Last Drinks

by Andrew McGahan

  So he called us to a late dinner at Charlie’s place, and obediently we all came. Marvin even looked different. He was getting fuller and rounder with the years, more imposing, and while he would never have charm or style, he now exuded that intangible aura that always denoted authority. He announced it was time to go beyond the restaurant business. Clubs were the answer. Nightclubs. That’s where the real money was. And if upstairs from those clubs there was room for some small gambling facilities, or perhaps some form of adult entertainment, well, that could be a nice sideline as well.

  I knew what he meant. Casinos and women. It should have sounded ominous, but in the Queensland we’d come to know, these things were accepted. In those three years since linking up with Marvin, we’d seen how it all operated. We knew all the casinos and some of the brothels and we knew their owners, we drank with them, haunted their establishments. They didn’t seem any different from the rest of us. Everyone in our world did something that was theoretically criminal. SP bookies, prostitutes, politicians, the police themselves. Even legitimate businessmen knew the score. If you wanted anything done in Queensland, there was always going to be someone you had to pay. And now we had a government minister on our side. What could go wrong?

  I was drunk anyway, had been drinking since lunch earlier that day. But it seemed to me that if we could claim part of Brisbane’s nightlife as our own, give ourselves even more places to go, and more sins in which to indulge, then why in heaven not. In fact, once again, Charlie raised the only concern. Clubs weren’t really his style, and besides, he was already busy enough with the restaurants.

  ‘No problem,’ said Marvin. ‘Lindsay can handle the day-to-day running. But you’ve got the name, Charlie. These clubs have gotta at least look legitimate, and the liquor licences are already registered to you, so if your name is on the door, all the better. Obviously I can’t appear to be directly involved, and no one’s heard of Lindsay . . . who else is there?’

  So Charlie agreed. We all agreed.

  It was a golden moment. Bottles were opened. We were in the midst of the first toast when a diner from across the room rose from his table and approached ours. He was lean and old and tastefully dressed, and I thought I recognised him vaguely. Marvin certainly did, and put out his hand.

  ‘Jeremy,’ he said.

  The old man smiled. ‘Marvin. Just thought I’d offer my congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘The premier, I gather, is very impressed.’

  Marvin waved a hand. ‘Well . . . I try.’

  ‘I was wondering, actually, if we could have a word?’

  ‘What about?’

  The old man’s gaze drifted across the rest of us, and then back to Marvin.

  ‘Go on,’ Marvin laughed. ‘They’re all okay.’

  The old man nodded calmly. ‘It’s about these . . . arsonists . . . of yours.’

  ‘They’re not mine, Jeremy. Thank fuck they came along though, hey?’

  ‘Yes, but one of them I have a . . . special interest in. I’d like to help her.’

  Marvin grew serious. ‘They’re in pretty deep, you know. It’s out of my hands, really. The police are keen to see some jail terms. They’re even fighting bail.’

  ‘I know, but in this particular case, I can possibly chat to the police myself. She wasn’t a ringleader. What I’m worried about is the company whose premises they attacked. I’d need to get them onside as well.’

  ‘Ah . . .’

  ‘And I’m told you have friends there . . .’

  Marvin was nodding. ‘Maybe we should cover this later. How about we set up a meeting? Actually, there are a few things I wanted to raise with you anyway.’

  Again the old man looked the rest of us over. ‘I thought there might be.’

  And he was gone.

  Which was how I first met Sir Jeremy Phelan, high-ranking career public servant, already semi-retired but sill consultant to the premier’s department and various other government bodies. And that was the first I ever heard of Maybellene.

  I didn’t think much of it. I drank down my wine and reached for another.

  But a few days later, when we were sorting out the purchase of our first nightclub, Lindsay reported that Jeremy was now an investor and partner, in return for various favours he’d performed for us in the areas of town planning permits and zoning restrictions.

  And Maybellene, stewing in her holding cell, received an unexpected visitor.

  SIXTEEN

  I stood in the car park of St Amand’s Hospital.

  The name was familiar, even though I’d never been there before.

  Had I heard someone speaking about it once? Or maybe I was thinking of the actual saint. My background was Catholic, after all. But I couldn’t remember any particular saint called Amand, or what he might have done.

  I stood sweating under the sun and stared up at the building. It looked like it might once have been a convent— stately and old, with two tall storeys of sandstone. The roof was gabled and towered, and boasted crucifixes as decorative works. Cowled nuns might have whispered down its hallways. The whole site was contemplative—set high on a hill east of the city centre, with sweeping views of the river and out to the shimmering glare of the bay. Ex-convent or not, however, the modern car park and the mirrored windows spoke of a more practical function. It was a hospital and obviously an expensive one. The humble little Bardon hostel would have fitted into its porch alone.

  Where was it I’d heard about the place, and from whom?

  The asphalt was burning hot under my shoes. I made my way across to the front doors and into the foyer. Conditioned air embraced me like winter. The interior was all polished floors and dark wood panelling. There was no emergency entrance, no ambulances parked outside, no bustle of activity. All was quiet and calm. An imposing staircase curved up to the second floor, wide doors flanking either side of it, but there was no indication as to where they led. I looked about for a list of departments or wards, but the walls displayed only artwork and gilded mirrors. There weren’t even any ‘no smoking’ signs. It might have been the entry hall to an historic home. There was nothing else but an antique desk off to one side, staffed by a single woman at a computer terminal. And she was watching me, waiting politely.

  I went over. I was going to ask where the detox ward was but somehow, in the surroundings, the term didn’t seem appropriate.

  I said, ‘I’m told you have an alcohol dependency unit here. I was wondering if I could speak to someone from it.’

  The woman smiled smoothly. ‘Perhaps I can help. What is it you wanted to know?’

  ‘I had a friend stay here recently. I just had a few questions about his treatment.’

  ‘He isn’t staying here at the moment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re a friend, not a relation of any sort?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She appeared to consider for a moment. ‘Of course, as you’d realise, all medical treatments carried out here are strictly confidential. There’s very little any of our staff could tell you. You’d be better off discussing this with your friend.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Ah. Could I ask his name?’

  I told her and she typed it into her terminal. She considered the results for a moment.

  ‘And could I ask your name?’

  I told her that, too, and she picked up a phone, spoke quietly into it for a moment, hung up.

  ‘If you’d like to take a seat, someone will be with you shortly.’

  I went and sat on a high-backed wooden chair. Minutes passed. No one else came into the foyer and the receptionist typed quietly at her desk. There were muted sounds from distant parts of the building, but there was still no sense of location. I could have been sitting anywhere. If not for the computer, I could have been in any time as well.

  The receptionist was right, though. This place wouldn’t be anything like the Uniting Church hostel. They wouldn’t lightly disc
uss details about a paying patient. Even one who was past caring. But how had Charlie ever found his way in here? Where did he get the money from?

  Finally a woman was coming down the stairs.

  ‘Mr Verney?’ she asked.

  I rose and took her offered hand, shook it.

  ‘My name is Angela,’ she went on. ‘Come this way.’ She led me through a side door into a small room that held couches and armchairs, a television and a coffee machine, and a case of neatly arranged magazines and books. A waiting room. Angela herself was middle-aged and soberly dressed, but beyond that there was no indication of her function. Doctor, nurse, janitor. Patient, for all I knew. We arranged ourselves in the armchairs.

  She said, ‘You were a friend of Charles Monohan?’

  ‘I was. You know he died recently?’

  ‘Yes. We were sorry to hear it.’

  ‘I’m told he was a patient here just before he died.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me something of his stay here.’

  ‘What exactly was it you wanted to know?’

  ‘Well . . . what he did while he was here, anything unusual that might have happened.’

  Her manner to this point had been grave and sympathetic. It developed now to grave, sympathetic and regretful.

  ‘As you would understand, discretion is a key concern in a hospital such as this—in any hospital, for that matter. Next of kin are entitled to certain information, but otherwise we have to respect the rights of any patient to deal with an illness in private.’

  ‘I know he was an alcoholic, if that’s what you mean. I know you have a detox ward somewhere in here.’

  ‘Yes . . . but as we understand it, his treatment here had nothing whatever to do with his passing, so I don’t really see any need to divulge privileged information. I’m sure that you were a close friend, as you say, but to me you could be anyone. Even a journalist, for instance.’

  I controlled a smile.

  ‘Have the police talked to you?’

  ‘I can confirm that they have. And they, as we, are completely confident that our treatment of Mr Monohan was unrelated to later events. In fact, if it helps, I can tell you that in the three days he was here his treatment progressed very favourably. By his choice he discontinued treatment on the third day and left the ward. It was not on our advice, but patients are at all times free to do as they wish. Medically he was certainly well enough to leave.’

  Medically he was well enough to leave. The treatment was not at fault. But then I’d never thought it was. Detox procedure was detox procedure, whether with money or without it.

  ‘I wasn’t really thinking about his medical condition,’ I said. ‘I was more wondering what state of mind he was in when he left. After all, he went straight from here to another facility and stole a car, then left Brisbane.’

  ‘So the police told us.’

  ‘Well, that’s a little strange, isn’t it?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘His was a serious condition. It affects the mind as much as the body. Non-sufferers such as ourselves can’t be too judgemental about the behaviour of the afflicted.’

  ‘Did you actually treat Charlie personally?’

  ‘I’m more on the administrative side, but I’m always aware of how treatments are progressing.’

  ‘You knew him? Talked to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he say anything before he left? Did he give any indication of what he planned to do, where he was going? Or did you just let him walk out the door?’

  ‘As I said, Mr Monohan expressed a desire to depart. Medically—both physically and mentally—there was no reason to prevent him. To say anything beyond that I’d be betraying the confidentiality that all our patients value so highly.’

  ‘And that’s all you told the police?’

  ‘Our discussions with the police are also confidential. Rest assured, however, they were as convinced as we are that we had fulfilled our medical responsibilities to Mr Monohan, and the hospital bears no liability for his death.’

  She was choosing her words very carefully, and I supposed I could see why. It was true, I could have been anyone. But still, she’d said ‘discussions with the police’, so there’d been more than one.

  ‘Was this Charlie’s first visit here?’

  ‘As I’ve been saying, that sort of information is only for next of kin—’

  ‘What about the fee? Can you tell me who paid his fee?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Mr Monohan was destitute. He couldn’t have afforded five minutes here, yet alone three days.’

  ‘Well . . . financial records are, of course, as confidential as medical ones.’

  ‘But you don’t take cases who can’t pay, I assume?’

  ‘We are part of a large organisation. Other parts of that organisation perform extensive and valuable charity work. St Amand’s, however, does not.’

  ‘So did you tell the police who paid for him?’

  Exasperation made her smile. ‘Mr Verney, these are all questions I can’t answer. All I can say is that we cooperated with the police fully. I’d suggest you talk to them if you have an interest. They already have all the information from us that could possibly be relevant. So if there’s nothing else . . .’

  She’d risen and was indicating the way to the door. I could think of no other questions—none that she would answer, anyway. Information flowed only in official channels. I rose from my chair.

  ‘Once again,’ she said as I passed by her, ‘I really am sorry about your friend.’

  And it seemed perfectly genuine. Nor was there any reason why it wouldn’t be.

  I paused. ‘What about the other patients? How many do you have up there?’

  ‘That varies.’

  ‘How many did you have when Charlie was here?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you could tell me who they were either?’

  ‘That would be breaking the most fundamental code of all.’

  ‘Of course. But did you tell the police?’

  She only shook her head at me, lightly scolding. I nodded and headed on past her, out through the foyer and into the steaming afternoon. I walked over to my car, and then turned back to look at the hospital. The upper storeys were shaded by their deep verandahs. I could see windows, but they were all closed and only reflected the sky. The verandahs themselves were deserted. I didn’t know if the actual detox ward was up there or somewhere else in the building, but still, those windows were not meant to be seen through.

  I opened my car door and felt the air roll out of it, stifling.

  Privacy. Necessary, no doubt, in an alcohol detox clinic that catered to the wealthy. Who knew what sort of important people frequented a place like St Amand’s? Still, somehow Charlie had got in there, and he had seen whatever there was to be seen, and met whoever there was to meet. And three days later he was dead.

  There had to be a meaning in that somewhere.

  It was police business. Nothing to do with me.

  Even if it was, the police had been there ahead of me. They weren’t fools. Whatever they needed to know, they would know already. I’d done my best for Charlie. I’d buried him. I’d talked with those who’d seen him last. There was nothing left for me to do except pick up his ashes from the crematorium. Then I could leave Brisbane and go home.

  I turned away from the hospital and climbed into the car, felt the vinyl seat mould itself stickily to my back. The steering wheel seared my fingers as they touched it, and suddenly I remembered.

  It was Jeremy of course. That was where the elusive memory lay. St Amand’s and Jeremy. The two went together. There was something he always used to say, a glass of wine trembling in his hand, his pale eyes full of hunger. Something I never really understood at the time.

  What was it exactly?

  Then it all came back to me. It was at the
opening of our first club, when I’d sat down with Marvin and Jeremy, and, somewhere else in the room, May had been there too . . .

  I put the car in gear, suddenly not sure where I was heading.

  SEVENTEEN

  Sir Jeremy Phelan was, amongst other things, an alcoholic.

  In the end it emerged that all of us were. Drinking was the focus of our lives, the flood which swept along everything else we did. But Jeremy was the only one of us who, at the time, made the admission openly. The rest of us were still lost in that tangle of semantics and rationalisations that was the haven of all drinkers. But Jeremy answered to a sterner truth.

  He was a Catholic, of course. But then again, so were we all. Nominally, at least. For a brief period during the Inquiry, the papers tried to read something into that. But Jeremy was the only one who would have actively claimed the faith. And even then, as something of a heretic.

  And either way, drinking lay deeper at the core of him. That, and women. Much younger women.

  He was married. He came from old pastoral stock, and his wife was the same, a grand figure of a woman who had long since left him in disgust. Everyone in government and media circles knew about both the departed wife and the young mistresses, but it was never commented upon publicly. Everyone knew, too, that his knighthood had been purchased directly with a donation to the government’s party funds, but that was never commented upon either. Many knighthoods of the era were bestowed the same way.

  None of it mattered. Like so many others, Jeremy was deep within the system, and a completely protected species. Government was in his blood, cabinet ministers hung on his family tree and there was barely a section of the Queensland public service that hadn’t felt his touch over the decades. Which was not to say he wasn’t public spirited. For one thing, he volunteered his services as a guest lecturer to the University of Queensland, speaking on law, on government, and on administration. As a reward he was given an honorary doctorate. And on the level of more private incentive, there were all those young female students to profit from his wisdom.