by Peter Corris
Going through that house was one of the most depressing things I’ve ever done. I did it methodically, starting at the top back and working through to bottom front. There were thirteen single rooms and five flatettes with twenty-three occupants. Without exception they were middle-aged or older, and defeated. The ones doubling up in the flatettes were the worst off. A few of them got abusive when I barged in, youngish, healthy and carrying a gun. One old man made a pathetic attempt to take me and I had to gentle him back into a chair.
The squalor of the rooms was profound. They smelled, were dirt-encrusted and there were signs of the depredations of vermin everywhere. The people were living on bread, pet food and cheap wine. There were three toilets in the building, cracked, creaking affairs that flushed about a pint of water. I looked at one chamber pot in one room. Only one.
Most of the occupants wore pyjamas or nightgowns and dressing-gowns. I had to look closely at some of the sunken-in, hopeless faces to determine their sex. They were so far gone it didn’t matter, but some of those who looked like women wore pyjamas and some of those who looked like men wore night-gowns, pathetic nylon affairs with filthy, phony lace.
I forced myself to do the whole round. In one single room a woman tottered towards me, holding out a photograph. I took the picture, which was of a young woman wearing a bathing suit and high heels in a cheesecake pose.
‘Is this you?’ I said.
She cackled at me. She was skeletally thin and she scratched at her groin with fleshless, bony hands. When she stopped scratching there, she moved the hand up to her head. I stepped back.
‘What’s your name?’
Scratch, scratch. Hair and flakes of skin fell onto her shoulders. ‘I don’t know,’ she said hoarsely. ‘What’s yours, dear?’
There were no radios in the rooms, a few magazines, no books. I only glanced into a few drawers and cupboards but there were no pens or pencils. Spoons, bowls and cups were made of plastic.
The smell was bad everywhere, but in one room I nearly vomited from the stench. The floor was a sea of cockroaches and a man was sitting on the bed watching them with a rapt, engrossed smile on his face.
I locked all the occupants in as they were, because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. They mumbled at me and each other in slow, toneless voices that were curiously alike. They dribbled and spat. None of them was John Singer.
16
THE only habitable part of the place was the flatette in front where the turnkey lived. The four rooms were only moderately clean but their toilet and bathroom, small kitchen and functioning furniture put them in the luxury department. There was food for humans in the cupboards and refrigerator and a decent flagon of red wine on the kitchen table. I rinsed a glass, filled it with wine, drank it down and poured again. I thought very seriously about the packet of cigarettes on the table beside the flagon, but decided on more wine instead. I drank more of it than I wanted to and was feeling the effect pretty soon. I was drinking to get the stink and taste of those foul rooms out of my head.
Then I searched the flatette and I didn’t care what got disturbed or broken. I felt bad when I started—bad from the beating I’d taken the day before and because of the prisoners’ empty eyes and from the wine—and I felt worse as I worked. The woman I’d locked up in room twelve was one Mary Mahoud, thirty-four, a naturalised Australian. Ms Mahoud had been doing a highly illegal stunt, one that would earn her about twenty years’ worth of imprisonment. The records were thorough and well-kept: the occupants of number ten Monk Lane were all recipients of pensions of one sort or another. They were registered at a few different addresses and their cheques arrived and were cashed regularly, but not by them. She had something like two thousand bucks coming in weekly. From what I’d seen, the overheads were low.
I found the explanation for the sameness of the prisoners’ apathetic and listless behaviour—a cupboard full of Valium, Mogadon and other preparations. There was also a big stock of laxatives, sleeping pills and painkillers. A bottom drawer in a dresser was locked and I smashed it open. There was a different set of records inside—envelopes with the surnames printed in bold, black capitals and a date. I flicked through a few: ‘Jane Harman Ogilvie 23.6.79’; ‘Elizabeth Hodges 1.12.80’. There were about a dozen of them, and it wasn’t hard to guess what they were—the dead file. The name ‘Singer’ didn’t appear.
I didn’t fancy the next part and when I went out into the lobby Mary Mahoud gave me a chance to put it off. She was drumming on the door of number twelve and sobbing to be let out. The door was holding strong.
‘Shut up!’ I gave the door a thump with the gun.
‘Out, out, out!’ She chanted the word like a street demonstrator. Then she started to scream it and a racket started behind a door further down the passage. I went down and rapped on it.
‘Be quiet. You want to get out of this, don’t you?’
No reply.
‘I’ve got this Mahoud bitch locked up. You’ll be out tonight. Just be patient.’
The voice from behind the door was slow and querulous. I couldn’t recall much about its owner; all the occupants had blended in my mind into one geriatric mass. ‘Locked up? Mary?’
‘Right. It’s over. She’s going to gaol.’
A low, ragged chuckle began, growing into a piercing, near-hysterical laugh. Mahoud must have heard it because she went quiet for a minute and then started sobbing again and hitting the door. I went back and spoke harshly with my mouth close to the wood.
‘You heard that, didn’t you? If you don’t shut up, I’ll come in there and knock you out, then I’ll put you in a room with nine or ten of them and watch what happens. How’d you like that?’
‘No, no. Out. Anything … there’s money.’
‘Forget it and keep quiet.’
There was an interesting assortment of gear in one of Mahoud’s drawers—a studded belt, a pair of handcuffs, a heavy sheath knife and a key on a ring. I took the key and went to the back of the building. The key opened the inner chamber to the cellar. It was the cleanest room I’d found so far. The concrete was swept and the whitewashed walls gleamed under the hard fluorescent light. In one corner was an instrument that reminded me of my mother’s washing copper. It was a large metal tub, with a close-fitting lid. It was gas heated and mounted under a tap. Beside it was a shelf carrying a five-kilo bag of lime and a bigger bag of cement. I lifted the lid. The tub was scummy and smelt bad. There was also a scummy, foul-smelling bucket behind it. I went back to the outer chamber and used my torch to look in the corners where the light didn’t shine. There was a set of gardening tools leaning higgledy-piggledy against the wall and a heavy straight digging bar lay on the floor in front of them.
The claret I’d drunk wasn’t giving me courage, but it was stimulating my thinking. The name ‘Singer’ didn’t appear on the house records, but I remembered what Ann had said about the changeability of names on this social level and the dodges used to beat the social security computer. The wine was also stimulating my imagination: under the severe light I could see the tub bubbling and the lime-laced water breaking down tissue. Bones broke and pulverised easily, most of them. The gardening tools were clean and the lush growth in the backyard was an obscenity.
I’d decided it was time to call the cops when I heard the scrape of footsteps outside. I hit the light switch and moved into the outer section of the cellar. I bumped the door going through and the key jumped out and skidded across the floor. Then there was a flurried movement and a dark shape stumbled down towards me into the cellar. I reached for the gun in my belt but a torch beam hit me in the eyes.
‘Touch the gun and I’ll kill you, Hardy.’ I shaded my eyes and saw Manny standing up in the doorway looking wide and solid. He was holding the pump-action shotgun the way a carpenter holds a saw, familiarly and with affection. I had no hope of getting my gun out, and, besides, hanging onto my arm, cursing and breathing hard, was Ann Winter.
Manny lifted the gun a fract
ion. ‘The key is by your left foot, Hardy. Kick it over.’
I did. He moved smoothly, the way he did in his coffee bar, and scooped them up.
‘Now, put the gun on the ground and slide it across. Softly, please.’ He was enjoying himself. I did that, too, and he put it in his pocket with the key. This meant that he had only one hand on the shotgun for an instant, but he had it tucked back safe and steady. He’d learned to do all this in some very good school.
‘Where’s Mary?’
I didn’t answer. Ann moved even closer to me, which was convenient for him if he was going to shoot. Down there the gun would make a lot of noise. I reckoned he’d fire if he had to, but not just because I wouldn’t tell him where Mary was. He came down the steps and backed us up with the shotgun until we were against the wall. Still watching us, he swung aside to open the inner cellar door. A wave of the gun did all the talking necessary. We went in and he locked the door.
I turned the fluorescent tube on again. Ann’s face was stark white and her lips were twitching.
‘I don’t understand this,’ she said shakily.
‘The other night,’ I said. ‘After the wake. What happened to you?’
‘Nothing. They didn’t touch me. Screw that, what’s happening here?’
I didn’t answer. I was trying to think whether I’d seen any indications in the records that more than one person was involved in running the house. I hadn’t, unless it was the capitals on the dead file; the rest of the writing was in a sloping longhand. But that didn’t mean anything. Then it came to me and I found the reasons to reproach myself that I’d been seeking. Some of the items in the flatette—socks, a belt, a sports coat—were clearly masculine. I’d been confused by my earlier mistake about Mahoud’s sex and had become careless. There was another thing—the dregs in the plastic cups had smelled like Manny’s homemade vino. I should have picked up on that.
Ann pulled at my arm. ‘Bugger you, Hardy. What is all this?’
‘Manny must have killed Bruce.’ I was talking mostly to myself. ‘And Leon. Jesus. Leon stumbled onto this place and told Bruce about it and Manny heard the tape. Then I mentioned it on tape.’ I looked at Ann. ‘I left a tape for you. Did Manny hear it?’
‘Yes. I played it. He said he’d give me a lift. He had the shotgun. I’m scared.’ She looked around the room, at the boiling tub and the lime. ‘What goes on here?’
I told her, keeping it as ungrisly as I could.
‘Who’s Mary?’ she asked.
‘Woman who runs this joint. Hard. I had to knock her about a bit.’
‘He said on the way over that he’d kill you if you’d hurt her.’
‘He’ll kill me anyway. He has to.’
‘Oh, God.’ She wasn’t dumb. She could see it was one out, all out. She gripped my arm so hard that I could feel the bite of her fingers through the jacket and shirt.
‘Easy,’ I said. ‘He won’t do it here, not with the shotgun. That gives us a small chance.’
‘You’re crazy! What chance? He’s killed two men. God, this is a nightmare.’
‘Just be quiet and let me think.’ I prowled around the room, but it was comfortless. The door was solid, there were no windows and the ventilation grids were high up near the roof. It was a good cell and there was nothing to think about.
A noise outside made us both jump. I was worried about the whitewashed walls; maybe they were thick enough for Manny to risk using the pump gun just twice. The door swung in and Manny stood there with Mahoud just behind him. Her eyes were wild and there was a great, dark swelling on the side of her face.
‘You hurt her,’ Manny said. His face was inflamed, contorted and working, the multicultural features a reddened blur of rage.
‘Give it to me,’ he said to Mahoud. She hesitated, possibly recalling that I’d outstepped her pretty neatly before.
‘He is fast, Manfred. Be careful.’
‘I’ll kill him.’
‘Not here,’ she said. ‘It is too dangerous here!’
‘All right. Give me the belt and go and get the van.’
‘Listen, darling.’ Her voice was low and urgent. ‘They are going crazy up there. I haven’t done the rounds yet. They will all need the pills.’
‘I’ll do it while you’re getting the van.’
‘It wouldn’t start. It could take hours.’
‘I told you always to have it ready.’ The shotgun was steady; it was as if he was discussing his BHP shares. He had all the control he needed. ‘We’ve got hours. Everything is going to be just all right. Belt.’
She handed him the metal-loaded belt and went back up the steps. ‘Be careful,’ she said.
He jerked the gun at Ann. ‘Get in the corner. Turn your face to the wall.’ I watched her do it and then felt a searing pain as he lashed me across the face. I thought of going for the gun but he was moving the whole time and I couldn’t even see him. He got me again on the cheek. I stumbled and the leather came down on my neck. I went down. He was methodical about it; the belt went up and down and I got it across the shoulders and down from there. The ones that hit the ribs hurt most. When he’d finished he rolled me over with his foot. I saw then that he’d held my gun on me while he’d been whipping. He pointed the .45 at my stomach.
‘Later, I’m going to shoot you with this.’ A few locks of hair had come loose, but he looked pretty neat otherwise.
‘How did Leon find out about this place?’ I said. I was hoping he’d make a mistake, but only hoping.
He swished the belt, just missing my face. ‘One of them got away for a little while and talked to him.’ He clamped his mouth shut and I gathered there’d be no more talking. I’d marked him down as powerful and dangerous, but I hadn’t thought he was vicious in the way that this operation was. I guessed Mahoud was the brains of it. That’d be something for the prosecution to probe, for the psychiatrists to analyse. But there wasn’t going to be any prosecution. I had to clarify one thing, though.
‘I didn’t think you were man enough to take Henneberry,’ I said. ‘I saw the knife upstairs. She did it, didn’t she?’
‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘I did it. I did it all. I’ll do it to you, too, if I have to.’ Then he kicked me in the knee which was bent at the time. The pain travelled through me and I shuddered and closed my eyes.
When I opened them, he was gone and Ann was sitting in the corner looking at her hands. She looked oddly vulnerable without her bag. Again, no mistakes from Manny.
‘He’s mad,’ she said. ‘He’s going to kill us.’
I grunted and crawled across the floor towards her. Blood was dripping into my eyes and the knee felt as if it was hot and melting away. I pulled myself up to lean back against the wall and put my hand up to my face. There was some sort of cut below the hairline but he hadn’t hit my eyes. I wiped some of the blood away and tried to straighten my knee. It wouldn’t straighten and the attempt made me gasp.
‘Broken?’ she said.
‘Feels like it. Christ, I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Ann.’
‘So am I, but I was in it anyway, I suppose. Hell, I wish I had a smoke, or a joint. That’d be better.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Stop saying that. I’d settle for a drink. God, I didn’t realise how dependent I’d got.’
I thought of the ton of drugs upstairs. Maybe they’d offer us some before they killed us. That’s the modern way, but I didn’t think it’d be Manny’s style.
She reached over to touch my arm and got a place that didn’t hurt. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘About drugs.’
‘I thought you were Mr Clean.’ She was talking fast, just staying in control, but talking is as good a way as any. ‘What happened to you after the wake? I was left there with Pearl, feeling like a fool.’ Her fingers went tight with fear.
‘I got kidnapped. Different business.’
‘Great. Twice in how long? Did you get beaten up then, too?’
‘Yeah.’
>
‘Will he really kill us? With that gun?’
I didn’t answer. My thoughts were running along the same lines. Very negative, Hardy, I thought. My leg hurts, I want it to hurt. While it hurts, I’m alive.
‘You didn’t get in touch with the police or anything, did you?’ she said. ‘Leave a message?’
‘No. Look he’s only got one gun that I’ve seen. You might have a chance. You’ll have to be ready to run.’
‘Haven’t you read any books?’ Her voice cracked into something like a laugh. ‘He’ll tie us up.’
I nodded and winced as a shaft of pain went through me. Then some sweat ran down my neck, except that it didn’t feel like sweat. Slowly and painfully I turned around to look at the wall; the bricks were wet and slimy for two feet up from the floor. My mind raced and I looked around the room. My heart started beating the way it did when a long-priced horse was leading in the straight with my money on it.
‘Ann. Get up and have a look inside that bag of cement.’
She looked at me as if I was mad but she let go of my arm and got up. She put her hand inside the bag and when it came out there was a beautiful, one-dollar department store trowel in it.
‘You’re smiling,’ she said.
‘I used to be a bricklayer. Give it here, Annie.’
She put the trowel into my right hand and I got a grip on it which hurt me all down my side. I dug at the mortar line and the trowel went in two inches. I dug it in again, twisted and the wet mortar fell out like icing off a cake.
I looked at Ann. She pulled her scarf from around her neck, spat on it and rubbed some blood off my face. Then she kissed the clean spot. Simultaneously we looked at our hands; mine were thin and scarred and there was a bruise around the knuckle that had touched Rex’s face; hers were short-nailed and capable-looking. She made a fist and the nicotine-stained fingers gleamed like metal.
