Comeback

by Lindsay Tanner

  ‘I remember her. Gone to intensive care. Won’t be able to see her now anyway. Why don’t you go home and sleep on it, come back tomorrow?’

  ‘What if she dies tonight?’ Jack yelled at her, unable to contain his emotion. His face was contorted with pain, and the phrase ‘intensive care’ frightened him.

  ‘Don’t think that’ll happen. You’d better go home, rest up, look after yourself. Looks like you’ve had a bit of a rough night, too.’

  Jack’s agitation subsided. It sounded like Emily might be okay, and this woman had a reassuring manner that gave him some confidence that Emily was in good hands. The reality of the situation was starting to hit home: he wasn’t far off comatose himself, and he wasn’t going to be much good to Emily hanging around in a dismal hospital corridor in the middle of the night.

  ‘Okay, er, thanks’, he conceded, and started to walk away. Then he stopped and turned back to the two nurses: ‘Hey, which hospital are we in? And how do I get home?’

  ‘Royal Melbourne. There’s a cab rank outside.’

  ‘Thanks’. He walked towards the sign that said ‘Exit’ like he was on autopilot, barely conscious of what he was doing. Taxi home? Fuck that — can’t afford it. No trams for a few hours, have to walk home.

  He made it out to the street and noticed the cab rank a hundred metres or so up the street. Two cabs were sitting there, tempting him.

  Defiance surged inside Jack, then retreated. He could hardly walk now. How on earth was he going to make it to Balmoral Avenue? A cab would cost the best part of $20, which he couldn’t afford. But it looked like he had no choice.

  He staggered up to the first cab, tumbled into the back seat, and sprawled into a half-sitting, half-lying position.

  ‘Brunswick, thanks, mate. Balmoral Avenue, up past the top end of Lygon Street …’

  Somehow he managed to pay the driver and crawl up the stairs to his flat. He had just enough energy left to gulp down a few Nurofen tablets, remove some of his clothes, and fall into bed, praying for deep, dreamless sleep. He’d never felt like this before, not even after the roughest drinking binge.

  The new day had begun, and Jack was supposed to be out driving, but he was beyond caring. His watch said it was after 8.30. Must have slept a little, he assumed, but it didn’t feel like it.

  The headache had subsided a fraction, but the pain from his beating certainly hadn’t. Even turning over in bed was painful. He tried to get his thoughts in order.

  He suspected he had concussion, and maybe broken ribs, but he thought he would wait a few days before doing anything dramatic like getting X-rays. The rest of his injuries hurt like hell, but he didn’t think there was any permanent damage.

  Better call the hospital, find out about Emily, he resolved. Then track down Franklin, find out why the bastard did a runner.

  To Jack’s frustration, the hospital inquiries line was handled by one of those infuriating ‘to hear our privacy policy, press one’ automated recording systems. After five minutes number-tapping, cursing, and yelling, he was eventually put through to a ward desk with a nurse at the other end of the line.

  ‘I’m trying to track down Emily Bryant, came in last night, head injuries. I was with her …’

  A calm, business-like voice answered: ‘She’s in Ward 7E, bed fourteen. No visitors, I’m afraid. Heavily sedated.’

  ‘Is she okay?’ His mounting anxiety showed in his quavering voice. Adrenalin was still helping to dull the pain in his body, but he couldn’t suppress his fears about Emily.

  ‘Yes. I am afraid I am not allowed to give out patient information …’

  ‘Jesus. I dragged her out of there, called the ambulance, was in the back with her … what more do you want, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘It sounds like you may be able to visit her in a day or two, that’s all I can tell you.’ She hesitated, then added: ‘Nasty head injury, but they’re hopeful she’ll be fine.’

  Jack processed this information. ‘Hopeful?’ Jack didn’t understand the code.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to give out patient information. I’d suggest you call again tomorrow to find out when visiting will be possible.’

  ‘So what ward is she in again? Is there a direct line? Who’s the doctor?’

  ‘Ward 7E, come through inquiries. And she’s with Mister Devarajah.’

  ‘An Indian? Shit, is he okay?’

  ‘He is an internationally recognised authority on head and brain injuries. She’s lucky to have him … he’s very busy …’

  ‘Er, thanks, okay. I’ll call tomorrow.’

  Jack sank back into his bedclothes, still trying to process all this information. It sounded like she would be okay. But how on earth was he going to find out? He considered returning to the hospital and hanging around the ward until he found someone who could tell him what was going on, but dismissed the idea. The chances of success were extremely low, and he was in no condition to hang around anywhere.

  He needed food badly, but he wasn’t sure if he could keep it down. Toast and jam would have to do, followed by a very strong coffee. Then he would have a shower and call Franklin. And after that, maybe a bit of driving, if his body was up to it. There was no sign of his hay fever: it looked like all his other ailments had chased it away.

  What on earth had he managed to land himself in? Auspart was somehow connected to the mob fixing up the flats next door, which was why they were interested in him, and why Franklin was interested in them. The accident next door was a time bomb. Public exposure of Auspart’s involvement would be bad enough by itself, but the risk it would uncover the connection between Auspart and the housing minister was much worse. No wonder they need to shut me up, Jack thought.

  Once again, the shower’s location inside the bath proved inconvenient, but it was worth it. The shower was the only good thing in the entire flat: a strong, intense, really hot jet that washed away your troubles, not one of those pathetic water-regulating showerheads that gave out such a pitiful drizzle you could run through it without getting wet.

  His shower lasted a good ten minutes, way longer than usual, and was followed by a long, slow shave. It was amazing how much better this made him feel. He would be as right as rain in a few days.

  The next step proved more challenging: he couldn’t recall where he’d left Franklin’s card. Just as he was facing up to the prospect of yet another battle with an automated phone answering system, he remembered he’d put it in the glovebox of the cab.

  Suppose I’ve got to go down sooner or later, he told himself. So after a few minutes spent locating his keys, wallet, cigarettes, and mobile phone, he inched his way down the stairs. His thighs, hips, and chest felt every step. For some strange reason, it was always a lot worse going down stairs than going up when you had leg injuries.

  For once, Jack’s memory hadn’t failed him. Franklin’s card was lying in the glovebox under a dirty green chamois and an old receipt book. He dialled the number.

  As he expected, it went to voicemail.

  ‘Hi, mate, er, Jack van Duyn here. Need to talk about last night. Like right away. Give us a call.’

  He had hardly started up the Falcon before his phone rang. It was Franklin.

  ‘Hi, mate, what’s up? You okay?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Where’d you get to last night? Emily’s in hospital, in a coma, and those two blokes touched me up big time. Don’t know who they were, but nasty enough to send me to hospital, too.’

  ‘You okay now?’

  ‘I’m home, about to start a shift, but I reckon I’ve got concussion, maybe cracked ribs, feel like a truck’s hit me. So where’d you get to? How come you pissed off so quick when the shit hit the fan?’

  Franklin ignored the implied accusation.

  ‘I heard her yell out, knew the game was up, and you pissed off up the front. I called out, but
you didn’t answer. So I popped upstairs, out a window, across the roof. Piece of cake.’

  ‘Thanks for sticking around.’

  ‘You fucking nuts? Could’ve been cops. Not my fault you fucking bolted and ran straight for the trouble. Basic rule of life, Jack. When you’re up to no good and someone comes for you, you run the other way, not at them. You got it?’

  Jack left it at that. There was something in what Franklin had said.

  ‘So what in the fuck’s going on? Guys who whacked me reckoned I was after them or something.’

  ‘There’s a war on, sport, and you’ve landed in the middle of it.’

  ‘What war?’

  ‘There’s a couple. Us against those Auspart turds, for starters. Anti-union crooks. Then there’s the tenants and their hangers-on against the government — more of a skirmish than a real war, that one. Some of the Auspart guys are cosy with the Mafia — lot of Italians in construction, so hardly a surprise. How serious it is, who knows? People see someone with a wog name who’s a bit dodgy, they think Mafia. You know the big bloke who’s been chasing you around? Name’s Johnson — he’s about as Italian as you are. Others are more your big-business types, respectable, at least on the outside. They’re in a tight spot. Bitten off more than they can chew. Last thing they can afford is a big public shit-fight about safety.’

  ‘Can’t you just do a deal with them?’

  ‘Not easy with these guys. And we’re always a bit wary of doing deals with outfits that have even got a hint of Mafia connections. Those bastards don’t mess around, and if you do business with them, they can end up controlling your union. Or worse. Ask Jimmy Hoffa about it.’

  Jack only had a hazy idea who Jimmy Hoffa was, but didn’t ask for more details.

  ‘So what was the stuff you were after last night?’

  ‘Like I said, proof they control the company doing up the joint next to yours. When one of our own goes down, we don’t muck around. If they’re involved, we’ve got them by the short-and-curlies. We’ll make sure Paul’s family gets looked after. Happens all the time. If one of our blokes gets killed or badly injured, we don’t just rely on the compo system. Put the screws on the boss for whatever he can pay. Makes a big difference if it’s a big outfit with some cash instead of some Mickey Mouse local mob.’

  ‘Doesn’t the union have money for that sort of stuff?’

  ‘Used to — not much now, though. Always in the courts, copping huge fines just for doing our job. Bastards are trying to send us broke.’

  ‘What about that bloke Dan? Found him yet? In concrete slippers?’

  Franklin laughed. ‘Yeah, we tracked him down last night. Not much use, though. He’s got business interests to protect.’

  Jack was puzzled. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Illegal ones. That grow in empty houses under lights and end up in funny cigarettes.’

  ‘So he’s a dealer?’

  ‘I think he prefers “entrepreneur”. Either way, he’s not getting involved, no matter what. Last thing he wants is to go anywhere near a courtroom. And he’s not exactly a first-class witness, is he? Not even sure what his real name is.’

  ‘So I’m the poor sucker who ends up at the bottom of the bay?’ Jack replied. ‘Did you find out if Dempsey’s crook?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. But someone is. How’d they know we were there?’

  ‘Bloke who slapped me around said they had someone watching the place.’

  Frankin snorted. ‘Yeah, and I’m Nelson Mandela. We had a chat to your redheaded friend. A low-life, but mightn’t be your man. Admitted trying it on with your girlfriend, but swears black and blue he’s not being paid by the developer. Just trying to make a hero of himself. Fletcher says he had his phone on a chair the whole time, and didn’t use it. Course, he might’ve had another phone or something. Probably filled the Auspart guys full of bullshit to get back at you — not a real cabbie, shit like that. Don’t forget the main game: you’re the witness they want to disappear. Sounds like your girlfriend’s in on it, too.’

  ‘Emily? That’s bullshit!’

  ‘I’d keep an eye on her. Something not quite right there.’

  ‘What’re you saying?’ Jack couldn’t help himself. ‘They nearly killed her!’

  ‘Bit of advice, mate. Don’t let your dick rule your brain. She’s probably as pure as the driven, but who knows? Maybe they think she’s ratted on them … Anyway, why bash her? She’s not a witness or anything.’

  ‘I just assumed …’

  ‘Don’t assume, Jack. You might end up dead. Anyway, good to hear you’re okay. Let me know if you need a hand with the sheila. And have a look at the Herald Sun.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Jack said, ‘I’ve got something you might want to look at.’ He had enjoyed playing dumb with Franklin, but it was time to reveal his hand. Someone else could own the problem.

  ‘Yeah? What?’

  ‘Court stuff from an accident in ninety-four. An apprentice got killed, and another bloke was badly injured. The main Auspart guy owned the company.’

  ‘Yeah, we know that — it’s not the only one, either.’ Franklin sounded unimpressed.

  ‘You know who the other directors of the company were?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Robert James Eccles. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Shit, you’re kidding!’

  ‘True story. I’ll drop the paperwork off at the union for you. It’s all on the record. There was a court case, and he was one of the directors.’

  ‘Fuck me! No wonder they’re off their faces. That changes everything mate — well done!’

  ‘Thought you’d like that,’ Jack responded, enjoying having the upper hand for once.

  The phone went dead. Jack sat silently in the cab for a few minutes, lost in his thoughts. So many strange things had happened, he couldn’t even think of the right questions to ask anymore.

  Keeping the cab on the road was keeping him fully occupied: he had to work very long hours to cover his lease costs and still have something left over for food and other stuff. Every day felt like it was getting harder.

  18.

  Yet again, Jack had to face a day’s driving distracted by physical pain and crippling paranoia. He did have an autopilot mode to draw upon, but it was of limited use. And to top it all off, he had basketball training that evening as well. The thought of basketball seemed absurd, a faint reminder of another gentle, serene world where no one was after him and the worst thing that could happen was an argument with a hopeless referee.

  Bailing out of basketball was tempting, but he thought better of it. Another unscheduled chat with Robyn Sturgess might be useful, and maybe help him make sense of the complicated madness that had engulfed him.

  Trundling across Melbourne from fare to rank to fare, he tried to make a list in his head of all the questions he needed to sort out: see Emily; track down Phil; work out how to get away from the blokes who were after him; find a new share-driver; work out a way to string out the payments on his fine; avoid giving evidence for Worksafe. And maybe even think about Ajit’s offer to become a limo driver. It didn’t sound like such a stupid idea now.

  Driving forced him to concentrate on something other than his multiple problems and the pain from his injuries.

  A pie at lunchtime helped. There were few ailments in life that couldn’t be improved with a Four’n Twenty. And this one really made a difference. With the aid of a can of Coke, it almost made him feel okay again.

  He paced up and down at a minor Exhibition Street rank, trying to take his mind off his chest pains and to decipher Franklin’s cryptic messages.

  What was he saying? Dempsey wasn’t the bad guy — it was Emily? Fucking ridiculous! Maybe Franklin wasn’t as smart as he seemed. He always talked in riddles, like some low-rent crook in a movie. Dempsey would say anything to get out of a
tight corner. He’d clearly put one over Franklin.

  He noticed a corporate type crossing the road with a newspaper under his arm, and recalled Franklin’s comments about the Herald Sun. Some kind of story about last night, he’d said. Shit, maybe I’m in it!

  There was a newsagent somewhere in Collins Place just across the road, so he walked up the hill to the lights and crossed over, bought a copy of the paper, and sat down on a plastic stool at an open-air café nearby. The ‘Break-in at Developer’s Office’ headline confirmed his worst fears. His heart pumping furiously, he read through the article quickly.

  Most of it was about stuff he already knew. It mentioned a ‘woman taken to Royal Melbourne Hospital with serious head injuries’, but didn’t name Emily. There was no reference to him at all: his heartrate slowed down a bit.

  The interesting bits weren’t about the break-in. It quoted an opposition politician calling for a royal commission:

  There is clear evidence of corruption at the highest levels. Auspart is a little-known builder that won a very dubious tender ahead of much better qualified companies, and then had the specifications changed in its favour after the tender closed. It is owned by people with personal connections to ministers and bureaucrats. This outrageous scandal cannot be allowed to continue: this is Melbourne, not New Orleans.

  Shit, Jack thought. No wonder everyone’s getting excited. Looks like they’re playing for sheep stations. Suddenly, getting beaten up didn’t seem so strange after all.

  How was he going to get out of all of this? He didn’t want to risk life and limb in a conflict he didn’t understand or care about.

  For the moment, though, the sensible thing to do was to get basketball training out of the way and then maybe head down to the hospital. It had been a while since he’d visited anyone in hospital, but he had some recollection that it was still visiting time at eight o’clock.

  The changeover with Ajit went smoothly. It was amazing how punctual Jack had become, now that it no longer mattered. Phrases like ‘too little, too late’ and ‘shutting the stable door after the horse’s bolted’ floated around in his mind as he walked to the tram. He’d been avoiding thinking about how he was going to find a new partner, but he would have to confront the problem sooner or later. Ajit didn’t mention anything about driving limos.