impression. She had seen Tamsyn on her daily walks from time to time and sometimes stopped to chat. And she had once or twice sat with her over a coffee when they happened to be in the café at the same time.
‘Not really. But you’re right; she was a lovely young woman. Very lonely though.’
Liz decided she’d said enough to avoid appearing rude and also to deter the woman from further chatter. She concentrated on the single fold sheet of paper that passed for a brochure and order of service – a parsimonious program marking the passing of someone whose presence so few had noticed. The brutality of Tamsyn’s death still disturbed her and she was in no mood for gossiping with strangers.
More people were drifting into the chapel, tentative, subdued by their surroundings, hesitant, as if wary of being too close to the plain wooden coffin resting on its stainless steel trolley. Liz felt the woman lingering, forgetful of her hostess duty, still prattling on.
‘Oh, she had friends,’ she said. ‘They would wait for her after work. But they were quite odd.’
‘Obviously,’ snapped Liz. ‘Or we wouldn’t be here today.’
It was an implied accusation, spontaneous, made without thinking and based on nothing more than her irritation at the woman’s presence. The reaction it caused staggered her. The woman immediately sidled closer and bent over Liz’s shoulder, her voice a loud whisper.
‘You know about the dogs, then?’
Liz spun her head round, frowning, confused, staring straight into limpid grey eyes under a thick awning of purple mascara. She felt her nasal senses being assaulted by the woman’s pungent perfume, a cheap and faulty imitation of something expensive. They were hemmed in by a last-minute rush of mourners – a few genuine late-comers but mostly smokers who’d been dawdling outside as long as possible, the waft of nicotine off their clothes the big giveaway. The
woman’s voice had gone from chatty to aggressive in a matter of seconds. The room was airless. The woman was crowding her. Liz felt she was suffocating. Her words rushed out.
‘The dogs mean nothing to me,’ she said. ‘Nothing.’
‘Good. Let’s keep it that way,’ said the woman. She straightened up and smoothed out the front of her suit. A large, lumpish man, his head closely cropped, dark-skinned, loomed alongside her.
‘Ah, Fazal, good that you’re here. Perhaps you should keep this lady company.’
She pointed to an empty seat next to Liz.
‘She’s a friend of Tamsyn.’
The man nodded and gave what Liz assumed he probably thought was a smile but which she saw as a leer. He squeezed past her, legs rubbing against her knees.
‘Any friend of Tamsyn is a friend of mine, eh?’ Another leer and a gentle prod of his elbow into her side. Liz tried to put space between them but there was nowhere to move. She felt a gentle pat on her shoulder. It was the hostess woman.
‘Better move on,’ she said. ‘People need their programs. You’ll be right now; you’re in good hands.’
The rest of the service passed in a blur. Liz recalled a hymn and a tape of Bette Midler singing The Wind Beneath My Wings while an album of pictures showing Tamsyn with a medley of unnamed people – relatives? friends? workmates? – flicked over on a large plasma screen. A celebrant uttered platitudes about a young life being so tragically cut short. She introduced Natalie – a sharply featured woman in an expensive tailored suit who bemoaned the loss of ‘such a wonderful workmate’. Apparently Tamsyn was ‘a joy to work with’ and would be ‘deeply missed by all who knew her’. Liz could almost see the insincerity oozing out across the lectern.
Sadly, said Natalie, none of Tamsyn’s relatives could afford to travel from overseas for the funeral (or was it a case of out of sight, out of mind?) but they had sent the pictures of her childhood now rotating across the screen. Blurred, badly composed shots of a scrawny young kid who bore no resemblance to the young woman bashed to death by an unknown assailant. So much for kith and kin, thought Liz. No one clustered in the Chapel of Repose had a blood link to the person whose body was slowly being rolled in its coffin into some funereal recess beyond.