Winter Traffic

by Stephen Greenall

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And it’s bad because you’re looking for upside, for any shred she’s better off. That her life on this rock was awful day-to-day. That her parents were shitbags, which they often are.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  But all that went out the window with you because when I heard your name I knew that you were loved. Sophie Dance / Sophie Dance, when I heard that alignment I knew that you were treasured. Names matter, are proofs somehow of the life behind, silk screens harbouring tell-all lights and the light you were was warm, harboured richly.

  The dog comes haring back along the naked strip of Balmoral, performing show-off leaps every three or four steps. He is snapping in pursuit of moths and the progress he makes is a meeting of opposites, a dance comprised equally of frustration and joy. Jane runs fingers through his fabulous hair, cups the big cement jaw with her spell-casting hand. ‘You won’t make it into work tomorrow.’

  ‘I won’t make it into work ever again.’

  ‘You need a holiday.’

  ‘I need a bullet.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘You think I fear that place? No. Something went animal against her, but it wasn’t out on Cobblers. It was done somewhere else and the body dumped.’

  ‘Ssh.’

  ‘I saw the tyre marks, Janey. I saw beyond them to the pieces and the lies they pieced together. The truth of the position is an odd one, no question. The crime is like the criminal / asexual in its heart.’

  ‘Be what you said before, hon. Be a city in the dark.’

  ‘I don’t know how.’

  ‘Is there really someone in the world called Dick Champion?’

  The Incremental stands to disrobe, a gigantic reckless golem brought to life by incantation. Hers; unwitting. ‘No,’ he says quietly. ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘What are you—’

  The surf is heavy breathing on the end of his line, Rawson moving in its direction without a rhythm to his gait. He nearly goes over on the left-side ankle but rights himself in time, walks on as though the sand has turned untenable with heat. Dainty hoof—painful / painful—but it’s all in a day’s suffering.

  He wonders if Kris foretold it, sensed. Can she feel the event of sensational matrix now burgeoning in his chest? The final wave of the final pill is rising up to smash him, the Blue Mover groping among recollections of his previous Darkside swim. No camera now, just an odd conviction: he is the central Sydney star. The locus of all its grand attainments, the sump of atrocity too.

  ‘You’re a mad bastard,’ calls Jane as he walks naked to water and he both hears and does not because I AM THE FIVE WAYS AND I AM THE SEVEN WAYS AND I AM THE BRIDGE ACROSS THE HARBOUR AND THE TUNNEL SOON BENEATH. I AM THE YACHT THAT MOORS OFF FIVE DOCK AND THE PIER OF NO CONNECTION AND THE RUSTED GREEN CORTINA ON THE AUBURN VALLEY LAWN. AND I’M THE RESCHS SILVER BULLET AND THE SUSPECT NEWTOWN PASTRY AND THE ROYAL DOWN IN PADDO ON A LUCKLESS SUNDAY NIGHT. I AM THE NORTON CARBONARA AND THE BLOATED HURSTVILLE LOBSTER AND THE ANNANDALE FLASHER AND THE PHILLIP STREET REVIEW. I AM THE MOSMAN WATER PROSPECT AND THE CABRAMATTA HOT SHOT AND THE OLD BUBONIC TERRACE IN THE HEART OF ARGYLE ROCK. AND I’M THE CENOTAPHIC MOURNING AND THE RUSTED FAIRFIELD AWNING AND THE GILDED COOGEE DARLING AND THE PINCHGUT GUN SALUTE. I AM THE WASTED COURTHOUSE DANCER AND THE WEARY FAILED BOUNCER AND I AM STARTER AND CONCLUDER OF EVERY FIGHT THAT EVER WAS. I AM THE MAN WHO DOES THE STABBING AND THE LASS WHO DOES THE BLEEDING AND THE BLOKE WHO COMES IN AFTER VENGEANCE WRITTEN IN HIS HEART. I AM THE WEAPONS USED IN COMBAT AND THE CAR EMPLOYED FOR TAKE-OFF AND THE BLOOD UPON THE FLOOR IN WHICH THE DOZY COPPERS SLIP. AND I’M THE LANTERN ON THE FORESHORE, AND THE ABSENCE OF THE LAUGHTER, AND THE ONE WHO HOLDS HER HAND AS IT GOES ANIMAL AGAINST HER. I AM THE GIRL WHO WENT TO COBBLERS AND THE DOG WHO BARKED THE HORROR AND THE PARENT WHO CAME SHAKING IN THE AFTERWARDS TO WEEP.

  14

  Everyone who called her Leonara is dead. She sits on the nineteenth floor of St James by a window as tall as herself, crowned by the cat-lady hair that is her trademark. Next to her is a shorthand pad riddled with that vanishing semaphore and in her hands the paper for which she has worked these twenty-four years. Lenny sees Tony Bercovitch coming and pretends she doesn’t.

  ‘Good case?’

  ‘Sure,’ she says, looking up. ‘If you like incest.’

  ‘I’m just here to watch. Harper Holdings.’

  ‘That’s a bit dry, isn’t it.’

  ‘Maybe. But your friends at the Fin will have plenty to write come judgment.’

  ‘Sure,’ says Lenny. ‘Fifteen months from now.’

  ‘Free for a chat?’

  The journo nods and folds the paper. Lenny likes to do Spot the Difference, lets people think she’s dashing off the Times cryptic.

  She didn’t expect he was saying hello for his health.

  —

  The pale green eyes of his lizard sangfroid strike her as ancient, primeval, older by millennia than the rest of him. The age of Bercovitch is difficult to read, the suit cheap to begin with and not updated since Hawke rolled Hayden. Lenny knows about the creed still prevalent on Tony’s side of the church, polyester a badge of honour that shows you’re not on the take. He still plasters his hair with a truckload of Bryl, all except one raffish lock at the edge of his fringe: the man is a mod / not a rocker. He pauses to give it gravity, says They’re sending me upstairs.

  ‘Congratulations, Inspector. I can still see the trail of smoking bodies.’ ‘Nothing’s set in stone. I’ve been given a loose end.’ He puts elbows on the table, the face and manner of a prelate. ‘We’re reopening on Koestler.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d shut him.’

  ‘Well, no—you don’t close the book on a judge.’

  ‘Not when he’s bashed to death in his own home. Finally taking it off Brendan Tavish?’

  ‘We’re marshalling fresh resources.’

  ‘Fresh leads?’

  ‘I’m confident.’

  ‘I assume there’s an offer here, Tone. I hate to think you’d lead a girl on.’

  Bercovitch fabricates a careful smile. ‘I don’t have to tell you how big this case is going to be when we break it.’

  ‘It was always big—a heinous crime that left the community outraged. It must have done because the minister said so.’

  ‘And the incoming minister will say so again.’

  ‘Like the trained monkey he is. Sucks for you though, cleaning up the hazchem. Where are Holden and Faulkner these days?’

  The question is rhetorical but Tony answers it. That is the kind of man he is. ‘Holden took early pension. Faulkner they buried in Evidence.’

  ‘Poor buggers.’

  ‘Someone had to wear it.’

  ‘Maybe. But I knew FJ a long time and he was a bloody good investigator.’

  Bercovitch closes his eyes, nodding and speaking with something like rapture. ‘Twenty years of flawless assessments.’

  ‘Fuck the report cards. I’m talking about fieldwork.’

  ‘I know. And those fellows got the pineapple end, no doubt about it. Hampered in their efforts by a campaign of disruption.’

  ‘You should write press releases. Are you referring to a certain hero cop?’

  ‘Hardly the term I’d use. But yes—Rawson got in their way to protect his associate.’

  ‘Didn’t do much of a job, then. The associate served time.’

  ‘For the wrong charge, Lenny. The DPP clusterfucked.’

  ‘As they say in the classics.’

  ‘I’m serious—that Jamie Sutton appeal should never have been allowed to get up.’

  ‘Allowed?’

  ‘With any luck he’ll go the mime routine again. Rawson can be his cellmate.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Wait. I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Slip of the forked tongue,’ says Lenny with a smile. ‘What do you want here? Help to fix up the only policeman I ever liked?’

  ‘You like me, don’t you.’

  ‘
You’re not a cop—you’re a fixer. The first time you lied to my face you didn’t bother to blush. I thought, This prick will go far.’

  ‘And I have, Ms Clarke. But some assistance at this juncture would be appreciated.’

  ‘Listening.’

  Bercovitch looks like an android with error messages flashing on some internal board; he is programmed to tell, not ask. ‘I would like an editorial. The people of New South Wales demand action. A glaring injustice has been allowed to stand. As a community we shall not sit idly by while thugs and gangste—’

  ‘Jesus mate, just fax it over.’

  ‘After that you pen some pieces about the growing momentum. Use the anniversary as a touchstone, hint that police are close to a breakthrough.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘We will be. I’ve given it to Millar.’

  ‘Ah, the protégé. And you said you didn’t have ordnance.’

  ‘Karen is more like personal capital. I shouldn’t really have to spend her.’

  ‘Must be how Bob Mack felt.’

  ‘Please. She was wasted over there.’

  ‘What support is she getting?’

  ‘Myrmidon liaison, plus choice of second. If she makes enough progress, maybe a taskforce.’

  ‘You’d let Millar lead a taskforce?’

  ‘Why not.’

  Bullshit. Poor lass. Said to be clever, though. Too bright to think this bastard would let her shine. ‘Why did you say Rawson can be Jamie Sutton’s cellmate?’

  Regret makes Bercovitch stiffer. ‘I shouldn’t have. But you must know he’s the target of numerous internals.’

  ‘Yes—only they never seem to go anywhere. Why is that?’

  Tony wets his lips, another unfortunate tic that makes him seem reptilian. ‘A misguided sense of loyalty comes over people when Rawson is the issue. Because of his…’

  ‘Charisma?’

  ‘Because of his record.’

  ‘Honestly, Tone, I don’t know why you hate him. He wasn’t one of them. Harden wanted to shoot the bastard on sight.’

  ‘At the end, maybe.’

  ‘Bobby always kept Cavendish at serious arm’s length.’

  Bercovitch pales in the shade and Lenny looks at the floor, rightly chastened. ‘Rawson’s time is up,’ he says in a voice quick to normalise, to dust its hands and move away. ‘That’s all I meant. He’s attached to three different branches just so the chiefs can plead ignorance as to what he does all day. He gives one SPG workshop a week and beyond that it’s anyone’s guess. You know what they call him at KX? Pay and Display.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘He’s a burnout, Lenny.’

  ‘Absolutely. But he got that way in the service of the people—and the people sometimes remember that. The Jack was crack.’

  ‘Was is right. ICAC is here and the Commission is coming. The new service has no place for a man like Rawson.’

  The new service. Bercovitch nods to a couple of truth suits as they pass, oblivious to his own phrase hanging discordant in the air, outing him with its echo. ‘I thought you just liked fucking people over,’ she says through a dazed smile. ‘I didn’t know you were a zealot.’

  ‘That an insult?’

  ‘It’s not a compliment.’

  ‘The file on our friend is thick and getting thicker. Whatever he pulled on the Koestler case is just the tip. If you want the truth…’

  ‘Well, I am a journo.’

  Again he wets his lips. ‘Rawson’s neck is in a noose or two for real this time. Department heads are taking a hard look. And when the hero goes down it’s going to sell papers.’

  ‘Oh, Inspector, the things you say.’

  ‘Chief. We in business?’

  Lenny presses a hand against the tip of her chin; her thinking tell, a ring finger that never wore a ring. ‘I’ll speak to Duncan about the editorial. I can pitch it, but I’ve got no sway. Not in that room.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest. You’re the formidable Lenny Clarke.’

  ‘On the plus side, it sounds like the kind of thing he’d go for. That he’d be inclined to do anyway.’

  ‘Then bait the prick. If he bites, I’ll tell you who they’ve picked to head the RC.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Done deal.’

  She rocks, unable to mask her surprise / her sense of outmanoeuvre. ‘Speak the name and I’m yours forever.’

  ‘Good things come to those who wait.’

  Fucking prick. He excuses himself and goes to the gents, Lenny grateful for the moment to compose herself—to wonder if it’s true that the Commission head has been decided. The thing itself is only rumour. When Bercovitch returns he takes up the bill, says This can be on the department. The journalist smiles to feign replenishment. ‘Do you still think the bikers did Koestler?’

  Tony takes the question in his perfect stride. ‘Chris Slane remains a person of interest.’

  ‘You can say that again. The crime lord and the judge. If Girl Friday digs hard enough, she’s liable to find some dirt.’

  Bercovitch smiles. Android again: radiance of a new dawn, a new robotic consciousness. ‘That’s the nice thing about being a zealot, Lenny. You’re never afraid of the truth.’

  13

  Susan drenches in morning. Her hottest fantasy is energy, the temperature required to rise and nudge the French window open. The suck of her own zero and a mysterious birdsong that mocks. Someone, downstairs, is whistling.

  She owes the Americans a phone call. To say what? Get a better analyst. And it’s weird because her brother is in Singapore on business and mum couldn’t whistle if she tried.

  Failure to launch, Susan’s personal window closing, the difference in time between herself and Nevada. Merciless: her nine is their five, the astronomer never quite sure if her country is ahead or lagging whole decades behind.

  —

  ‘Shane Metcalf’s.’

  ‘G’day. Aphrodite about? Greek girl, brings me luck.’

  ‘She was from Cyprus, love. Moved back.’

  ‘Oh. Ouch.’

  ‘But I’m on a streak. What account?’

  ‘Rawson, Michael.’

  ‘And the password, Michael.’

  ‘…Let me have a think about it.’

  ‘If you need a hint, just think of a girl’s name.’

  ‘Trust me, darlin / I’d know it in hell.’

  —

  Susan descends to find him established in the sunroom. It adjoins an open-plan kitchen in which each citizen is a shiny Miele, in which a second version of everything has been deemed a necessity. Between them like a Mason-Dixon is a breakfast bar the Shero would be proud of.

  ‘You. Look. Atrocious.’

  She gives him the teapot treatment and Rawson tries to carve a grin. ‘Yeah, comin off a largey. It’s a miracle I’m up and about.’

  A bloody unjust one; Susan went to bed after the 7.30 Report. She reaches for the juice and wonders what he’s doing here.

  ‘Just passing. Your mum let me in.’

  ‘You’re lucky she recognised you.’

  ‘Shelly knows about the copper’s lot; all-night stakeouts and what have you. She lay this on every time you visit?’

  Susan drinks / puts it down with force. ‘It’s not a visit. And I think you know that.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘We broke up.’

  He lowers the paper. Not one of the broadsheets / the Herald is unmolested. Susan cannot meet the hurt in his eye. ‘I couldn’t tell you the last time I saw the Mungograph in this house.’

  ‘Aw, listen to it—back in Paddo five minutes and talking like a rah-rah. Like you went to bloody Ascham.’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘That’s right. School Captain.’

  ‘House.’

  ‘And dux. Arthur reading your assignments out in the squad room. I never understood a word.’

  ‘Did he tell you I was here?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think.’


  ‘No, love. I haven’t spoken to him.’

  She eyes him with general scepticism and graduates to coffee. ‘At least make yourself useful and eat something. Mum goes overboard when Hristo comes.’

  ‘The gardener’s day, is it? Probably brings the in-laws, eats you out of house and home. These bloody Magyars, they’re like locusts.’

  ‘That isn’t funny, Michael. He’s a very nice man.’

  ‘Man? Friggin robot. Needs one of those personality chips.’

  ‘He clams up when you’re around because you’ve always been so rude. We’ve told you a hundred times he’s from Bulgaria.’

  ‘Just joshing with him, trying to talk horticulture.’

  Susan stirs in Equal, a tiny vortex that inspires inordinate reflection; her itch, metaphysical, for haircut. ‘Is he staying with you.’

  ‘The gardener?’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  Rawson blinks / he actually wasn’t trying to be. But Jamie will always be in the room. ‘Night before last he was in the roof. When did this shit go down?’

  ‘Saturday.’

  ‘Right. And today is what.’

  ‘Today is Wednesday.’

  He ruminates as though the fact of midweek should dictate his next remark. ‘Bad this time?’

  ‘Over this time.’

  It is true he looks a sight—but at least before he looked a little bit happy, there in the shade with some caffeine and the rag. Now it is official, Hansard, the Big Ship looks atrocious. ‘Told him a hundred times,’ he says emptily to space. ‘Put a ring on that girl’s finger.’

  ‘It’s not about that.’

  ‘Trust me, love—he’s a lot more married than most husbands I know.’

  ‘Listen.’

  People who start a sentence that way usually know what happens next. Not Susan; the words take forever but feel oddly rehearsed, dialogue from plays she wrote in childhood. Wrote for dolls: ‘He let us down…I think. And that’s all there is to say. Or maybe he didn’t.’

  ‘I see. Well—’

  ‘The thing is I felt let down, and that’s what matters. It’s not about what happened. It’s about the way I feel.’

  The Blue Mover nods but her disclosure appals: this primacy of feeling, this relegation of fact. He mulls towards conspiracy, all man-woman discourse filtered through invisible foghorns, distortional mischief that leaves no trace / conducts like perfect crime. The thing I say is not the thing they hear. The thing I hear is not the thing they—‘Jem was different when he came back from Special,’ he offers lamely, speaking mostly because it’s his turn at crease. ‘The second time, I mean.’