by Tony Black
The next punch hit him square in the left eye socket. It came from the round guy and it was a quick, boxer-like jab. Clay felt nothing at first, yet staggered back from the heavy force. There was no sound. Then, as one, the pain and noise showed up, forcing Clay to stagger again. A high-pitched ringing in his ears matched the raw throb pulsing through his head. Clay stood up straight again, blinking like he was in a spotlight, trying to shake off the ache.
A third punch dropped him to the ground. It came from the slick guy and struck him in the jaw. Already in pain, Clay barely felt it but knew it was a good one as it had forced him to his knees, his forehead scraping the footpath following his collapse. He could taste blood. He felt a flicked cigarette bounce off him.
‘Screw you guys,’ he offered between gritted teeth, but could say no more as a swift boot to the stomach took the last gasp of air from his lungs.
That self-assured voice was close to his ear. ‘We found you once, we’ll find you again if we have to,’ it said.
Clay rolled onto his back on the footpath, his eyes pinched closed as he struggled for oxygen. Over the high-pitched whine he could hear the two men walking away.
The pain escalated as his breath returned, one aching inhalation at a time. He turned to his side and tried to stand, but couldn’t. Clay coughed. More blood. He spat. He wished for unconsciousness, but it didn’t come.
For nearly ten minutes he lay there. Not a single person passed him on the street. The violence, he realised, had moved him away from the windows of the Hotel Warrnambool and into the alleyway between the pub and the cinema next door. I must have been backing down the alley without even noticing, he thought. What a tough guy I am. But if a situation like this arises again, he warned himself, I better keep my mouth shut.
Chapter 18
‘Jesus Christ, what happened to you?’
It was Wednesday morning, the day after the beating, yet Clay had been determined to go to work. His left eye was almost fully closed due to the swelling and his right cheek was a purplish colour. A gash on his forehead completed the picture, while a dull headache and a pulsing throb across his entire face added a tactile quality that made him feel as bad as he looked. He was also starting to suspect he had a broken rib.
It was Bec who had blasphemed and asked the obvious question, rushing up to him. Everyone else had watched him pass in gaping silence.
Clay knew he looked like shit, but what surprised him was that Bec didn’t look the greatest either. He could smell alcohol, her clothes were the same ones she had worn the day before, and her eyes indicated a hangover or a lack of sleep or both.
‘I’m fine. What happened to you?’ said Clay. ‘You look like you slept on my couch again, except I know you didn’t because I did.’
Clay could have sworn Bec blushed slightly, but it was hard to tell as she was standing on the side of his bad eye.
‘Seriously, Clay, what the hell happened?’ she said.
His co-workers were slowly gathering around him, offering a mixture of expletives and variations on the question, ‘Are you OK?’
‘Moloney, my office, now!’ The bellow came from the editor. Bradley Tudor had poked his head out his door long enough to yell, but Clay could tell it wasn’t long enough to notice anything more, like the fact everyone in the office was now crowding around him or the fact his face looked as though it had been used as a punching bag.
The circle of co-workers parted and Clay shuffled to the door of Tudor’s glass-walled office. Tudor didn’t look up as Clay entered; he was staring at his phone, reading a text.
‘Clay, what’s this I hear about you harassing every Fullerton Industries employee this side of the— What the hell happened to your face?’ said Tudor, who had made the mistake of looking up from his phone mid-sentence.
‘Do you want the real story or the believable one?’
Tudor’s eye’s narrowed. ‘Spit it out.’
‘I got beaten up by two hired goons outside the Hotel Warrnambool last night. They told me they were delivering a message.’
‘Hired goons?’
‘Believe it or not, but I actually made the mistake of calling them that, right before one of them punched me the first time.’
‘What was the message they were delivering?’
‘I believe it was the same one you were just about to deliver.’
Tudor shook his head, his hands came level with his shoulders then fell limply. ‘Why do I get the feeling this is the unbelievable bit of the story?’
‘Believe what you want, but I’m fairly confident Fullerton sent those guys to get me to lay off the story.’
‘Did they say they were sent by Fullerton?’
‘Of course not. They weren’t so stupid.’
‘Then how do you know it was about the Fullerton story?’
‘What else would it be about? They told me to stop digging for information.’
‘That could refer to anything.’
Clay felt the anger rising inside him. A throbbing in his head became a persistent pounding. ‘Are you serious, Brad? I was beaten up last night and you’re questioning my story. Weren’t you just about to tell me to lay off the Fullerton story?’
‘I got a text from Lachlan Fullerton himself, asking me why you have been harassing his staff. That hardly sounds like the kind of follow-up one makes to sending in the hired goons.’
Clay slapped the table; it stung his palms where they’d been scuffed on the asphalt. ‘You are unbelievable!’ he yelled at Tudor. ‘Why the hell did I get beaten up, then?’
Tudor looked confused, the edges of his mouth drooping. ‘How should I know?’ he said. ‘You probably said the wrong thing to someone at the pub while you were drunk again and concocted this whole story for all I know. It was Australia Day yesterday, after all, a day renowned for its drunken violence.’
Clay stood and pointed a crooked finger at Tudor. ‘You piece of shit. You filthy, arrogant son of a bitch. I’m on to something – a real story, not some prissy regurgitated PR crap that you think counts as news. You wouldn’t know journalism if it bit you on the arse and crapped in your shoes, you dickless arse-hat.’
Clay glared at Tudor. He could feel himself breathing heavily, and the pounding in his head was almost unbearable now. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he fell back into his seat. All the while Tudor’s face remained emotionless, not even a twitch to give away some hint of a reaction; Clay was disappointed, his pride hurt because he knew his wordy attack bordered on eloquence.
When Tudor finally spoke it was in a measured tone, slow and solid. ‘Go home. Consider this your final official warning. I would dearly love to fire you, and trust me, I could after that barrage of abuse, but believe it or not, I actually feel sorry for you. You’re not in your right mind, Moloney. Now, you’ve obviously had a rough night, whatever the reason, but you’ve been doing some good work of late. The obit on Kerry Collins was outstanding. However, I think you need a break. Take the rest of the week off. Heal up. Sober up. Get your head together, for Chrissake. I don’t want to fire you, despite what you may think. But one more meltdown like that and you’re out the door for good.’
‘What are you saying? Are you suspending me or something?’
Tudor rose, stepped away from his desk and headed to the door. He held it open for Clay as he spoke again. ‘Go. Out. We’ll call it annual leave.’
This was a new assertiveness from Tudor that Clay had never seen before. He wondered what was at the back of it, because Tudor didn’t do cocksure. He was acting like a bullied schoolboy who’d been learning tae kwon do on the fly.
‘OK. I hear you.’ Clay dragged himself to the door, eyeing Tudor. ‘I’ll take a few days off.’
There was a moment’s stilled silence as the pair faced each other. Nothing was said, words had no place between them now. Everything that needed to be said had been said.
As Clay walked away he felt alone and defeated. He felt like he had nowhere to go. Until now l
osing his job had seemed highly unlikely, and he didn’t need it anyway, the job didn’t define him. But somehow the thought of not having the paper behind him to bring justice to Kerry Collins’ killers looked like a real prospect.
Tudor spoke as Clay trudged out the door: ‘Don’t test me again, I’m warning you.’
‘Duly noted.’
Clay left Tudor’s office feeling even more punch-drunk than the night before. He saw Bec watching him from across the office, moving towards him, but he waved her off and headed towards the exit.
Chapter 19
It was raining heavily for the first time since New Year’s Day. The weather had turned cold and a biting sou’wester roared through Warrnambool. Summer was on temporary shutdown.
Bec cowered from the weather at Clay’s door, but it did no good. There was no hiding from it – the door faced south-west, looking out over a large empty car park from one storey up. The unseasonable wind and rain had trapped her. It was bracing.
Bec banged on the door again and waited. It had been a long day. She’d gotten minimal sleep the night before after deciding it would be a good idea to (a) get drunk, (b) go back to Eddie’s place, and (c) sleep with him. I regret nothing except for this hangover, she had told herself in the morning, and nothing had changed over the course of the day, aside from the hangover being downgraded to a dull roar by the afternoon.
Bec knocked again, but still nothing. The day was always going to be a long one thanks to the hangover and lack of sleep, but it got longer when Clay was sent home after looking like he’d been in a fight and then getting in an argument with the editor. What the hell is going on with him? Her concern was genuine. And where the hell is he? Why did he text me and invite me here if he wasn’t going to be home?
The wind kicked up a notch, sending the rain horizontal. Bugger it, she thought, I’m trying the doorknob. To her surprise, it opened.
Clay’s apartment was dark. It was just after 5 p.m. Still plenty of daylight left, in theory, but the heavy dark grey rainclouds outside seemed to suck all the light out of his home. No lights were on. ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘It’s Bec.’ She paused. ‘From work,’ she added, to be on the safe side.
She took a couple of steps down the hall and heard the low pulse of bass guitar and kick drum, mingling with the smell of burning marijuana. As she moved through the hall and into the dining room, the sensations increased. She followed her nose and ears to the lounge room, pushing open the door to reveal the louder sounds of a stereo playing. The pungent aroma of joint smoke wafted before her, solid as a wall.
Clay was lying on the couch she’d slept on just over a week ago with what appeared to be the joint between his lips. His left eye was practically closed from the swelling. Close to hand on a glass coffee table was a bottle of Black Douglas whisky and a glass filled with ice, an ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a small amount of marijuana, finely chopped in a bowl.
‘So what the hell happened to you?’ she yelled over the music.
Clay gestured at the stereo and Bec reached over and turned it down.
‘So what happened to you?’ She tried again as she moved to the other side of the room and sat in a chair next to the stereo.
‘Which bit?’
‘All of it – the bruises, the argument with Tudor…’
Clay toked heavily on the joint before resting it on the edge of the ashtray, exhaling more of the acrid smoke into the air. The lounge room window was open a crack, but it did little to hide the smell. ‘I don’t want to have to go through all this twice, so wait up…’ he checked his watch, ‘five minutes. How was your day?’
‘My day? What? What is wrong with you, Clay? I’ve been worried sick about you all day and you invite me around here and then you tell me to wait five minutes!’
‘Alright, alright, calm your farm. All will be revealed. But seriously, wait five.’ There was a bang on the door. ‘Aha,’ said Clay, ‘that will be our guest. Would you do me a favour and answer the door, please? I’d do it myself but, y’know, I have some aches and pains… Thank you.’
Bec glared at Clay. She was in no mood for his games, but she rose and walked back to the door. Opening it with a huff, she was shocked to see Eddie Boulton standing on the other side, his coat pulled up against the wind and rain.
‘Ah, hi,’ she managed.
‘Hi, yourself. What are you doing here?’ said Eddie.
‘Probably the same thing as you.’
‘Right. Can I come in, or do I have to stay out in this stupid weather?’
‘Oh, sorry.’ Bec backed out of the way and Eddie moved inside with an exaggerated shiver. She closed the door behind him; it was very quiet in the dim hallway and they were standing a little too close together. Unsure of what to do, Bec reached up on her toes and gave Eddie a peck on the cheek, feeling silly the second she did so. ‘Clay’s down here,’ she said, moving past Eddie and toward the lounge room, putting her back to Eddie so he couldn’t see the slideshow of expressions crossing her face.
As she entered the lounge room, Bec immediately noticed the mixbowl was gone, along with the half-smoked joint. The window was open wider, a stick of incense was burning, and Clay was sitting up with a lit cigarette in his mouth and the glass of whisky in his hand.
‘Eddie, how goes it?’ he said without taking the smoke from his lips.
‘Jesus H Christ, Clay, you look like a dog’s breakfast,’ said Eddie.
‘Ah, well, we can’t all be as handsome as you, Eddie, now can we?’ Clay’s voice was chipper and upbeat, not the tone Bec expected from someone who appeared to have been at the wrong end of a beating. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘why don’t you two lovebirds take a seat and let ol’ Uncle Clay tell you a story?’
Bec looked at Eddie, who offered her a smirk. He seemed as comfortable as she was with Clay’s teasing.
‘Oh, come on now, children,’ said Clay. ‘Your little rendezvous might have stayed secret a bit longer if you hadn’t had it at the restaurant where one of my best contacts works.’
Eddie laughed; it sounded forced. Bec wasn’t sure what to make of the situation so opted to say nothing.
Clay chuckled as he went for another sip of his whisky. ‘Can I get you guys anything? Coffee? Beer? Whisky?’
‘You can hurry up and tell us your damned story,’ said Eddie.
‘Alright, keep your pants on,’ said Clay, punctuating his remark with an obscene wink in Bec’s direction.
Before Bec could rebuke him, Clay launched into his story. He started with a tip-off he’d received from a Sydney Morning Herald journalist, and worked his way through two days of phone calls, a boozy dinner with one of Wayne Swanson’s old staffers, and capped it off with a climactic bashing outside the Hotel Warrnambool last night. As a footnote he recounted a ‘disturbing conversation’, as he put it, with an unusually bullish Bradley Tudor early that morning.
Bec and Eddie sat speechless at the end of Clay’s account of the past two and a bit days. The music was still playing and seemed to get louder as no one spoke.
‘Good album, this,’ said Eddie.
Bec glared at him. ‘That’s all you’ve got to say? Our friend just got bashed by a couple of thugs who work for Lachlan Fullerton and all you can say is “good album, this”?’
‘He’s right, though,’ grinned Clay. ‘You Am I’s Hourly Daily. Classic.’
‘How can you both?’ said Bec, but Eddie was already moving on.
‘What proof do you have they worked for Fullerton?’ said the cop.
‘That’s the problem – I have none. They never said anything about him, except to tell me to “stop digging”. And Fullerton Industries is where I’ve been digging.’
‘CCTV?’ asked Eddie.
‘Not of the assault. I walked home from work this morning past the Warrny and scoped it out. No cameras pointed at where I had my arse handed to me. They couldn’t have picked a better spot. But there’s probably footage of them inside the pub.’
‘Absolutely. But I’d bet my possibly broken rib they’re outof-towners.’
Eddie leaned back in his chair with a look of contemplation on his face. Clay puffed on his cigarette. Bec switched her gaze between each of them.
‘Seems like a pretty dumb move,’ she said.
‘How’s that?’ said Clay.
‘Assaulting a journalist? That’s asking for trouble. And besides, you weren’t even getting anywhere with the story. I don’t see how you were worth going to the trouble of importing a couple of thugs for.’
‘Thanks,’ said Clay, with mock indignation.
‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘Why bother? You’ve got nothing on Fullerton.’
‘Maybe they’re scared,’ said Clay. ‘Maybe I’m getting close, or there’s more at stake than we imagine. Like you say, we don’t know enough at this stage, but that’s not to say there isn’t a whole lot more to find out. People get jumpy under pressure, that makes me think we’re really onto something big.’ No one said anything for a while and Clay lit another smoke.
‘You wanna press charges?’ asked Eddie.
‘If you can catch them. I get the feeling these guys might not be easy to find. I’m really only telling you this in case I go missing… it might be a good place to start looking. Not that I think it will come to that, not yet, anyway.’
Bec frowned. ‘I don’t think it will come to that.’
‘Well, I’m glad we agree about that for now,’ said Clay. ‘I’ve got something else that might interest you both as well.’ He proceeded to tell them about what JT had uncovered from his work colleagues about the job offer Kerry Collins had received before she was killed.