Browning Battles On

by Peter Corris

'Soon,' Henderson said.

  Barwick drank some beer. 'How's not your worry.'

  'Now, now,' Erskine said soothingly. 'The man's got a right to know. Briefly, Brigadier, you'll be in charge of a convoy of ten lorries that will load about 1500 gallons of petrol.'

  'Who'll do the loading?'

  'The soldiers.'

  'Who'll do the driving?'

  'Other soldiers,' Erskine said. 'From . . . other places.'

  Barwick looked disgusted. He rolled a cigarette and lit it with a Ziegfield Cafe book match, dropping the matches into his pocket. Erskine reached over and removed the folder. He placed it on the table. 'Careless, Robin. Very careless.'

  It was clear then that Douglas Erskine was the brains behind the whole thing. Somehow, that didn't make me feel any better.

  Back at Crown Street, Ushi had locked her door and I had to sleep alone. I tried to apologise in the morning but she was very cool. I wished I still had the use of the Riley so I could offer to drive her to work, but Porter had reclaimed it. The shoot was almost finished, but they needed a busy street scene and Saturday morning in Neutral Bay was the place to get it. Ushi, in a dark wig, was playing a shop assistant with one line. 'May I help you, madam?' She was excited about it and pretending that I didn't exist. Pam was still in bed with a fat US major.

  I was slightly hungover and in need of comfort. Ushi would just have time for a quick one if I could persuade her. Maybe I could get a car out of Henderson on loan. Banking on that, I proposed a picnic for Sunday. Ushi looked up from her boiled egg.

  'Where?'

  'You say.'

  'Watson's Bay.'

  Just the mention of the name gave me a start. It was where my film career, such as it has been, got its start. I spent a couple of hours up beyond my balls in cold water as an extra in one of the innumerable versions of Mutiny on the Bounty and then got robbed by a Maori actress and landed in Long Bay gaol. The place didn't have happy associations for me.33 Still, I was out to curry favour not to please myself, so I agreed. Ushi beamed, kissed me and put on her hat.

  'Er, Ushi, how about . . .'

  'No time, Dick. Tonight if you're lucky. I'll put on the lacy stuff.'

  So I had to be content with that. It really wasn't such a bad prospect and, of all the women I've known, Ushi was the quickest to recover her good humour. It's a great quality, and if I'd had any sense I'd have . . . but there's no point in might-have-beens. I moped about for the rest of the day, helping the major into a cab, cleaning up the mess he'd made in the bathroom and rebuilding my bridges with Pam. She wasn't having any.

  'You're a wrong 'un,' she said. 'Ushi cried her eyes out last night. The soooner you're gone the better.'

  I stormed out and ran straight into an insane woman in Palmer Street who was handing out white feathers to every man over five foot and under sixty. I spent the day in a rage and committed my first serious illegal act on Australian soil—on that particular visit, I mean. I was somewhat under the influence when I arrived at Henderson's car yard in Ultimo, and I didn't let his absence or the locked gate stop me. Five minutes later I was driving away in a hot-wired Buick convertible with white wall tyres and leather seats. I calculated that when Ushi saw the car she'd climb into her lace frillies for sure. I was right.

  Sunday promised to be a scorcher. The sky was milk white and there wasn't a breath of wind. Pam, with her redhead's complexion, tried to dissuade Ushi from going to the beach.

  'D'you want to turn into one of those old handbags on legs you see around town?'

  'My skin tans,' Ushi said. 'Like Dick's.' We were back on very friendly terms by this time.

  'Tans! Listen to yourself. Tanning is for leather.'

  We ignored her, packed a hamper and set out along Old South Head Road. I explained the wires bristling out under the dashboard as an electrical experiment, a test to see whether a radio could be installed in the car. Ushi was a great fan of radio quiz shows and dance music programs—the explanation was aces with her. She looked very fetching in a sundress and sandals with a wide-brimmed straw hat and open-weave cotton gloves. You have to be my age or thereabouts to remember how ridiculously people togged themselves up in those days. I was wearing a modified tennis outfit—cream tousers, open-necked shirt and a sleeveless pullover, even though the temperature was in the nineties. We bowled along, creating our own breeze, and arrived at the beach in high spirits.

  I hadn't seen the place since I'd crawled from the water to collect my extra's pay, and I was astonished at how much it had changed. Gardens had replaced the scruffy foreshore, the fishermen's shacks had gone along with all the rusting boats and rotting jetty. The streets were lined with substantial houses and the old hotel had gained some extensions and a considerable facelift. I parked down near the water. We arranged our picnic under a tree and hopped down to the beach for a swim. That sort of thing was possible then—now, if what I read about Sydney is true, you'd come back to find your hamper and blanket gone and call yourself lucky if you still had your shoes and socks.

  After our swim we ate sandwiches, drank beer, did some very discreet canoodling and fell asleep. I awoke covered in sweat with flies buzzing around my eyes. The heat was intense and I fanned myself with one of Ushi's magazines. As I did so I had the odd feeling that I was being watched. I stopped fanning and looked around. All over the little piece of parkland people were clustered under the trees. Most were asleep. No one was looking at me. I lit a cigarette and gazed out over the dark blue water. Still no breeze. The yachts in the harbour were moving sluggishly in the currents. The feeling would not go away.

  Ushi woke herself up with a slight snore. 'Ooh, sorry. Fan me, Dick, there's a dear.'

  I fanned her, still looking anxiously around. Ushi was too relaxed to notice. I drowsed and when I woke up again a dark cloud had covered the sun and a breeze had sprung up. A fat raindrop fell on Ushi's face and she jumped to her feet.

  'It's going to pour. Come on!'

  We barely made it to the car in time. I struggled to get the roof up as the thunder rolled across the sky and the rain came sheeting in from the east. The water fell in buckets and the car wouldn't start. I cursed, fiddled with the wires and finally got it to kick over. We were parked on a dirt patch that was rapidly turning to mud beneath us. The wheels spun but I managed to get enough grip to move the Buick slowly onto the tar. It was like being in a carwash; the water flowed across the windscreen. I turned the wiper knob and nothing happened. I tried the lights and the horn. Same result. I stopped and a blast of protesting horns sounded all around me.

  'Why've you stopped? I want to go home.'

  'I've stopped because I can't see. The wipers aren't working.'

  'Well, make them work!'

  'I can't.'

  'I have to get home.'

  'Why?'

  'I've got a customer tonight.'

  It may sound surprising, but I was shocked. I stopped fiddling with the knobs and wires and looked at her. The water on her face wasn't rain. She was crying. I reached over for her but she pulled away. The horns kept blowing but I ignored them.

  'I thought you'd . . . given that up,' I said. 'I thought Eric was going to put you in the next picture.'

  She sobbed and beat her fists on the dashboard.

  'With these tits and these legs and this bum? Are you kidding? Get this bloody thing moving.'

  There was misery in every sound and movement she made. I couldn't think of a thing to say. I climbed out of the car into the deluge, wound down the window and pushed until I got us to the side of the road. I got back in, soaked and shivering. Ushi was huddled in the corner staring at the flooded windscreen.

  'I'm sorry,' I said.

  She sniffed. 'It's not your fault. I was a fool to think things could be any different from what they are.'

  'Things can be different. I—'

  'Shut up, Dick. You'll be off soon, I know. Well, I've beaten you to the punch.'

  'What d'you mean?'

  'I'm g
oing to work for Reggie Stuart-Jones.'

  'The abortionist? You're crazy. He just got one bullet in him this time. Next time he'll be chopped liver.'34

  'He's got protection.'

  'Sooner or later he'll kill some poor girl and you'll be up with him for murder. Or, more likely, just you. He'll be in London or Paris.'

  She turned on me fiercely. 'What would you know about it? Don't tell me you haven't paid for a few backyard jobs in your time. If you'd seen what I have—girls bleeding to death, leaking pus, blown up like whales. At least he's a doctor and knows what he's doing. At least he washes his hands and uses clean instruments.'

  She was right. I knew nothing about abortion. That was more due to luck than good management. I could see the sense in what she said, although it still sounded risky. But who was I to be advising someone to watch out for the law? I asked her where she'd met the doctor and she told me—at a nightclub a 'client' had taken her to recently.

  'When you were away cooking up whatever scheme you've got in mind. I've talked to Pam.'

  That'd be right, I thought. Reggie Stuart-Jones and nightclubs went together like ham and eggs. He even owned a couple of the bloody things. And once a whore, always a whore. These thoughts didn't make me feel any better. I said nothing and we both sat there miserably, waiting for the rain to stop. It did at last. I wiped steam from the windshield and did the few things I know to do to cars—dry the distributor, prime the carburettor and so on—and got the Buick moving.

  Nothing was said until we were driving along Riley Street towards the vacant lot where I usually parked.

  'That car's following us,' Ushi said.

  'What car?'

  She pointed to the rear vision mirror, which had been knocked a little askew by my wire fiddling and windshield wiping. A dark green Morris saloon was behind us, keeping its pace to ours.

  'The green one?'

  'Yes. It followed us all the way from the beach.'

  'Shit. Why didn't you say something sooner?' I went past my parking lot.

  'I wasn't sure until we started turning corners. Don't snarl at me. Who is it?'

  I bit back another snarl and wondered what to do. Your honest citizen drives straight to the nearest police station and hollers for the boys in blue, but I could hardly do that. It's a little unlike me, but my thoughts were as much for Ushi as for myself. As one who has known a good deal of disappointment, I could feel hers almost as a tangible thing. I didn't want to add physical injury to it. I stepped on the gas, made some sharp turns and pulled up outside the house in Crown Street.

  'Jump! Get inside quick!'

  'Dick, what . . .'

  I shoved her hard. 'Just go!'

  She hopped out, scooted across the pavement and was inside almost before I could get moving. The Morris had made use of the time though and it was hard behind me. I accelerated down Crown Street, pushing the Buick through the gears without a clue in the world of what to do. The Morris stayed with me easily. For all its flashiness, the Buick lacked power. I soon found that it also lacked tyre tread; the roads were still wet after the rain and the first turn I took at speed almost piled me into a wall. I fought the wheel, got control and found myself heading for Oxford Street, where I hoped there'd be more protective traffic. The Morris driver wasn't having any of that; he shot past me, leaned on his horn and crowded me into the kerb. I hit the brakes, skidded, bounced against the high gutter and came to a shuddering stop.

  The engine stalled. I groped for the wires but the passenger door was jerked open and Robin Barwick leaned inside. He put a pistol to the side of my head.

  'Get out, you stupid bastard. Get out now!'

  I gasped for breath. Having the business end of a gun poked into your ear can have all sorts of unsettling effects. 'Barwick. Robin. What's going on? If you wanted a talk you could have . . .'

  He grabbed a handful of my wet shirt and jerked hard. I slid across the seat and got out of the car. Bill Henderson was standing on the pavement looking at the Buick.

  'I can explain, Bill.'

  'Shut up.'

  There was a laneway near where we'd stopped and Barwick dragged me towards it with a bit of an assist from Henderson. My feet slipped on the wet flagstones but there was no resisting them. Barwick, though small, was incredibly strong. Henderson was angry. They propped me up against a wall and Barwick put his pistol away.

  'Don't hurt his face,' Henderson said.

  Bugger that, I thought. Don't hurt any part of him. Stupidly, I put my hands up to protect my face and Barwick punched me in the stomach. I felt my picnic lunch heave. Then it settled and he hit me again. I started to slide down the wall, still shielding my face, and Barwick crashed a couple of hooks into my ribs as I went down.

  'You are a stupid prick,' he grated. 'With everything at stake you go farting around with a whore in a stolen car. What if the coppers had stopped you?'

  He emphasised the question with a kick that landed somewhere near my kidneys.

  'Easy,' Henderson said.

  'I was going to return it,' I gasped. 'How did you find out anyway?'

  Another kick. 'Someone saw and heard you, you dumb shit. A big, dark bloke who said 'goddamn' in a Yank accent when he had trouble with the lock. It didn't take much to work out who it was.'

  He kicked me again, this time in the ribs, and the pain shot through me, making me gasp.

  'That's enough, Robin,' Henderson said.

  'I'd like to shoot your nuts off,' Barwick said.

  I was sitting down by this time, with my bum getting wet through the seat of my pants. I couldn't be sure that I hadn't pissed myself. Barwick grabbed my hair and pulled my head up and back. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and stuffed it into my mouth.

  'Get out of that bloody whorehouse tonight. Go to this address and wait. Do what you're told, when you're told, or you'll be sorry and then you'll be dead. Understand?'

  I nodded, fighting for breath.

  He let go and dusted off his hands. I slumped back against the wall and watched them walk away down the alley. I pulled the paper from my mouth and immediately vomited. The mess went over my trousers and feet. The smell made me throw up again and again until I was retching dryly. I heard the cars start up and the engine noise die away. Lying there, I was visited by an image of myself collapsed in an alley, covered with blood and vomit, hoping to die. I had trouble placing it until I started to shiver. The temperature had dropped suddenly and I was cold in my wet clothes. All at once I was back in Butte, Montana, derelict and close to death among the trash bins outside the Copper Club. It had been a very low point in my life and I'd sworn never to drop down that far again.35 I dragged myself up and began to hobble in the direction of Crown Street.

  My progress was slow and I drew a few curious looks. I didn't care. I limped along in my wet, soiled clothes, cursing Bill Henderson, the army and the Commonwealth of Australia. I reached the door of Ushi and Pam's house and fumbled my key from my pocket. I was just about to put it in the lock when a voice hissed at me from the next doorway.

  'Dick. Christ almighty, man, is that really you?'

  I squinted at the bundle of rags. They parted and a bespectacled face peered up at me. The face was gaunt but still rounded, the eyes were slanted. It was Harry Kaminaga.

  22

  I blinked and knuckled my eyes. My ribs and stomach were sending waves of pain through me every time I moved, and now this! I thought I was suffering from a spinal injury causing brain damage.

  'It can't be you,' I croaked.

  'The fuck it can't. It is! Get the door open so's I can stop trying to look like a trash can.'

  I opened the door and Harry was around me and inside before I could take a step.

  'Thank the living Christ! This is the first time I've been under a proper roof in three weeks.'

  'What're you doing here?'

  'What do you think? I escaped. You owe me. I'm here.'

  'How?'

  'Now that's a hell of a
story. Hey, this isn't a bad place. You screwing both of those chicks?'

  'You've seen them?'

  'Sure. They took off not long before you arrived. Would there be anything to drink? Hey, Dick, you don't look so good.'

  'Good of you to notice. I've just been bashed.'

  'Robbed?'

  'No. It's a hell of story.'

  Harry grinned. There was something about him that impelled you to tell jokes, make light of things, which isn't my natural inclination, especially if I'm in pain. I took him through to the kitchen and found a bottle of Hennessey brandy contributed by an American officer. We both got two stiff tots into us before doing any serious talking. Harry was almost literally dressed in rags—old tennis shoes with holes big enough to pass the balls through, tattered khaki overalls held together by bits of string, and a jacket that might once have been black but was now a whitish green. His hands and face were filthy, which reminded me of the state I was in.

  The house had two bathrooms for obvious reasons. We both got cleaned up and I found some pants and a shirt for Harry. He had to roll the cuffs and sleeves up a foot or so, but he looked better as a clown than a scarecrow. My ribs weren't broken and the pain had settled to a throb. I was bruised from armpit to waist on both sides and all movements had to be made gingerly. I took some more brandy for medicinal purposes. Harry was looking thin, but not too bad for someone who'd been sleeping rough for weeks.

  'I was as fat as a pig when I took off,' he said. 'They worked us in the camp but holy shit the food was good. Never eaten so many lamb chops in my life.'

  'So why did you escape? I thought you wanted to sit the war out. It sounds like you had it pretty cushy.'

  'I wouldn't say that. Some of the guards were proper bastards—but the other prisoners were the real worry. It wasn't no Coney Island. But the reason I scrammed was my story was looking a bit thin. A couple of airmen came in and they knew something about the kind of flight we were on. My story about being the only survivor and so on didn't sit too well with them. They started to ask questions about the crash, the condition of the plane and so on. I stalled, pleaded loss of memory, but they were about ready to start in on me with the bamboo skewers.'