by Peter Corris
She leaned down and kissed me. ‘Your generation was, is, and always will be full of bullshit, Cliff. As well as being full of alcohol and tobacco and other nasty stuff. You can’t help it.’
‘We’re the same generation. Generations last thirty years.’
‘Hah! What generation laid that piece of crap down? Not a recent one.’
‘You win.’
‘You’re a nice man, but you wouldn’t say that about anything important, would you?’
‘Vita… ‘
‘Don’t worry about me. I’m a ball-breaker. You can stay the night. I wouldn’t throw a Florida Republican out in your condition.’
She pulled on her T-shirt and shorts and slid off the bed. I could feel the pillows getting softer behind my back and the sheet that was covering me beginning to feel heavy and comforting. ‘Who’s the dog named after?’ I said. ‘The rocker or the poet?’
Vita took the empty glass from my hand and gave me a gentle shove, not on the bad shoulder. ‘You choose,’ she said.
8
I woke up in Vita’s bed around 9 a.m. My tongue was furry and there was a dull ache behind my eyes as if I’d been drinking heavily the night before, which I hadn’t. A glance at the floor showed that the Jack Daniels bottle still contained liquid. It hadn’t been one of those bottle-emptying nights. I decided that my head hurt as a result of the blows I’d taken, an almost honourable injury. I began to roll off the bed and the pain in my neck, shoulder and arm made me gasp and sink back onto the pillows.
The shoulder was bruised, but I’ve had worse, including bullet wounds. This hurt more than bullets or broken bones. After lying still for a while, I figured a way to get off the bed without putting any pressure on the shoulder. I managed to stand upright. I cradled the left elbow with my right hand and shuffled out of the bedroom. The flat was empty but Vita had left a note propped up on the kitchen bench beside the Panadol packet.
Dear Cliffo
The working girl has gone to work. You were groaning in the night so I figured something must be hurting and you might need these. I don’t know what you eat in the morning but you’ll find some cereal and stuff in the cupboards. If you drink beer for breakfast like some men (and women) I’ve known, then you ‘re shit out of luck.
It was great getting to know you. Next move is up to you. I’d like to help with the matter on hand (being discreet here, see?), if you think I can.
The key unlocks the back gate, just be firm and confident with Dylan. I’ve told him you are a friend of mine and I think he understood.
Vi.
I stood in the sunny, warm kitchen, grinning and feeling good despite my injuries, infidelity and uncertainty about the matter at hand. Still nursing my left arm, I rummaged in the cupboards and found a packet of muesli that seemed to be so low on some things and so free of others that it was unlikely to have any taste. I toasted a few slices of wholemeal, low-salt bread, spread them with something called Canola and drank a cup of decaffeinated instant coffee with fat-free milk. This was an overload of self-denial-I felt as if I was training to be some kind of monk, but I was still happy.
There was something liberating and novel about being in another person’s house and not needing to snoop through their belongings to discover their secrets. She trusted me not to do that and I wouldn’t. I took another long look at the montage in a better light and all I could see were signs of good health and good fellowship. There were enough joints being smoked and cans being drunk from not to give it a God-bothering accent.
I was getting used to protecting my left arm, but the few times I tried to move it normally the pain shot through me and set up a throbbing ache. I took two tablets and poured a small measure of whisky into my cooling coffee. For medicinal purposes.
Her bathroom was about the size of a voting booth and I stood under the shower with hardly enough space to get the soap to the right spots. I washed my hair with her shampoo and dried myself off, performing both actions right-handed. I dragged a wide-toothed comb through my greying but thick hair, thought about using one of her disposable razors on my heavy beard, but decided against it. Clean was good enough; cleanshaven would be trying too hard.
I realised how incapacitating the injury to my shoulder was when I tried to get dressed. Like all right-handed men, I put my right arm into my shirt sleeve and take it from there. There was absolutely no prospect of dropping my left arm far and back enough to be able to bring it through the sleeve. The movement was hopelessly restricted, and any attempt to extend it sent shooting pains through the arm and shoulder. I swore and put the shirt on clumsily by slipping my left arm in first and shrugging into it. I felt like a child, just learning to dress himself, and my good mood evaporated.
I finished dressing, picked up my jacket from the couch and Vita’s key from the bench and went out into the yard behind the flat, slamming the door behind me. I was so preoccupied with the stiff shoulder that I forgot about Dylan and didn’t react in the normal wary fashion when he approached me.
The dog stood off and growled.
‘Don’t fuck with me,’ I said. ‘I’m not in the mood. Anyway, I’m the lady’s friend.’
He followed me to the gate and watched me unlock it. My having the key seemed to mollify him and he backed off. I went through the gate and was relieved to see the Falcon standing in the lane with all its bits and pieces apparently intact. The big question was-would I be able to drive it?
‘Shoulder cuff lesion,’ Dr Ian Sangster said. ‘Popularly known, although I shouldn’t say that because it’s bloody unpopular, as frozen shoulder.’
I said, ‘What’s the treatment?’ as I put my shirt back on by the left-arm first method which, for some reason, exasperated and annoyed me as much as the injury itself.
Ian lit a cigarette. He accepts all the scientific findings about smoking and disease but says smokers have to have some doctors they can go to without being lectured and he’s willing to make the sacrifice and assume the role. ‘Three ways you can go once it really freezes up on you, and this will, in my judgement. One, you can have an operation under general anaesthetic that turns the arm in the cuff, ignores the inflammation, breaks up the scar tissue and frees the joint. Two, you can spend a thousand dollars or so over the next year or so on physiotherapy, osteopathy and bloody acupuncture. Three, you can do a few stretching exercises, leave it alone and wait for the bugger to get better.’
‘Number one sounds quick, and I’ve got full medical cover.’
Ian, who has been my friend and patcher-upper for twenty years, butted his cigarette and looked at the clock. It was just past eleven, a fraction early for him to propose having a drink. We were in his Glebe Point Road rooms, immediately across the way from the pub, and lan’s patients were used to him ducking across the street. Often, they ducked across with him. He lit another cigarette, coughed and reconciled himself to being a physician for just a little longer. He is a tall, lean man whose bad habits so far have left no significant exterior mark.
‘Trouble with that is, the tissue damage done by the operation can be worse than the injury itself and you can be looking at an even longer recovery period.’
‘Shit, why is it done?’
Ian shrugged. ‘Makes money for orthopaedic surgeons and it’s the option often taken up by impatient bastards like you.’
‘OK, so you’re advising me to let it heal by itself and depriving your colleagues of custom. Sounds all right. What do I do-put it in a sling? It hurts like hell when I move it like this.’
‘I thought you were a tough guy. No, that’s the worst thing you can do. Keep it moving. Make it hurt. Your pain will be good for you.’
‘You’re a sadistic bastard, Ian.’
He snorted derisively as he ran my card through his stamping machine. Ian has long ago given up on receptionists, being unable to find one who would tolerate his erratic methods and eccentric patients. I moved to sign the slip, forgot about the arm and gasped as I put it in a painful position.
‘Bugger it. I won’t be playing tennis for a while.’
‘Your biggest problem will be in bed.’
‘Eh?’
‘Getting to sleep. You’ll find it hard to achieve a comfortable position and when you roll over onto it you’ll wake up. What about a drink?’
‘That’s terrific. I’m facing a year without sleep. Recommend alcohol, do you?’
‘Always. Shouldn’t worry a hero like you. If it gets too bad I’ll prescribe you some anti-inflammatories. Might help. By the way, Cliff, how’s Glen?’
9
Guilt hit me when I jockeyed the Falcon into my street and saw Glen’s red Nissan Pulsar parked outside my house. She’d left it at a garage for some repairs and made arrangements for it to be delivered back to me. The keys would be in my gas meter box and I was to drop a cheque Glen had left with me off at the garage with the amount entered. One of those little domestic things lovers do for each other whether co-habiting or not. Glen took good care of the car, much better care than I took of mine and the sight of it brought my feelings for her back with a rush.
I’d had a lot of trouble driving from Rozelle to lan’s surgery and then home. Each gear change was an agony and I’d annoyed many drivers by trying to negotiate in second. The driving had left me sweaty and irritated and a conscience didn’t help. I slammed into the house, kicking angrily at the pile of mail that had come through the slot and, consequently, losing balance and instinctively reaching out with my left hand to steady myself. The pain was like a pulled muscle, a sprain and a severe cramp all at once. The answering machine in the living room was winking and I gave it the finger as I went past. I blundered on through to the kitchen, hoping that there was something for the cat to eat because I knew it’d be in from its wandering life as soon as it heard movement in the house.
Sure enough, it jumped through a window and rubbed against my legs. It was in luck because there was a chicken carcass in the fridge-the detritus of a meal I’d long forgotten. I stripped off the meat and fat and put it on the plate for the cat who then thought of me as a king. Some king. My clothes were overdue for a wash and a good airing. I stripped off and shaved in the bathroom, accustoming myself to using the razor without employing my left hand to check for missed areas. As with the shirt problem, it was like learning to shave all over again. My face was puffy and bruised where Baldy had hit me.
As I shaved I thought of my paternal grandfather who I remembered as a big, but decaying old man with an Irish brogue. Hardy isn’t an Irish name, and the story in the family was that grandad had left his true name behind on some army muster or ship’s company list when he’d deserted or jumped ship. My sister, who’s interested in such things, is pursuing the matter. She was convinced about O’Halloran some time back, but that may have changed. The old boy died when I was about five, but I distinctly remember the pinned-up sleeve of his striped pyjama jacket. Having outlived his wife, a rare thing for a man then and now, he occupied a sleep-out behind the house of Aunt Grace, one of my father’s sisters in Drummoyne. He’d lost the arm in a south-coast coal mine, but I could recall him telling me that he suffered rheumatism and arthritis in it, just as in the heavily tattooed limb that remained. He was full of blarney as I later realised, but I experienced a surge of sympathy for him across the years-my left arm was useless, but it hurt like hell.
Perhaps sensing my mood, the cat ate and left. I finished cleaning myself up and put on fresh clothes. I ate dry biscuits and cheese and drank white wine from a cask. The messages on my answering machine were routine-a man getting back to tell me that his wife had returned and that I needn’t bother looking for her, and one from the garage asking when I was going to pay the bill on the Pulsar. I’d never intended to look for the wife-the signs that she’d absented herself to throw a scare into him were as obvious as her motives. He was rich and she was poor; he was old and she was young. I hadn’t expected to make any money out of that one. The woman would probably do all right in the end. I took Glen’s cheque from between the leaves of the Macquarie Dictionary and looked at it sourly, telling myself that her signature was the bold flourish of someone who had money in the bank.
I was sinking into a torpor of self-pity and guilty rationalising. How was I to know who she was screwing when she was away on tour? What about those young constables she admired and those older officers who could be very useful to her career? What could I offer her except sex and some laughs and a slice of my seedy, underpaid, heavily mortgaged, over-regulated semi-professional life?
It was early afternoon; I had a slight buzz on from the wine and was beginning to think about another dose of pain-killers for the arm. Very positive stuff. Ian had told me about several exercises useful for frozen shoulders. I stood in a door frame and screamed as I tried to raise the left arm up to the lintel.
As I swore and raged there was a knock on the front door. I was just in the mood for a salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness. I tramped down the hall and jerked the door open ready to snarl.
A motorcycle courier stood on the step swinging his helmet from one hand. His machine was ticking in the street. ‘Mr Hardy?’
I nodded and he handed me a large envelope. ‘No signature needed. Have a nice day.’
I took the package and he was helmeted and astride his bike before I could think of a response. ‘I’ll try,’ I said as he gunned his motor and shot off down the street. I got Glen’s keys and the garage bill from the meter box and took the whole lot inside. The envelope was a big padded postbag, sealed by a strip of masking tape with my name and address printed in block capitals on the outside. No indication of where it had come from. I flexed it uninterestedly, thinking it was probably something from my accountant-some new superannuation plan or savings scheme I didn’t need. I dumped it on the kitchen bench and looked at the garage bill. Three hundred and fifty-two dollars and sixty-five cents for work on the electrical system and brakes.
‘Automobiles are the curse of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries,’ I said aloud. I filled in the amount on Glen’s cheque and put it with the account.
My arm was hurting and I wondered if the effect of twenty-five years’ use of pain-killers was cumulative. I took a couple more with wine and used my Swiss army knife to slit open the envelope. I up-ended it. The files I’d found in Scott Galvani’s office and had taken from me a few hours later fell out.
Motorcycle couriers all look alike and there was nothing to distinguish the one who’d brought the package from a hundred others. The envelope was completely unmarked. I shook it thoroughly but no note saying ‘Sorry, taken in error’, fell out. I looked through the folders but could see no sign that anything had been removed or tampered with. The delivery of the files in pristine condition increased my already high level of anger. Here was I doing my Lord Nelson act, facing months of incapacity and all for nothing. It would almost have been better to have got them back ripped to shreds or soaked in blood. At least that might have meant something.
I read the files through carefully before phoning the business number for Angela Prudence Cornwall. Ms Cornwall was apparently a partner in a company controlling a number of up-market florist shops. I would have expected the recession to hit hard at the flower business-after all, you can go out and gather them for free if you try-but the addresses were prestigious and the phone operator who put me through to Ms Cornwall sounded very secure in her job.
‘Angela Cornwall.’
‘My name’s Hardy, Ms Cornwall. I’m a friend and former colleague of Scott Galvani who was engaged by you some time before he was killed. You were aware that he was dead, I take it?’
The voice was as cool as a lily. ‘Of course, yes. I was very sorry to hear about it. May I ask how you come to know about my dealings with Mr Galvani?’
I explained to her that I was tidying up loose ends in Scott’s business affairs, had no intention of prying into her circumstances and was bound by the PEA code of confidentiality, having thought the expression up on the spot.
&
nbsp; ‘I see. Well, what can I do for you?’
‘Did Mr Galvani conclude the enquiry?’
‘Did I pay him, do you mean?’
‘No, not at all. I’m uninterested in that side of things. I imagine his executor and accountant will concern themselves there. I’m talking about the professional aspect.’
‘Very well. Mr Galvani made me an entirely satisfactory verbal report and I sent him a cheque. He undertook to submit a written version and a full accounting, but it hasn’t arrived. I assumed that.. well, what happened to him, prevented that. I’m sorry, did you say that you were a friend of his?’
‘Yes, I was. Thank you for your cooperation, Ms Cornwall.’
‘I liked Mr Galvani. He was knowledgeable about flowers.’
‘Was he? I didn’t know that, but I’m not surprised. He was knowledgeable about a lot of things.’
‘Can you tell me, Mr Hardy, what happens to the records of private investigators in these circumstances? I take it you’ve read Mr Galvani’s file on me. I might say that I’m soon to be married.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you, but you will understand my concern.’
The question had never occurred to me. My own files, chaotic though they were and some of them no doubt eroded by time and insects, were full of secrets. Some cryptically concealed, others obvious. I wondered what had happened to the records of all our predecessors, stretching back into the ‘Brownie and bedsheets’ era and encompassing almost every known human foible. I had no answer-probably deposited on the various city dumps or burnt-but I decided to play Ms Cornwall straight, the way she’d played me. I told her I didn’t know the answer in general terms, but that I would personally forward her file to her, if that was what she wanted.
‘Thank you, Mr Hardy. That is very understanding of you.’
‘As a last question, how long was it before he was shot that you heard from him? I take it he telephoned?’