by Berry, Tony
‘You can go, Bromo. Crawl back into your burrow. The ’tecs say they’ll talk to you later. And take all your friends with you.’
Bromo and Jason sauntered over to where Liz and Jardine were huddled on the riverbank, two dim humps in the fading twilight. A cool breeze ruffled the reeds. Wavelets rippled the water. An ibis eyed them from the opposite bank, motionless on its impossibly thin, long legs. The serenity on the river was worlds away from the brutality and activity demanding attention metres from where they sat.
Bromo drew in a long, deep breath – the relaxing, meditative one he’d been taught in those long-ago yoga classes where he’d strained more tendons than he knew the human body possessed. He was calm and focused. Contemplating. Meditation was good. Scenes and situations could be projected on to the mind’s inner screen. He was seeing the pictures now as he kept his voice low, in tune with the mood, looking across the river, above the heads of Jardine and Liz.
‘Tell me, Jase, when you were waiting up there on the track, did you notice a blind guy walking along?’
Jason, a whole head taller, looked down at Bromo, three small vertical creases between his eyes revealing the effort involved in recalling the moment. Bromo gave him a prompt.
‘He was possibly walking quite fast.’
Jason clicked.
‘Jeez, yeah, that was it. I thought there was something odd about him but couldn’t put my finger on it. He was moving fast for a blind person. Rushed past almost, nodded, said “G’day” and then Ulrich came puffing up.’
Bromo leaned forward resting his hands on Liz’s shoulders. He felt her shiver. Day had passed through dusk into night and the air was chill. He massaged her shoulders gently and felt her lean back into him.
‘Well, that’s it then,’ he said. ‘We can all go home and wait for the police to call us to make statements.’
He felt Liz flexing her shoulder as she moved to stand, Jardine extending a hand to help her. Jardine turned to face Bromo.
‘So, what’s with the blind man? Whoever he is, you can’t seriously think he attacked Luke.’
‘Since when did blind people hurry? They’re cautious. They feel their way ahead. And what’s he doing out here, walking along the riverside?’
Jardine shrugged.
‘I don’t know. Getting some fresh air, I suppose. A change of scenery, enjoying the view. Any of the above.’
Liz caught on. She rounded on Jardine, exasperation in her voice.
‘Peter, he’s blind. His scenery is always the same. He doesn’t leave the streets, where he has kerbs and walls to guide him, to come out here for the view. And he wouldn’t have said “hi” to Jason unless he could see he was there. A silly mistake probably caused by his panic.’
‘The bleeding obvious strikes again,’ said Jardine. ‘Sorry, I’m not thinking. Can’t get Luke out of my mind.’
He waved a hand towards the police, busy with tapes, cameras and clipboards, two of them squatting next to a chair where the forlorn-looking Ulrich was shrunk deep into his red anorak.
‘Perhaps we should tell them about the blind man.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Liz. ‘It’s too flimsy. If he was genuinely blind, he’d be easy to trace. But this could be anybody.’
‘Yes,’ said Bromo, leading the way back under the freeway and up to the park. ‘Anybody with a killer’s mind and some sort of set against Liz.’
The long-haired woman they’d seen sprawled halfway up the wall was packing gloves and shoes into a back-pack.
‘What’s all the excitement,’ she asked. ‘What’s with the cops.’
‘A kid’s been knifed under the freeway,’ said Jardine.
The woman gasped, a hand covering her mouth. She let go of the backpack and stood upright.
‘Wouldn’t know him, by any chance, would you?’ said Bromo. ‘Lean, skinny kid, spiky hair, bit of a limp.’
‘Oh God, not Luke.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Is he …?’ She was afraid to complete the question, fearing the answer.
‘We don’t know,’ said Liz, reaching out a consoling arm. ‘It doesn’t look good.’
The woman shook her head in disbelief.
‘I didn’t see a lot of him,’ she said. ‘He used to drop by, asked me to show him how to climb. He was good, right build for it, had a natural ability. But his real interest was in painting.’
She pointed to great bold swirls of colour covering a side wall.
‘He did that. Brightens the place up.’
She ran her hands through her hair, from forehead to nape, then held them at the back of her neck, still dazed by the news.
‘Shit, Luke eh. The guys will be stunned.’
She bent to her backpack, finished stuffing things in and zipped it shut. She collected a mountain bike leaning against the wall and joined their mournful, silent trudge up the long, gravelly slope to McConchie Reserve. As they reached the park, Jardine stopped and waited for the others.
‘I guess that’s it for tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep tabs on Luke through the cops and the hospital and let you know as soon as I hear anything. I suppose I’ll have to put in a report. Keep the pen-pushers happy.’
Bromo glanced at him. He seemed to have shrunk, lost his bluster. The hard edge to his voice had softened.
‘You know how it is, mate,’ said Bromo. ‘Statistics before solutions. Paperwork before people.’
He reached out and put an arm around Jardine’s shoulders as he walked towards his car.
‘Take it easy,’ said Bromo. ‘Bugger the bureaucrats and do what you can for Luke. You’re doing a great job with those kids. Couldn’t do it myself.’
Liz stepped close as Jardine drove off, making a wide arc around the wall-climbing woman on her mountain bike.
‘He’s taking it hard,’ said Bromo.
‘He’s not the only one.’
She shivered and turned into him, head bowed.
‘Give me a cuddle.’
He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close, feeling her body beneath the thin layer of clothing, himself hardening.
‘I said a cuddle.’
‘Sorry about that. Basic reaction.’
‘Bloody men.’
She nestled closer, taking long, deep breaths. He looked over her shoulder at the traffic hurtling along the freeway, the gantries with their big green signs, the brooding darkness of a deserted power station and the glow of lights beneath the road where the police were still going minutely over the crime scene.
‘What next?’
Bromo ignored her muffled question. It was too easy to turn a broad enquiry into something personal and specific. He felt her move against him and drew her even closer and imagined his own “what next?”. She assumed he hadn’t understood her question and offered an expanded version.
‘What are we going to do about Luke? About Melissa? This whole business?’
His imaginings came to an abrupt halt and he trundled off down an already travelled track, reviewing recent events. He gently broke their embrace, extending his arms halfway, holding Liz directly in front of him. A bit of serious role-playing was called for.
‘You, me and anyone else we can find are going to get to the bottom of all this,’ he said. ‘That’s the least we can do for a couple of kids who were only trying to make something of themselves.’
A white ball of fluff on four legs came hurtling across the grass towards them, snarling and yapping at their ankles. A short Japanese-looking woman in a crimson leather jacket and short, yellow flared skirt, her jet black hair beneath a baseball cap, stumbled through the trees, gasping in the dog’s wake.
‘Samantha, Samantha,’ she called. ‘Here, darling.’
The animal ignored her and maintained its ridiculous fury. Bromo’s right leg flicked out. The toe of his running shoe caught the dog’s midriff and lifted it up and backwards just as the woman arrived and gathered it in her arms. She glared at Bromo but said nothing. He
glared back.
‘Control your demons, madam. Next time I’ll score a six-pointer.’
Liz tugged him away.
‘Looks like you’re the one that needs controlling.’
‘Only when you’re around. The beast stirs within.’
She dug him hard in the ribs. He stumbled sideways, one foot landing in something softer than the turf they’d been walking on. He bent his knee and lifted his leg to examine the sole of his shoe and the stinking, brown mess clogging the treads.
‘Clean up your mess,’ Bromo yelled back across the park. But the Japanese woman, nor any other guilty party, was nowhere to be seen.
Liz leaned against the bonnet of her car, tears streaming down her face as Bromo gathered clumps of grass to wipe the turds off his shoe. Her laughter broke the tension of the night.
‘That’s what I call justice,’ she giggled. ‘It’s just as well you’ve got your bike. I’m not having you stinking my car out.’
He began to see the funny side. He managed to crack a grin.
‘I guess that’s what they mean when they say “shit happens”,’ he said.
Whatever form it took, there’d been plenty of it flying around tonight. Time to call in the clean-up brigade. She got in her car, turned the ignition and wound down the window. She leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek.
‘I’ll be in touch.’
She tucked the car into a neat U-turn and headed off down Mary Street. Bromo gave a limp farewell wave of his hand. He’d lucked out again.
SIXTEEN
That bloody alarm. Why the hell hadn’t he remembered to switch it off? It was far too early to be listening to the jokey sarcasm of Red Symons and that prattling woman with the traffic report. Who needed to be told it would take 23 minutes to travel the Eastern Freeway? If you were already on it, there was stuff-all you could do; and, if you weren’t, the alternatives wouldn’t be any better.
Bromo knew he’d lost the battle for sleep. Stay in bed and those voices would drone on. If he threw off the doona and staggered across to the clock radio, he might as well stay up.
He tested muscles that had tightened after the previous night’s dash along the riverbank, then swung his legs to the floor.
A tug on the curtain cord allowed a glimpse outside, upwards and skywards to the spire of St Ignatius – the narrow, elegant steeple overlooking the suburb from its hilltop site. The church had dominated local life for more than a century, comforting residents, railing against injustice, battling for underdogs and – in the 1970s – even providing a temporary home for the next Pope. Campaigners prayed in its pews and gangland families gathered there to farewell the latest victims of their messy lives.
A gentle southerly breezed in through the open window, cooling Bromo’s naked body. He tried the yoga thing – a slow, deep breath then raising his arms slowly above his head, stretching to the ceiling before bringing them gradually to the floor, bending his body and almost touching his toes. Relax, he told himself, standing upright and arms slowly returning to his side.
The radio droned on. It was news time. More bombs exploding in Iraq … thousands dying in the Sudan … a train crash in France … two dead in smashes on the local roads … a house in Fewster Street, South Yarra, believed to be operating as a brothel, severely damaged by fire after what was thought to be an explosion … another footy player in hospital for a cruciate ligament operation …
‘Shit!’ uttered Bromo, stopping mid-stretch – a delayed reaction as his soggy brain slowly processed the newsreader’s words. He’d swapped the gentle exercise of his yoga routine for the more precarious one of jumping to conclusions. For all he knew, Fewster Street consisted of knocking shops from end to end, but the only one that had shown such inclinations when he’d driven there with Jason hid behind the walls at Number 85.
He dragged on shorts and singlet and eased open the door on to the stairwell, peering out. His neighbour across the landing had come home late enough from her night-shift at the Epworth to bring the paper up from where the newsboy dumped it at the entrance to their apartments three floors below. He rarely saw her, had no idea of her nursing routine, but offered silent thanks whenever she saved him the early morning trip down – and especially up – the stairs.
If only she’d also unwrap the bloody thing. He fiddled and scratched at the paper’s shrink-wrapped protective covering, failing to find a starting point to peel off the plastic film. He ran a kitchen blade down the paper’s length and unrolled it, quickly flicking through the first few pages for news of the fire. Nothing. Must have happened after the late-stop signed off. Newspapers were running earlier and earlier with their final editions. The old 4am cut-off was now 2am or even earlier unless the Pope died or there was another 9/11. Online updates were his only hope. The computer responded to his press of the on-button and began its tediously long boot-up processes.
Meanwhile, there were more pressing matters than worrying about what might be an explosion in what could be a brothel that may have been the one where Melissa O’Grady worked and which, in all likelihood, had nothing to do with her and her student friends. His thoughts were beginning to resemble a long-forgotten nursery rhyme that became a bit of a family routine – something about this is the mouse that was caught by the cat that was chased by the dog that barked at the man … and on and on and on.
Coffee had to be made. There was nothing more urgent at this time of day, today or any other day. Just as a play could not start until the curtain went up, so a glass of strong black ensured his day could begin. With caffeine at hand and the Age spread out before him, Bromo felt mind and body relax. He eased into five minutes of silent contemplation of the gamut of humankind – from unfathomable evils to spontaneous acts of kindness, failures and achievements, sadness and joy – before his phone buzzed, politely informing him “You have one message”.
He raised the flap, pressed the button, read the words on the screen: “Number 85 payback is good. Melissa not forgotten”.
No name, no caller ID. There was a phone number he didn’t recognise. He dialled it.
‘The number you have called is either switched off or out of range. Please try again later’.
He read the message again. Someone seemed pleased about the fire in Fewster Street and was willing to broadcast the fact. The assumption was that they could have been responsible, or at least knew who was.
The computer was up and running. It took him quickly to the Herald Sun news site. The Fewster Street fire had slipped to third place on the updates, behind a truck rollover in Docklands and yet another denial by the Premier that he was signing secret deals with the trades unions. Bromo clicked and brought up the story – and pictures. It was Number 85 all right, and they wouldn’t be taking paying customers for some time. The protective wall was a tumble of bricks strewn over footpath and road. Pictures showed firemen standing amid gaping holes where front windows had once been. An interior shot showed a bedroom with charred drapes and bed linen, and a spa bath split in two.
The report didn’t pussyfoot around about what might be claimed or believed about the building’s purpose. It described the house as a well-known brothel and, quoting arson experts at the scene, said it had been fire-bombed. Police were checking for disgruntled customers.
Bromo tried the number above the text message again. A tentative female voice answered, slightly familiar but not immediately identifiable.
‘Yes?’
‘Who’s this?’ asked Bromo.
‘Who’s calling?’ asked the voice, still hesitant.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Can’t say.’
It was verbal ping-pong, getting nowhere – one probing, the other hiding. Bromo had to keep her talking, her voice ringing bells yet frustratingly anonymous.
‘You messaged me,’ he said. ‘About Number 85.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh. So, who am I talking to?’
‘It was a mistake.’ Her voice was more abrupt.
‘The message wasn’t meant for you.’
She’d worked out his identity, recognised his voice – that old Pommy tinge was a regular giveaway. He sensed her ticking it off from the numbers stored in her phone and realising he shouldn’t have been on the circulation list for her group message.
‘Who was it meant for – members of Arsonists Anonymous, the South Yarra Firebomb Society? Who?’
The accusation sent her voice up an octave into the anger zone.
‘I didn’t do it. But it serves them right.’
Bingo! He’d got it. Hell hath no fury like a student scorned. She was the one given to fiery outbursts – Adriana, the taller of the two, whose tantrum had sent things flying across his desk. And who’d made the parting shot about his lousy investigative skills. Point taken, but at least his voice recognition skills weren’t totally dead.
‘So, Adriana, if you didn’t firebomb Number 85, who did?’
Bromo thought he’d lost her. The silence seemed terminal. Not even the whisper of breathing or background noise. He looked at his phone screen to see if it was still active.
‘What’s it to you, Mr Perkins?’
Bromo smiled at her passing acknowledgment of their mutual recognition. She was still on the attack, although her voice sounded milder.
‘Get this straight, Adriana, I hold no brief for Number 85 or any other brothel. But people who set fires and chuck bombs are a menace to themselves and the community.’
He drew breath and slowed his words, drawing them out, slow and measured.
‘Adriana, did you firebomb the brothel?’
She fired a denial back at him, almost shouting: ‘No!’
‘Do you know who did?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Who?’
‘Can’t say. Friends.’
He drained the last of his coffee and paced across the room. He punched the air in exasperation.
‘Adriana, you and your friends may see this as payback, but there are people out there with lots more power than you’ll ever muster. You won’t know them. You won’t see them. They’ll hunt you and they’ll find you. And when they do, you’ll learn what payback really means. The police are the least of your worries.’