by Peter Corris
‘Have fun?’
‘Sure did. You look ready for bed.’ She tucked her purse under her arm and lifted her free hand to touch my cheek. Then she kissed the spot she’d touched. ‘I’ll give you a Montana massage you’ll never forget.’
I cashed in the chips and Vi recovered her pistol from the security desk. The driver brought up the Pulsar and I tipped him and slid into the passenger seat. ‘Watch your scarf,’ I said to Vi. ‘Remember what happened to Isadora Duncan.’
She laughed, flicked the scarf end at me and settled into her seat. We were in a line of cars, three back from the front. Suddenly, Vi stiffened and gripped the steering wheel. “That’s him!’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘The guy I saw with Scott. That’s him!’ She was pointing ahead at the silver-grey Mercedes at the head of the line. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a man getting in the back. The Merc accelerated away sharply and we were left with no room to get around the Mazda in front of us. Vi slammed the lever into drive but the Mazda was taking on its passengers in leisurely fashion. She honked and the driver gave her the finger.
‘Fuck you,’ she said. ‘Get moving!’
I was squinting against the artificial light, trying to get a look at the Merc’s licence plate as it cruised away. No chance. Vi fumed.
‘Take it easy,’ I said. ‘We’re a good chance to pick it up when we get out of the tunnel.’
‘If this fucker ever moves!’
The Mazda pulled out slowly and Vi went around it in a screech of rubber on tarmac. She shot up the ramp to street level and went the only way she could, into the series of roads that lead from Darling Harbour to all points of the compass. The traffic was light at that hour and I saw the Mercedes take an exit a hundred metres ahead. Vi saw it too and accelerated. She wasn’t familiar enough with the car to do it smoothly and the Pulsar rocked and swayed as it gathered speed.
The worst thing you can do to a driver is sound as if you can do what they’re doing better, but I had to tell her. ‘Ease back, Vi, we don’t want him to see us come rocketing up behind him. We want to know where he’s going.’
She was a greenhorn, slamming her foot on the brake so that the car slewed and skidded. She fought out of the skid nicely, and stalled. By the time we got going again the Mercedes was out of sight on a road that branched three ways ahead.
‘Shit,’ Vi groaned. ‘I’m sorry. I lost him.’
‘Take the left!’
‘Why, for chrissakes?’
‘Just take it.’
She turned off down the left track and we followed the road for a kilometre or so at speed. There was no sign of the Mercedes and Vi was almost weeping. ‘Damn, damn, damn-why did I have to fuck up like that?’
‘It’s not the end of the world. You spotted him and we got something. Let’s get back on the track to your place.’
She made the turns, driving carefully, the adrenalin rush diminishing. ‘Why’d you tell me to turn left back there?’
‘Which way would you have gone?’
‘I don’t know. I’d probably have stopped.’
I reached over and stroked her hair, feeling the wiry frizz turn soft in my fingers. ‘That’s why. We had a one in three chance-you have to gamble.’
She nodded. ‘I get it. It’s not quite like in the movies, huh? Did you see that dumb flick when Debra Winger… like, she can’t drive at all, right? She gets in this car and drives through the city. Really dumb.’
‘Legal Eagle?’ I said. ‘Yeah, Glen got it out on video and…’
She shot me a look. ‘Aha. Glen, eh? What would that be-Glenda?’
‘Glenys.’
‘Glenys!’ I don’t fucking believe it! No one’s called Glenys.’
‘Vi… ‘
We had just made the turn into Broadway where the traffic was thickish and mixed-late night drunks, long-haul drivers and sober suburbanites, fresh from something frothy at the Entertainment Centre. She took both hands off the wheel and patted the air in front of her. ‘It’s OK. It’s OK! I’m screwing this guy called Ralph, off and on. Funny, I call him like Rafe, you know? He likes that… ‘
‘Put your hands back on the wheel. None of this’s worth dying for.’
‘You sure?’
Her long jaw was set and her hands, when she re-gripped the steering wheel, locked onto it like a dog gripping a bone.
‘Let’s talk about it at home.’
‘Before you fuck me or after?’
She took off from the lights jerkily, her front wheels straying into the next lane. I resisted the impulse to grab at the steering wheel, but held my right hand ready and kept my voice low and calm.
‘I thought this was all no-strings-attached stuff,’ I said. ‘I must have misunderstood.’
We passed the Ross Street corner, travelling too fast, just getting through on the amber. My hand was itching for the wheel.
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’d like to talk about it.’
The driver’s side window was fully down; she tore off the corsage and flung it into the back seat. Some of the sequins came away from her dress and flickered through the air, falling inside and outside the car. We shot through the next set of lights on the green and she swerved into the right lane to avoid a slow-moving semi-trailer by inches. Its acrid exhaust filled the car and I coughed.
‘Cough, you weak bastard. Cough your fucking guts up.’
We were heading towards Norton Street, going much too fast, but not impeded by anything. I had to decide whether to let her make the turn or not. She swivelled her head, pressed down on the accelerator and spat at me, ‘Scared, tough guy?’
She increased speed and swung the wheel carelessly. I knocked her hands down, gripped the wheel and kicked her foot away from the gas pedal. The Pulsar slowed but fishtailed, narrowly missed the traffic light and almost collected a car making a late left turn. The front left wheel mounted the footpath, grazed a lamppost and I hauled it back, touching the brake, ready to steer into the skid. It took only split seconds but seemed to last an age. An awning post flashed past me and then the car was back on the road, slowing, steadying, straightening. My arm felt as if it had been loosened in the socket and I was grinding my teeth with the tension and effort.
I drew into the kerb and stopped with the rear end still sticking out into the street. Sweat was running off me and my vision was starred and blurred as I looked out through the windscreen at the moving lights and shapes. Vita Drewe was almost crouched in her seat, pressed back towards the door, arms wrapped across her body, legs drawn up. She was staring fixedly at my hand which was locked on the steering wheel. Suddenly, she lashed out at my face, whipping her left arm around, flailing wildly. I blocked the blow, she whimpered and her head sunk onto her chest.
I got out of the car, opened her door and eased her across into the passenger seat. She didn’t resist-just as well because I couldn’t have lifted her. I started the motor, employed my right-hand-across technique and drove slowly to Lilyfield. She sat bolt upright in the seat and didn’t say a word. I stopped in the lane outside the gate. Dylan padded down the yard and stuck his nose through the bars. I opened my door.
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ she snapped.
‘I just want to make sure you’re all right.’
She threw open the door, banging it on one of the heavy garbage bins in the lane. ‘What you can do is fuck off.’
‘Vi, I… ‘
She fished in her purse and for a moment I thought she was going to pull out the gun, but she came up with a key. ‘Get going, or I’ll tell Dylan to take a chunk out of your miserable hide.’
She unlocked the gate, went through and slammed it after her. I heard her heels clicking on the path and waited until I saw a light come on in the flat. Dylan came back to the gate and looked through it at me, growling. I drove slowly down the lane, partly dazed by the violence of her reactions, partly puzzled about what had set her off. The car steered
oddly and I got out to look. The front bumper bar had twisted when it had hit the lamppost and part of it was brushing against the tyre. I straightened it with my right hand. But the panel above it was buckled and the radiator grill had also taken a knock.
I got going again and hadn’t covered more than half a kilometre when a police car drew up alongside me and waved me to the kerb. The policeman approached cautiously.
‘Are you all right, sir? You seem to be driving very slowly.’
‘I’ve had an argument with someone,’ I said. ‘She smashed the car a bit in the front. Just being cautious.’
He went forward and examined the damage. ‘Could I see your licence, please?’
I showed it to him and he looked in closely at me. He would have seen a lot of strain, some facial bruising, lipstick, sweat and a bow tie very askew.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take a breathalyser test. If you’ve no objection?’
I did a rapid calculation: two glasses of champagne some hours back, a double bourbon and two beers on top of a pretty light meal. It’d be touch and go. I climbed out of the car. ‘No objection.’
He went back to his car and he and his partner prepared the machine and registered the time, date and place of the test on a form. I blew into the tube and watched their expressions.
‘Had a bit to drink tonight, sir?’ one of them said.
‘A little. Not a great deal. I wasn’t expecting to be driving.’
‘Probably shouldn’t be. You look pretty crook.’
‘It’s been an upsetting night.’
‘You just sneak in. How far do you have to go?’
I told him and he said I could go, advising me to be careful and instructing me to get the damage to the car attended to immediately. I drove away with exaggerated care. I could see their headlights in my rear vision mirror and it seemed like an age before I could make a turn to get away from them. I went through Annandale, picked up Wigram Road and went up the hill into Glebe. I was driving on automatic pilot, still numbed by the recent events, resisting the impulse to analyse them until I was out of the car. I turned into my street and narrowly missed a taxi that was just pulling out.
Its lights dazzled me briefly and when I recovered I saw Glen Withers standing with her bags at her feet outside the house, shielding her eyes against the headlights as the battered front end of her precious car came towards her.
15
Glen’s welcoming, but slightly surprised, smile faded as she saw the state of her car. I sat behind the wheel, dazed and confused by guilt and apprehension. She approached the open window and looked in at me.
‘Cliff, are you all right?’
I nodded.
I saw her take in the dinner suit, the lipstick on my face. She could probably smell the liquor on my breath and Vita Drewe’s perfume and the casino smoke in my hair and on my clothes. I opened the door slightly but just sat, saying nothing and her eyes drifted over the inside of the car. Opening the door was a mistake; the interior light let her see the crumpled corsage lying on the back seat.
She went back to the kerb, lifted her bags and dumped them on the bonnet. ‘Please get out and leave the keys.’
I climbed out and she looked me up and down. ‘I’ve never seen you looking so handsome, Cliff. Or so bloody ridiculous.’
She brushed past me, got in, started the engine and drove off. I hadn’t said a word. The brain behaves in a crazy way at these moments. All I could think of was what’s a Montana massage?
Somehow, I dragged myself inside, yanking off the tie and jacket as I went. I ripped open the shirt and stepped out of the pants. I took off the shoes and socks and dumped the whole outfit at the foot of the stairs. Then I went through to the bathroom and had a shower, scrubbing hard, washing all over, letting the hot water loosen my stiff shoulder and using the left arm almost as normal. It hurt like hell, but I told myself I deserved to hurt and didn’t spare it.
I wrapped a towel around my waist and went into the kitchen. The cat had had a big tin of tuna before I’d left on my big night out and it wouldn’t reappear for at least twenty-four hours. Fitting, somehow. I wanted oblivion and all I could find to help me get it was a half-bottle of gin, left over from a night when Glen and I had set up the TV and VCR at the foot of the bed, hired a pornographic video and drunk gin and tonic while we watched. The results had been highly satisfactory-multiple orgasms and a lot of fun and we’d resolved to do it again but hadn’t yet found the time and mood. I was out of tonic. I put a big measure of gin in a tall glass and added a few furry ice cubes and a couple of chunks of over-hard lemon. I took a big drink and tried to let the alcohol loosen the tightness I felt in every nerve and sinew.
The gin loosened my tongue. ‘You fuckwit,’ I said aloud. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ After another drink, I felt emboldened enough to pull the phone towards me and dial Glen’s number in Petersham. When she answered I’d think of something to say. I was the charm king-the man who’d beaten the breathalyser and steered the crippled ship back to safe harbour. The phone rang and rang with the tone that convinces you that the party is home but isn’t going to answer. More gin, definitely.
I slept until mid-morning, too drunk to be disturbed by the shoulder, and woke up feeling that to even make a start on this day was a mistake. My bladder insisted though, and I came down the stairs to find Glen sitting with a cup of coffee in the living room. She’d folded up the monkey suit and put the whole rig neatly on a chair.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘I doubt it. Excuse me, Glen. Nature calls.’
‘There’s coffee in the pot.’
I’d pulled on an old, torn T-shirt and crumpled, stained tracksuit pants and when I looked in the mirror I saw a face that matched the clothes. My eyes were bloodshot and there were asymmetrical bruises and swellings on both sides of my nose. I still wore a smear of lipstick, now with aggressive black beard bristle poking through it. I washed and tidied myself as best I could, but when I went back in with a cup of black coffee I still looked and smelt like a bum. Glen was in a crisply ironed white blouse and blue skirt. She was neat and well-ordered from head to toe, giving her a decided advantage.
I sat down and drank some coffee. ‘I’m sorry about all this. I’ve been very stupid. I’ll get the car fixed.’
‘I don’t care about the bloody car!’
‘No.’
‘You’ve been fucking someone.’
‘Once and once only. Not again.’
‘How’s that? I thought one-night stands weren’t your thing? Tell me about it. I want to know.’
I told her in some, edited, detail not putting myself in any worse light than I needed to, but not making too many excuses either. When I got to the mention of her name and the sudden change in mood it had triggered in Vita she looked shocked. ‘She must be unbalanced. You pride yourself on your ability to spot crazies. What went wrong?’
‘Bad judgement. That’s when your car got smashed. It was lucky it wasn’t both of us as well.’
‘Bad judgement, is that how you account for it? You wouldn’t root the first woman who offered just out of bad judgement, Cliff. Something was festering, feeling all wrong to you, eh?’
I nodded. ‘We seemed to be… separate. I don’t know. I suspected your south coast tour was more than just a job.’
‘That’s more like you. Suspecting stuff, looking below the surface. Did you snoop, open my mail?’
‘Of course not. I’m sorry, Glen. It was just a pile of little things… I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. You were right.’
‘What?’
‘You’re right. I thought I might be able to string it out a bit longer while I tried to sort my feelings out, but the old Hardy nose was onto it.’
I shook my head and drank the rest of my coffee. It was stone cold but it didn’t matter. The taste was in my mouth, not in the drink. ‘So, it’s something serious. Are you going to tell me about it?’
I held up my right hand and showed her the scabby knuckles. I lifted my left arm as far as it would go-not quite shoulder high. ‘I’m too damaged to hit things. Talk’s violent enough for me right now. If you tell me you love someone else… If you tell me that… we can take it from there. Glen?’
‘I don’t know. I just bloody well don’t fucking know!’
‘Who is it?’
‘Not it, he!’
I stared at her. Some of the carefully brushed and pinned brown-blonde hair had come astray. There was a light film of sweat on her upper lip and she’d splashed a few small drops of coffee on her pristine white blouse. The skirt had creased where she’d plucked at it and she was unconsciously rubbing the spot on her arm where the bullet had gone in and torn the tissue. It would trouble her always, she’d been told. It was certainly troubling her now. I wanted to reach out and put my arms around her, but the word-created barrier between us was like a three metre cyclone fence.
I said, ‘He, then. I guess he’s a policemen. That’s not so bad. Some of my best friends are policemen.’
‘Fuck you, Cliff Hardy. I can see any wounds I might leave healing up already.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’
Glen got up and began to walk around the room. She stopped at the chair where she put my clothes and stared down at them. ‘I was going to tell you, of course. I knew you’d sense it anyway. Shit, I’m repeating myself.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘You bet it’s all right,’ she flared. ‘I come back and I find you’ve been slipping it to some nutty flower power bitch who’s probably a lezzo anyway. Why should I feel guilty? You’ve never made a commitment, never wanted children…’
Neither had she, as I recalled. But all things must change and this sounded like the big one. I sat in my chair with my aches and pains and I realised that what she had said was true-I was looking past this, into a future where the actors and the script and the story would be different. I tried to pull back to the here and now, to feel the intensity of the moment. I couldn’t do it. Hardy, the great survivor. I sat mutely while she paced and talked with none of it really reaching me. In fact, my thinking started to slip sideways-towards my fleeting impression of the man I’d seen getting into the Mercedes outside the casino and what that might mean, towards Scott Galvani’s job and what it would be like to do it, towards my professional connection with Gina, which seemed to be growing more complicated and more distant.