The Other Side of Sorrow ch-23

by Peter Corris

  ‘That’s enough!’ Smith shouted. A couple of other security people had gathered, but they were ‘you turn right and then left’ types and weren’t up to coping with mud and blood. They fell back as Smith advanced.

  ‘I’ve got your registration number.’

  ‘Good.’ I moved closer to him and took hold of his left hand in my right and bent it back. Since working in the gym I’ve acquired a fair bit of wrist and hand strength and I gave Smith the benefit of it as I moved him towards my car. I smiled at the puzzled security people. If you do this right, it can look like an intense chat between close friends.

  ‘Where are the protesters?’ I said, increasing the pressure.

  ‘This is assault,’ he ground out between clenched teeth.

  ‘Won’t show and your bloke made the first move. Where?’

  ‘Near the railway station. Concord West.’

  I released him, brushing my muddy hand on his sleeve. ‘Thank you. I won’t tell if you won’t.’

  I gave him a nod, got back in the car and reversed out. Smith shooed the onlookers away as the guy with the mud on him examined his dirty uniform and grazed hands. I never did find out his real name.

  I was puzzled. I’d never heard of the Tadpole Creek protest, yet the security people treated it as a big deal. Maybe Annette was right that it had been hushed up, but that’s hard to do in this day and age. More than likely it had to do with me not watching television much and switching off when I saw the word ‘Olympic’ in the newspaper. As a sports fan I suppose I should be enthusiastic about the Olympics and I imagine it’ll suck me in when it happens. For now, I hate the hype that ignores the kids and concentrates on the millionaires amning around and jumping over McDonald’s and Coca-Cola signs. I might go to the boxing – I’ll bet none of them are millionaires.

  The sky was clearing as I drove along those new roads with the trucks that comprised most of the traffic. I located the railway station and drove slowly west back towards the Olympic site. Just past the Bicentennial Park, on the left, a road in the process of construction seemed more than usually cluttered with vehicles and equipment. I turned into it and drove less than a hundred metres before I was stopped by a row of witches’ hats. The grading of the road finished here and the machines were pulled to the side. I got out and walked to where two knots of people were confronting each other on opposite sides of a creek about four metres wide. I recognised the spot from the photograph on the leaflet – same narrow stream, same scrubby trees and mangroves.

  On my side were hard hats, yellow raincoats and a couple of suits, plus a pre-fab security shelter and porta-loo. On the other, jeans, bomber jackets with green stripes on the sleeves, long hair, a tent and several battered 4WDs. No psychedelic van. A banner strung between two trees read SAVE TADPOLE CREEK. A heated discussion was going on between a man in a suit a la Mr Smith, and a tall, bearded youth who was waving a sheet of paper. I moved off to one side and went down the gentle slope, hoping to get close enough to hear what was going on without being observed. A stiff, cold wind had replaced the rain and was blowing the sounds away from me. I heard ‘injunction’ and ‘obstruction’ being shouted, cheers and jeers and not much else.

  Suddenly, a hard hat spotted me.

  ‘Media!’ he shouted.

  The group turned as one and, as if to relieve their frustration, four or five of them started to run towards me. I’d had enough of confronting people for one day. Without thinking I lengthened my stride, got my balance and jumped the creek.

  I made it, just, and managed to keep my balance on the other side. A cheer went up from the protesters and my would-be attackers stopped dead on their side of the creek. The protesters gathered around me. I was slapped on the back. A soft drink can was shoved into my hands.

  ‘On you, mate!’

  ‘Great jump!’

  ‘Let’s see you do that, you pricks!’

  They crowded around me, shook my hand and estimated the jump at six or seven metres. I nodded modestly although I knew differently. I was steered back to the tent. I’d slightly jarred my landing foot but I couldn’t let on. As we went they jeered at the opposition on the other bank and shouted some pretty strong abuse. Some of it was very provocative and the hard hats looked provoked, but they stayed on their side. I was surprised that such a small barrier stood for so much, but I guess waterways have done that from the beginning of time.

  I considered passing myself off as a representative of the media but quickly gave up the idea as unworkable. Amid all their hilarity and chatter one thing came through strongly and it was something I’d observed on other picket lines. The biggest threat to enthusiasm and commitment is boredom. My dramatic arrival had combined with their confrontation to provide a welcome break from the boredom.

  We reached the tent. It was well set up with an urn, a microwave oven, a primus stove, sleeping bags. There were books and magazines in boxes and cartons containing tinned food. These people were here for the long haul. The bearded one who’d been waving the paper at the others across the water hadn’t taken part in the general celebration. He was still outside the tent watching the opposition withdraw. He swung on his heel and came inside. People moved to let him through. He was in his early twenties, tall and well built with a beard like Ned Kelly.

  ‘Ramsay Hewitt,’ he said. ‘And you are…?’

  I decided to play it straight, or straightish. He looked shrewd and for all his youth experienced, difficult to fool. ‘Cliff Hardy,’ I said. I put the can down and pulled the leaflet from my jacket pocket ‘I came across this in the course of my work and was curious.’

  ‘That jump of yours broke the ice, if you see what I mean,’ one of the protesters said. ‘They’ve shoved off.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Hewitt smoothed out the leaflet as if it was a cheque in his favour that had got crumpled. ‘Are you with the media?’

  I was tempted to snow him for his arrogance but thought better of it. ‘No. I’m a private enquiry agent.’ I produced my licence but he scarcely looked at it.

  ‘Another fascist,’ he spat.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m opposed to the third runway. I think.’

  A woman in the group laughed but as a whole they were losing interest. Hewitt turned on his heel again. He was good at that. ‘Piss off.’

  That suited me, more or less. I shrugged and put the leaflet and my licence folder away. ‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘how’m I going to get back over this creek? I hurt my ankle.’

  Hewitt swung back and looked as if he wanted to hit me, but he was smart enough not to. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t surprise me that the security service here’ve set up someone like you to do something fucking flash and infiltrate us. A good long jump. So what? It’s an old trick. It happened…’

  ‘At the siege of Chicago,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I’ve read the Mailer book too.’

  ‘You make my point. Bugger off.’

  ‘I’d like to ask a few questions.’

  ‘Don’t push your luck. No-one here’ll talk to you.’

  ‘You speak for everyone, do you? Who’s the fascist now?’

  He walked away. It seemed to be coffee time and the other protesters were milling round the urn and the microwave, except for a woman who was watching me from a distance. For no good reason I formed the impression that she was the one who’d laughed at my third runway reference. I moved away slightly and she followed. She kept an eye on Hewitt until she saw he was fully occupied in discussion over his precious piece of paper. She approached me with her hand out.

  ‘I’m Tess Hewitt, Ramsay’s sister. Don’t mind him, he’s on edge.’

  She was in her thirties, tall and athletic-looking in jeans and a denim jacket. She had short blonde hair, brown eyes and regular features. A slight over-bite. Her handshake was firm.

  ‘He’s too suspicious,’ I said. ‘I’m not what he said.’

  ‘Then what’re you doing here?’

  I took out the photograph of Eve and
showed it to her. ‘A missing persons case. Do you know this woman? Or someone who looks like her?’

  She glanced at the photo and bit her lip. ‘Of course I do. That’s Meg French, the poor thing.’

  6

  Her remark jolted me. ‘Why?’ I said, ‘What’s the matter with her?’

  I must have spoken more urgently than I’d intended because she looked at me closely. ‘Now I see it. The slight resemblance. Is there a family connection?’

  ‘Could be. It’s a long story. But why did you call her a poor thing?’

  She reached out and touched my arm. ‘I was referring to that dreadful boyfriend of hers, Damien. He’s violent and dishonest. I don’t know what she sees in him.’

  ‘I’ve been told he’s good-looking.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Certainly he’s that. And bags of charm. He comes across as bright, but I suspect he really isn’t.’

  Generally speaking, I don’t like being touched by strangers, but I didn’t mind at all in her case. There was a warmth about her that was welcome and I was in need of some human comfort. ‘You say he’s violent. Towards her?’

  ‘I saw him hit her once, yes.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘The funny thing is, it was after she did what you just did.’

  I was confused. ‘What?’

  ‘She jumped the creek. Just for fun. She cleared it by a bit more than you though.’

  ‘It’s not such a great jump. Twelve or thirteen feet.’

  ‘It’s not bad in jeans and boots or dressed like you and from a soft take-off.’

  ‘He hit her?’

  ‘For showing off. Understandable in a way. He’s-what would you say-mildly disabled. One leg shorter than the other. He wears a built-up boot.’

  ‘Look, Tess, this is all very important. Can we go somewhere for a talk?’

  ‘No. There’ll be a meeting in a few minutes to plan the next phase. I have to be at it. Ramsay hopes to get his idea through while Damien’s not here. They’re sort of rivals.’

  I had questions – why did it matter whether Talbot was there or not; how had Meg French reacted to being hit, and where were she and Talbot now? I settled for the most important. ‘Do you know where Talbot and… Meg are now?’

  ‘No, but they’ll be back. My impression is that they live in that van most of the time. But I have a feeling they also have a place somewhere. A squat or something.’

  I shook my head. I didn’t fancy relaying too much of this to Cyn. I asked her where this might be and she said she didn’t know.

  ‘He changes the paint job on the van from time to time. Sometimes it’s plain, then it’s all sorts of colours. I think that’s illegal. I asked him about it. He calls it urban guerilla tactics.’

  Great, I thought. That’ll make it tougher. “I really need to get hold of them,’ I said. ‘It’s not about your protest in any way. I – ‘

  She touched me again and I had the same reaction. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Look, they’ll be back. Give me your phone number and I’ll do what I can to help you. That’s on one condition.’

  I was fishing for a card before she finished. ‘Good. What’s that?’

  ‘That you tell me about this long story of yours sometime.’ She took the card. ‘Thanks. I have to go.’

  She moved back towards the tent and I walked along the bank of the creek looking for an easier place to cross. I found it less than a hundred metres away where the creek entered a concrete channel crossed by a narrow bridge. Upstream from that it disappeared into a pipe. I stood on the bridge looking back. The creek was exposed for not much more than two hundred metres. The mangroves seemed to be just clinging on against the pollution and the development. The whole thing looked like an oversight, as if such a feeble watercourse should have been covered long ago and the patch of marshland where it ended drained. I wondered what the rationale for protecting it was. It wasn’t an attractive feature, but in a way I could see why it was worth preserving whether or not animal or vegetable species were threatened. With the whole of the landscape being restructured, why not say hands off this little bit?

  My car was standing where I’d left it and there was no-one around. The machines that would cover the creek and build the road had withdrawn to other parts of the site. It looked as if this represented no more than a stay in the proceedings, but you never know, we’ve still got Victoria Street and Fraser Island.

  The rain started again as I drove home and the going was slow. I debated whether to call Cyn and tell her what I’d learned but I decided against. None of it was comforting and perhaps if I found out a bit more I could put a better complexion on things. I realised I was hoping for the same thing for myself. I wasn’t too displeased with my progress so far – to identify an unknown person and establish a connection that could lead to making contact wasn’t such a bad day’s work. It was certainly worth a drink or two and I was looking forward to it. The fact that I’d be having the drink alone made me think briefly of Annette and then, for somewhat longer, of Tess Hewitt.

  Back when Bob Hawke was ruling the roost, there was a proposal that all Australians should be issued with an identity card to be called the Australia Card. The idea was that the card would make it easier for the authorities to catch up with tax cheats, welfare frauds and other fiddlers with the system. The outcry against it came from the left and the right and the proposal was scuttled. I was against it instinctively as a sort of crypto-anarchist and a reader of George Orwell. Big Brother didn’t need any more of a leg-up. Civil libertarians spelled out how it would’ve violated privacy in the affairs of the citizens from sexual preference to political affiliation and back again. As it turned out, they were right and they were wrong. These days, if you know how, you can find out just about anything about anybody if you can tap into the vast computerised data banks held by government agencies, financial and educational institutions and the free-wheeling marketplace.

  I drove to my office in Darlinghurst, ignored the mail and the faxes, and made a series of phone calls. Pressing all the right buttons is costly, but if you’ve got a name and a birthdate, not to mention extra information like a mother’s maiden name, it’s astonishing what’s on record and how easily freelance hackers can access, assemble and market it. Everyone in my business is a subscriber to one or more of these sendees. You pay off in lots of different ways – depositing in TAB accounts, permitting items to be debited to your account in various stores and outlets, providing sendees free, doing favours. It’s dirty, but it’s essential to survival in the modern inquirer business.

  When I’d finished I tidied up the paperwork, made a few calls to keep other cases ticking over and declared my unavailability to two would-be clients I’d normally have gobbled up. I spread Cyn’s cheque out on the desk and debated whether to deposit it. What kind of a bastard would take money from a dying woman to locate and protect his own daughter? On the other hand, what professional would devote time and resources to chasing a fantasy? So far, the pursuit of Damien Talbot and Meg (aka Margaret? Megan?) French had cost time and petrol, lost me some business and the bills from the hackers would come in. Cyn’s cheque would cover it but there wouldn’t be a lot over.

  It was after five and the rain was washing the windows – the only way they ever got washed. I’d bought a bottle of Teacher’s on the way in. I opened it, poured a good measure into a paper cup and put my feet on the desk. The ankle I’d jarred making my famous jump twinged and I grimaced as I swallowed some medicinal Scotch. The most I’d ever cleared in the broad jump at school was a bit over sixteen feet which placed me third in the Sydney inter-school athletic carnival. That recollection brought back a memory of who’d won it – a pale, orange-haired, stocky kid named ‘Redda’ Phillips from Fort Street High. He’d also won the hop-step-and-jump, the high jump and the two sprints. It was a privilege to be beaten by him. I had another drink and wondered if kids still called redheads ‘Redda’ or ‘Bluey’. Somehow I doubted it.

  I knew what I
was doing – putting off calling Cyn. I folded the cheque and put it into my wallet. Indecisive. That wasn’t me. I picked up the phone, dialled and got her answering machine. I left a message that I was making progress but had nothing solid yet. The easy way out. I took the bottle home with me.

  7

  At 9.30 the next morning I answered the phone to a solicitor named Hargreaves who told me that unless I presented at his office by 11 o’clock that morning for a conference with representatives of Millennium Security I could expect extremely unpleasant legal proceedings. Assault was mentioned, along with trespass and damage to property. I couldn’t afford to get involved in anything like that so I agreed.

  The office was in Macquarie Street in a section of the city that wasn’t being torn down. I wore a suit. Mr Hargreaves wore a suit. So did Mr Hargreaves’s female secretary and Smith from Millennium. The other person present wore the Millennium Security guard uniform. He wasn’t the one who’d fallen in the puddle. This guy was bigger and well-balanced, looked harder to trip.

  ‘Mr Hardy,’ Smith said. ‘I think you remember me. This is Mr Kamenka. Thank you for coming. A few minutes of your time could save a lot of wasted time for all of us.’

  ‘Time is money,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed it is.’ Hargreaves gestured for us all to sit down.

  Smith opened the slimline leather satchel he was carrying and extracted a manilla folder which he placed on the solicitor’s teak desk.

  ‘This is a complete rundown of all the steps that have been taken to protect the Homebush Bay environment,’ he said. ‘It includes details of detoxification, the rehabilitation of wetlands, the restitution of original watercourses, the isolation of noxious wastes, the retention of existing trees and the re-planting of appropriate species, the installation of solar-powered heating and lighting systems and