by Gilling, Tom
His own glass was on the floor. He picked it up and unscrewed the Famous Grouse and poured himself a triple. Then he shook a cigarette out of a crumpled packet of Silk Cut and bent his head towards it—like a donkey groping for a piece of apple.
Nick said, ‘You still follow the horses.’
Stackpole didn’t answer at once. As he focused his gaze, it seemed to Nick that he’d forgotten who he was talking to.
‘I should do,’ he said at last. ‘That’s how I earn a living.’
‘You’re a trainer.’
Stackpole tapped his ash into a heavy glass ashtray. ‘I’m a bookie.’
Nick thought at first he was joking. Ex-policemen haunted bookies—they didn’t become bookies.
Stackpole picked up his drink. ‘You don’t believe me?’
‘I believe you.’
‘The old man was a trainer. Had a horse that ran third in the Melbourne Cup. Did you know that?’
Nick tried hard to look impressed. He remembered being impressed once, a long time ago. But now it didn’t seem that impressive.
‘I do all right,’ Stackpole replied, to a question that hadn’t been asked. Then he stood up and said, ‘I need a piss.’
Nick gazed at the walls of the living room, which were hung with photographs of Stackpole’s life. There was a picture of him with his father at Randwick racecourse; another of him at his passing out parade at Goulburn Police College; another with three boys (his sons, maybe?) building a sandcastle in front of Bondi pavilion. He reached for a scrapbook lying on a shelf below the coffee table. Pasted inside were newspaper photographs of Lawrie Stackpole’s third-placed filly, of Ian as captain of St Dominic’s Second XI and caked in mud with his teammates from Eastwood Rugby Club. And cuttings: from Australian Horse Racing, Horse Racing News and the Winning Post; from the Australian Police Gazette (a picture of a police cadet fainting on parade under the headline NEW RECRUIT PASSES OUT IN STYLE) and the Daily Star.
As he sat there, flicking through the pages of Stackpole’s scrapbook, Nick thought about his own life, which existed in a kind of vacuum, a present cut loose from the past. He hadn’t kept a single photograph, a single postcard or newspaper cutting to remind him of the person he had once been. He was beginning to wonder whether that person had ever existed. If he could invent one life then why shouldn’t he have invented two? And yet there it was—his byline—on page three of the Daily Star, above a half-page report of the coronial inquiry that spelt the end of Stackpole’s police career. Seeing that byline filled Nick with a sense of uncertainty, of not knowing who or what he was. Of being somebody pretending to be nobody—or nobody pretending to be somebody.
Stackpole shuffled back into the room and sat down. His cigarette had gone out in his absence and it took him three attempts to re-light it. He finished the triple scotch he’d poured himself and reached for the bottle and poured another. They stared at each other in silence. It seemed to Nick that all he had to do was keep Stackpole drinking and sooner or later he would simply fall asleep. With a hangover like that, Nick thought, he wasn’t going to remember much of the previous night.
It was lying on the doorstep when he got home: a glossy envelope with the words, ‘Congratulations, Kevin Chambers!’ emblazoned in red across the top left-hand corner.
Rather than stuffing everything in the rusty mailbox, as he was paid to do, as he did on every other day, the postie had made a special trip from the gate to leave the envelope on the porch, where it would be safe from the weather.
Nick unlocked the front door and took the letter inside and dropped it on the kitchen table while he boiled the kettle. It was 3.46 a.m. and he’d earned precisely $106.90, after expenses, for driving twelve hours in the rain. In light of these facts the words ‘Congratulations, Kevin Chambers!’ had a sarcastic ring.
He put a tea bag in the mug and poured the water. As he sniffed the milk, he drew back in disgust. Then he opened the envelope. The letter said:
Dear Kevin Chambers,
Have you ever wondered where you came from? Who your ancestors were? What happened to those long lost cousins?
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Nick thought about how his world had shrunk. The big picture no longer seemed important. It was the small picture that was starting to keep him awake at night. His universe was shrinking, in time and space. Each week it got a little smaller. Once there had been thousands of names, then hundreds, and soon there would only be one: Chambers. He tore up the letter and threw away the pieces.
‘So this is the dog I’ve heard so much about?’
It was a rhetorical question but something about the way she said it made Nick feel he ought to answer. He’d noticed it before, the way she fished for information without actually asking for it. Justifiable curiosity was how he’d explained it to himself: after all they had only known each other for a few weeks and this was Alison’s first visit to De Carle Street.
‘She’s a greyhound, isn’t she?’
‘A superannuated greyhound, yes.’
‘I thought greyhounds were stupid dogs but she looks quite…’
‘What?’
‘Intelligent. Crafty.’
‘You can tell that just by looking, can you?’
‘Of course. Can’t you?’
‘Not in a dog.’
‘But we were talking about dogs, weren’t we?’
Nick opened the door and stood aside as the excited dog hurled itself through the gap.
‘Careful,’ said Nick. ‘She gets a bit slobbery sometimes.’
‘How long have you had her?’
‘Not long.’ He stood there, half doubled-over, while the greyhound nuzzled his groin. ‘She’d be able to give you the exact date. If she could talk.’ He tried to push the animal away but the wet nose and slippery tongue kept squirming past his hands.
‘She’s very affectionate,’ said Alison, crouching beside her. ‘I like a dog that’s affectionate. What’s her name?’
‘You won’t believe this. Actually it’s Fred.’
‘Daring,’ said Alison. ‘Original. I’d ask why…but on second thoughts I think I’ll leave it a mystery.’ She stood up. ‘So, can I ask what you’re cooking?’
‘It’s not so much what I am cooking,’ said Nick, attempting to push the animal back outside, ‘as what I was cooking before the power went.’
Alison glanced at the illuminated light above her head.
‘It’s back now,’ said Nick, ‘but the meat won’t be done, and I’d rather not serve it raw.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘Do you mind if we go out instead?’
They went to a Vietnamese restaurant Nick had driven past many times in his taxi. He’d read a review in the Age that gave it fourteen points out of twenty—which was as good a score as anyone ever got from the Age’s restaurant reviewer. On each occasion Nick had looked at the restaurant it had been full— there was sometimes even a queue on the pavement outside— but this evening only three tables were taken. A bored teenage waitress was folding napkins on the counter.
‘I thought you said this restaurant would be crowded,’ said Alison.
‘It usually is. We can go somewhere else if you prefer.’
‘You’ve made me curious. And I’ve never eaten Vietnamese.’
‘Really?’ Nick was surprised. He assu
med that in the course of a few years an airline flight attendant would have been everywhere and eaten everything.
‘You’d be amazed,’ said Alison. ‘Some of the most unadventurous travellers I know spend their entire working lives on planes.’
Nick was becoming used to her exaggerations but still found it hard to pick when she was pulling his leg. ‘There’s a Thai place down the road,’ he said. ‘It’s supposed to be all right.’
‘Bored with Thai,’ Alison said decisively. ‘Let’s eat here.’
The food wasn’t bad but somehow it wasn’t as good as he’d hoped. Visiting a restaurant after reading a glowing review was, in Nick’s experience, always a rather dispiriting exercise. Either the food was as good as the reviewer had said and the whole city was fighting for a table, or it wasn’t and you sat there feeling deceived. In any case, it was more enjoyable to stumble upon a place that was still undiscovered. Still, the bill was reasonable and the teenage waitress, once she’d stopped folding napkins, was very attentive and Alison was effusive about the crab and white fungus soup, so the evening was a success despite the unpromising start.
At some level Nick couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that things had turned out the way they had. He’d never believed in love at first sight: in almost every relationship he’d known, persuasion had played as much of a part as attraction. Neither he nor Alison had taken much persuading. For all their enjoyment of one other’s company, he couldn’t help feeling that there was a lot they were not telling each other. He thought of how long he and Carolyn had known each other—only to discover at the bitter end that they were complete strangers. Time, he’d found out, was no guarantee of wisdom or compatibility. Perhaps that’s why he felt so happy with Alison: because time didn’t enter into it. The past and the future both fell away. He wondered how long it could last—that sense of living only in the present.
‘…or then again, maybe not,’ said Alison.
‘Not what?’
‘Have you been listening, or have I been talking to myself for the last five minutes?’
‘Sorry,’ said Nick, reaching across to touch her hand. ‘I just remembered something I had to do.’
‘And what was that?’
‘One of the indicator lights has blown. I meant to leave Homolka a note to get it replaced.’
Alison poured the last of the wine into her glass. ‘I’m glad my conversation stimulates such profound reflections.’
‘Someone nearly ran into the back of me last night because he couldn’t see I was turning right. I don’t fancy it happening again.’
He was staring at the little gold ingot she wore on a chain around her neck. It was the first time he’d really studied it. One face was plain but the ingot was hanging back to front and Nick could read the letters AMC engraved on the reverse.
‘That’s a nice pendant,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she answered brightly. ‘It is.’
‘What do the initials stand for?’
She looked down and immediately turned the ingot around. ‘It belonged to my mother. Before she married my father.’
‘It suits you,’ he said.
‘Really? And why do you say that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s simple. Elegant. I like jewellery that’s simple and elegant.’
‘And that’s me, is it? I like the sound of elegant. I’m not so sure about simple.’
The waitress got up to open the door while Alison added some coins to the tip Nick had been going to leave. As they stood on the pavement, Alison’s mobile phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID before switching off the phone. ‘It’s Corby,’ she said.
‘Don’t mind me.’
‘I don’t really feel like talking to Corby.’
It wasn’t the first time Corby had rung while she and Nick had been out together.
‘I think he might be trying to tell you something,’ said Nick.
‘Of course he’s trying to tell me something. Otherwise he wouldn’t be ringing. But whatever it is, I’m certain it can wait until tomorrow.’
‘I get the impression Corby doesn’t like me. Or doesn’t like the thought of you liking me. One or the other.’
‘Would it matter?’
‘Not really,’ said Nick.
‘You’re wrong anyway,’ said Alison. ‘I’ve never heard Corby say anything uncomplimentary about you. It’s just his manner. He’s an acquired taste.’
‘And you’ve acquired it?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s just say I’ve had to deal with much worse than Corby. At least Corby doesn’t have a buzzer he can press every time he wants my attention.’
Nick put both arms around her. Just for a second he felt her pull away, as if there was something she wanted to say before being kissed. As they crossed the road she drew his arm over her shoulders and hooked her fingers into the pocket of his jeans, an embrace that was part cuddle, part clasp, at the same time tender and anxiously possessive.
The job was supposed to be from Essendon to Tullamarine Airport. The pick-up was outside a block of units. No phone number. Passenger’s name: Mick.
Hardly the choicest job, but the passenger had asked for him by name. That wasn’t unusual. Unlike some drivers Nick did his best to keep up a conversation when it was offered, and if a passenger asked for a card, he was happy to give them one.
He knew he would spend ten minutes waiting on the street for the passenger to come out, and another half hour on the taxi rank at the other end. Nick never sat on a rank if he could help it, but once you’d been dragged out to the airport you didn’t have much choice—unless you wanted to drive back empty.
Nick found the address in Essendon: a block of twenty-four sixties-style red-brick units. As he’d anticipated, the passenger was nowhere in sight. He sat outside for a while, periodically honking his horn, then radioed base for instructions. He assured the caller that he’d arrived at the address on time although the truth was he’d turned up a couple of minutes late. The radio caller told him to wait.
It was all about blame-shifting. An operator would prefer to leave a driver sitting idle for fifteen minutes than be accused of screwing up a booking. Nick waited. Five minutes passed and there was still no sign of the passenger. Nick was ready to give the job up as a no-show. By now the passenger was probably halfway down the Tullamarine Freeway—in some other bastard’s taxi.
A middle-aged woman came out of the block of units. She was carrying a black bag that could conceivably have been described as luggage. She stared at him as she walked past. Obviously she wasn’t the passenger. Nick picked up the radio and made another call to base.
The caller sounded harassed, as usual. ‘Driver ninety-two, is that you again?’
The pick-up address had already disappeared from the screen. Nick asked him to repeat it.
‘Haven’t you picked up yet?’
‘I’m still waiting.’
‘Have you used your horn?’
‘Of course I’ve used my horn.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic with me, driver.’ He repeated the address. He’d given Nick the passenger’s name but Nick asked him to repeat that too.
‘Carmody,’ said the caller.
At first Nick thought he must have misheard. ‘Say that again, please.’
‘Carmody. Do you need me to spell that?’
For a moment Nick couldn’t speak. He thought he was going to be sick. Was this a joke—or was someone trying to frighten him?
‘Driver, is there a problem?’
Nick looked up at the building. The units facing the street all had balconies. He could see pot plants trailing from some, stacks of plastic chairs, the outline of bicycles and drying racks and surfboards. Was someone up there watching him?
‘I asked you a question, driver.’
‘No,’ Nick managed to answer. ‘No problem.’
Carmody was a common enough surname, Nick told himself as he dialled the number for directory inquiries. He was
sitting in the carpark of a drive-in McDonald’s. The voice computer asked him for a name.
‘Carmody,’ he said. He spelt it out—‘C-A-R-M-O-D-Y’—and repeated the pick-up address.
The voice recognition computer couldn’t recognise his voice. Computers could never recognise his voice. After a few seconds a human operator came on the line. Nick repeated the name and address.
‘Nothing for Carmody,’ said the operator. ‘Are you sure you have the right address?’
Nick hung up without answering. He hadn’t expected anyone called Carmody to be listed at that address. He put away his mobile phone and stared at the customers queuing inside McDonald’s. On a different night he might have been one of them—staring up at the illuminated menu and wondering whether to have large or small fries with his Big Mac. He didn’t know what was going on but he knew that something was. He thought about his life, about the choices he’d made that had brought him to this point, the decisions that had propelled him in this direction rather than another. Somebody was trying to make him pay for those decisions—but who?
He tried to think of all the people who had an interest in finding Nick Carmody. There was Harry Grogan, of course. He would know that Nick had disappeared. As far as Nick was concerned, the business between them was over. It had been over the moment the final cheque had arrived. But perhaps Grogan didn’t see it that way. To Harry Grogan, Nick might have felt like a loose end that needed tying off. Nick knew things, and knowledge like that could be dangerous for a man like Grogan. He’d been Danny’s friend, maybe his only friend, but Grogan wasn’t the sentimental kind.
Then there was Michael Flynn. If he’d been Flynn, he would have made finding Nick Carmody his number-one priority. Tracking down the fugitive hit-and-run driver would have made his career. But Flynn wouldn’t have known where to start looking, unless…Suddenly he remembered Stackpole. Of course it had to be Stackpole. He tried to remember everything they had spoken about in the taxi, and later in the living room in Racecourse Road. Stackpole had nothing personal to gain from turning Nick in. It would have been enough for him to let Nick know that he could if he wanted to.