by Peter Corris
The next day I phoned Wesley and he visited and told me I was an idiot for getting so close to such a dangerous man. I concurred. Mandy was on the improve from a pinched nerve and a consequent panic attack. We agreed to take the matter further when I’d recovered. He smuggled in a flask of Scotch which I drank with water, incurring the wrath of the Matron when a nurse found the bottle.
I phoned Clive, the taxi driver, and told him where I was. He said he’d watch the house and collect the mail, again. He visited a few hours later, saying he’d had a fare in the area but I suspected he was just showing how much he liked me. The Matron and I were now enemies after my infringement. She wore a cross around her neck. I didn’t notice this until she asked me if I’d like to see the chaplain.
‘Not only do I not want to see him,’ I said, ‘if he puts a foot inside this door I’ll sue the hospital for violating my religious faith.’
Despite herself, she was intrigued. ‘And what faith is that?’
‘Absolutely none,’ I said.
Ian Sangster turned up very early the next morning, reeking of tobacco and the three cups of strong black coffee he uses to start his motor. He inspected his colleague’s handiwork and nodded with satisfaction.
‘Not bad,’ he said, ‘for a young feller. Thank you, Clifford, for giving a tyro a chance to improve on his skills.’
‘Fuck you. When can I get all this junk off my face and live a normal life?’
‘When did you ever lead a normal life? You’d die of boredom after a week of it. You were really pretty lucky, especially with the vertebrae. Oh, I’d say, you could take solids in a couple of weeks. Tough guy like you won’t worry about a few cracked ribs, eh? You can walk about a bit this arvo if you feel up to it. I’ll prescribe some steroids to help with the mending process.’
‘What?’
He explained that steroids had a legitimate role in helping tissue and bones to heal, especially after surgery, as long as the doses were correct and the medication properly produced. I asked him what he thought about athletes using black-market steroids.
‘Fine, if you don’t mind your balls shrinking and your hair falling out. Don’t worry, mate, this stuff won’t compromise your manhood.’
‘What about women using them?’
He shook his head, felt for a cigarette and remembered where he was. ‘More delicate hormonal balance. Women do actually produce some testosterone, but stick in some more, especially the sort of adulterated crap you’re talking about, and you’re just asking for trouble.’
Ian had brought in a couple of novels but my ribs were so sore and my neck so stiff that I found it hard to get into a reading position. So I lay there and thought. Not to a lot of purpose. As usual, more questions than answers. It must have been Bindi who drove me to the hospital. Why? And one thing was for sure; Stan Morris’ very accomplished smoko brawler Albie wasn’t on steroids. What did that mean?
The Asian nurse whose name I’d found out was Rose put her head around the door. ‘Are you up to another visitor, Mr Hardy?’
‘Male or female?’
‘Very male.’
‘Show him in.’
The door closed then opened and a big body filled the space. I blinked in surprise as he strode towards the bed, dreadlocks swinging. Bindi.
20
Reacting slowly, I fumbled for the buzzer. He was too quick for me and his big hand closed on it before I could find it. I was scared. He was large and powerful and disposed to violence and I was incapacitated.
He moved the buzzer away and released it. ‘I guess you don’t recognise me, Mr Hardy.’
I tried to get some volume in my voice but it still came out thin and strained. ‘Your name’s Bindi and you worked me over a couple of nights ago. What the hell are you doing here? Come to finish the job?’
He shook his head slowly and the dreadlocks danced. When he spoke there was no trace, of the gruff Aboriginal tone. ‘I’m Clinton Scott.’
My jaw would have dropped if it hadn’t been wired up. I stared at him. He was clean-shaven now, unlike the other night when he’d had thick stubble. His breath was clean and he’d washed. I tried to imagine him without the flattened nose, chipped teeth, a couple missing, and battered mouth. There was a scar running down the side of his face and he carried an extra twenty kilos. I could almost do it. The fat distorted his features and the belly widened and shortened him. It was difficult to see him as the whip-like young man in the football jumper, but still…
‘You came to my dad’s gym and I took you through your program. Eight minutes stretching, seated bench press, three by twelve reps on
… ‘
‘Jesus. You are Clinton.’
He pulled up a chair. ‘That’s right. I’m sorry about this.’ His hand sketched the work on my jaw. ‘I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. You sort of leaned into it. They tell me you’ve got cracked ribs. I didn’t do that too, did I?’
‘Only indirectly. Your parents… ‘
‘Yeah, okay. I can imagine. But I had to do it this way. What the hell are you doing? Stan told me to turn you into a vegetable and I told him I had. I’m taking a big risk coming here.’
We talked for an hour. He told me that he’d recognised me, assumed I was looking for him and felt he couldn’t let that happen. He apologised again for not doing a better job of pulling his punches. I told him what game I was in and what I’d been doing and he confirmed most of my assumptions. He’d taken up drinking and eating junk food to put on weight. He’d deliberately provoked the fight in Bingara to incur damage to his face. He’d connived with Stella Nickless to get the ransom money. His share was fifteen thousand which he was using to finance his pursuit of the supplier of steroids to Angela.
‘I tracked you to Queensland and I sort of thought you’d given that up for a bit,’ I said.
‘You’re pretty good at detecting, but you’re wrong there. I really got into the Aboriginal thing. I thought it’d get me closer to Angela’s spirit. Didn’t.’
He’d said he’d learned all he could about Aboriginal manners and mores in order to pass himself off as one as a good disguise when he got back to Sydney and went looking for his revenge. It succeeded. He’d got on to Stan Morris through a footballer who was suffering kidney failure as a result of using steroids.
I said, ‘That figures. I talked to Tommy at the Aboriginal settlement out in the Daintree reserve. He said you were interested in payback.’
‘You can hardly talk. Want some water?’
He gave me some water, his way of heading off the question, but I wasn’t going to be headed off.
‘That’s dumb,’ I said. ‘You could go to gaol for twenty years.’
‘I don’t care,’ he said sullenly. ‘That bastard killed the most beautiful person on this fucking planet and he deserves to die.’
‘Well, if it’s Stan Morris and you’re so bloody close to him why haven’t you done it by now?’
‘I nearly did. I sort of wormed my way into his confidence. I fought in one of his bloody smokos and did all right, but I said it was a mug’s game and was there anything else I could do. He took me on as a minder and driver and that. He reckons he’s one sixteenth Aboriginal himself and that we have to stick together. He offered me some of the shit and that’s when I nearly broke his neck. But it turns out he only supplies Sydney. The guy who supplies the west is a mate of his and they’re meeting up soon. When they do, I’m going to kill him and tell Stan why.’
‘Listen, Clinton, there’s a lot of feeling against all this doping of athletes, especially with the Olympics coming up. If you can get the goods on the suppliers they could go away for a long time.’
Clinton sneered at me. ‘Bullshit. Stan makes a ton of money out of drugs and gambling and his mate’s probably doing the same. They’d get a high price lawyer and either beat the charge or get it knocked down. How’d I go as a chief prosecution witness, eh?’
Despite myself, I looked at him as he wanted me to. He was ri
ght, he couldn’t pass as a solid citizen.
‘Besides,’ he went on. ‘If I show up Rex Nickless’ll put some heavies onto me. He’s done it before, Stella says.’
That was news, but an estranged wife isn’t necessarily a reliable witness as I knew from personal experience. ‘He says he just wants a statement from you about his wife’s screwing him out of fifty grand. He needs it as a leverage in the divorce action.’
‘Believe that and you’ll believe anything.’
I could see his point but what he was proposing was just youthful madness, inspired by grief rather than logic. ‘So what’s your plan?’
‘After I deal with them, I’ll clean myself up. Lose all this flab and get my nose fixed. I’ll square things with Mum and Dad and go down to Melbourne and try to get into an AFL side and make some money.’
As a mixture of fact and fantasy that took some beating. ‘So you’ll be Clinton Scott again when you’re starring with…’I pulled the only AFL team name I knew from some recess of memory, ‘Essendon, and Rex Nickless won’t pick up on that?’
‘He’ll cool down. Hey, I’ll pay him back.’
Despite the dreads and the earrings and the flab and the destruction of his good looks, he was a boy again. A very confused boy and one trying to play a part in a man’s game. There was the question of who killed Mark Alessio to consider, if that’s what happened. But I didn’t want to serve that up to him just yet. I tried another tack.
‘Look, Clinton, you’re not an Aboriginal warrior caught up in some primitive ritual the fucking clever men devised to keep the young bloods in their place. You know about that, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘That’s what a lot of Aboriginal custom was about-old blokes securing the young women for themselves and keeping the young fellers busy elsewhere.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
I shrugged, which hurt, but I managed it. ‘Suit yourself. But anyway, you’re a tertiary-educated city man who’s as much European as anything else. Your dad’s got a lot of Portuguese in him and your mother…’
‘Stop it! I don’t want to hear this shit!’
‘You’d better listen, son. Mark Alessio got too close to the action you’re talking about and look what happened to him.’
He said nothing.
‘Maybe you killed him. He was in love with Angela, too. Maybe he got on to Stan and you did the job on him with the Tarago.’
‘No! No!’
He was upset, close to tears.
‘Listen, Clinton,’ I said with as much conviction as I could put into my strained voice. ‘You’re not a desperado. A bit of faked kidnapping and extortion and a touch of standover work is a million miles from what you’re contemplating. Give it up.’
‘And do what?’ he said fiercely. ‘You admit you’re working for Nickless.’
‘And your father.’
‘So you say. You’re fucking with my mind.’
‘Listen, any of those people you’ve met and admired’d tell you the same-Angela’s father, Danny Roberts, Old Tommy…’
The pretty nurse opened the door and took a tentative step inside. ‘I heard voices raised. Is everything all right, Mr Hardy?’
I looked Clinton in the eye and said everything was all right.
‘Pills in half an hour,’ she said. ‘And you should get some more rest.’
‘Fine. I will.’
She retreated. ‘Pretty girl,’ I said.
He’d noticed but it was the wrong thing to say. He stiffened in his chair. ‘You just don’t fucking understand.’ Suddenly, he reverted to the Aboriginal voice. ‘I loved Angela more than you can imagine with your flash Falcon and your lead-weighted blackjack. Let me tell you something, you white bastard… ‘
‘Why did you come here, Clinton?’
‘Bugger you!’ He stood up and the bulk of him and the passion in him were frightening. ‘I can’t sleep for thinking about what happened to her and I’m going to make those fuckers pay, and anyone who gets in my way’s going to get hurt.’
I thought quickly and came up with a lie. ‘Well, it won’t be me. They reckon I’ll be in here for a week at least.’
‘That’ll be long enough. Just keep right out of it.’
‘What about your father?’ I said quietly. ‘He’s been helping me.’
‘I said anyone!’ He threw the chair against the wall and stomped out of the room.
21
The hospital had a balcony running around three sides. The private rooms had French windows letting out onto it. I got out of bed and walked gingerly to the window. Just undoing the catch put a strain on my side and made me wince. I forgot about my trussed-up jaw and swore and that hurt as well. Out on the balcony I sucked in the warm air and moved along and around one side of the building until I could see the hospital car park. I saw Clinton almost jogging towards the Tarago. He got in and drove off, burning rubber.
It was good to be breathing fresh air again and I lingered on the balcony. There was a good view back towards the river and I remembered some good times I’d had in the picnic grounds there with Helen Broadway years ago-salad rolls, white wine and grappling under the trees. I could smell the smoke from her one-a-day unfiltered Gitane and I missed her.
‘Mr Hardy! What are you doing?’
The Matron was standing by the French window looking as if she’d like to throw me over the balcony.
‘Taking the air,’ I said. ‘Wondering when I’ll get parole.’
‘You’re not a prisoner, you know.’
‘Right.’ I walked towards her with as much freedom of movement as I could muster. ‘And I think I’m going to have to leave. I’ve got things to do.’
She shook her head. ‘Back to bed. Dr Sangster says when you’ll leave.’
I stood my ground. ‘No, Matron. I’m leaving now. Just bring me the ten or twelve forms I have to fill out and I’ll be on my way. I’ll need my clothes, of course.’
For a minute I thought she was going to use that admission as her leverage, but she relented, probably glad to see me go after the Scotch incident and my refusal to see the chaplain. After a few minutes my washed and pressed clothes arrived together with my wallet and car keys, shoes and socks. I dressed with difficulty and made my way down to the front desk where I answered questions and signed forms that seemed to waive all responsibility for everything and authorised my medical fund to open the vaults.
‘Thank you,’ I said to the receptionist as I signed the last form.
Barnes, the administrator, appeared and inspected the forms. He signed in various places himself and looked at me as if I’d lifted his wallet.
‘I think you may find the interior of your car… ah, a little offensive.’
‘That’s okay, Mr Barnes. I’m expecting to find four cans of beer on the seat. If I don’t you’ve got a pilferer and I’ll be displeased.’
He frowned. It wasn’t much of a parting shot but the best I could do with my neck, jaw and ribs hurting like hell.
The car was parked partly in the shade, but it must have heated up at times and something of the smell of my urine remained. The beer was on the seat and the cosh was in the glove box but my blood went cold when I saw that my pistol wasn’t there. The only explanation for its absence was Clinton and that made me very worried. According to the firearms regulations I was supposed to report the loss of the weapon immediately, and how was I going to do that without screwing everything up? Worrying about it made me almost forget the pain as I drove home. An irrational young man, inexperienced with firearms, in possession of a high-powered weapon and eight rounds of ammunition was a recipe for disaster. And what was I going to tell his father?
The counter on my answering machine told me there’d been six calls. Three of them didn’t matter, but three were from Rex Nickless. I checked the office number and found he’d called there the same number of times. On the third call in each case he sounded very testy-more the building site foreman with the hard hat a
nd the rough tongue than the besuited executive. He demanded an update on my activities.
I rang his office and was put straight through. ‘Hardy,’ he said. ‘I got your report and then heard fuck-all. Where’ve you been?’
‘In hospital. I got knocked about.’
‘You sound funny.’
‘A broken jaw’ll do that.’
‘Was it Cousins?’
Easy to evade that one. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Stop pissing me about. I’m still paying you. Have you found him or not?’
‘I’ve spoken with him, yes.’
‘Did you tell him what I wanted?’
‘He doesn’t trust you or me.’
‘Who cares? He’s in trouble if he doesn’t do what I want. Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Jesus! You let him go?’
‘Mr Nickless, I was lying in a hospital bed with my jaw wired up and a couple of metres of strapping around my chest. He’s six foot two and fourteen or fifteen stone. I wasn’t exactly in a position to detain him.’
It’s strange how you can visualise the behaviour of a person on the other end of the phone when they’re not talking. I suppose it’s something you pick up from the breathing, the pauses. I could see Nickless gripping the receiver with whitening knuckles and loosening his silk tie with the other hand as he fought for control over himself. His money usually gave him all the control he needed over other people, except his wife and ‘George Cousins’. And me.
‘Listen, Hardy, if you’re out of hospital you must be okay. Maybe you can’t drive. We have to meet. Tell you what, I’ll send someone around to your place to pick you up.’
I thought about that very quickly. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Make it in an hour or so. My doctor’s coming around in a few minutes to look me over again.’
‘Right. I’ll see you soon.’
I rang Ian Sangster and told him what I’d done. He swore and said he’d come to see me after his surgery hours. I said I’d be at his place instead, inside fifteen minutes.
