by Peter Corris
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Would you have to check with your superiors to do that?’
‘No, not exactly. I was the liaison officer for the emergency unit that was set up. The one the Admiral headed up.’
‘I’m told he did a great job.’
‘Not bad. I think the sorts of things you want would be on file in that unit, at least temporarily. I could get them.’
‘I’d appreciate it. Where and when could we meet?’
She consulted some scribble on a scratch pad. ‘I still don’t know why I’m doing this. I could find some time later this afternoon … I have to be in court tomorrow morning …’
It wasn’t the best arrangement because it gave her a chance to consult with her Dad, but it was the best I was going to get. ‘Outside the court house? Tomorrow at 12.30?’
‘All right.’
I thanked her and left the office, feeling her eyes on my back every step of the way.
For the next hour or so I confirmed my impression that good things had been done on the Newcastle waterfront and at the train terminal. A pedestrian mall had been constructed with walkways leading up over the tracks to restaurants, shops and pleasant spots for just sitting and looking beside the water. I had a light beer and a sandwich in a cafe that afforded me a view across the Hunter River to Stockton. The price would have made old Newcastle identities like Hughie Dwyer blanch, but no one now could eat the sort of sandwiches Hughie would have been accustomed to, so it all rinses out in the wash.
I unparked my car and drove through the streets to the site of the major earthquake disaster—the Workers’ Club on the corner of King and Union Streets. The area itself surprised me; I got lost and approached along Union from the Hamilton end. I had expected a mixture of the modern plastic and the old basic, but the wide road had palm trees growing along the side and ran past a big park that looked relaxed and gracious.
I’d seen press photographs of the damage to the club but they hadn’t quite prepared me for the reality. The building looked to have been a huge barn of a place, constructed in sections over time, plain to the point of ugliness. Now, it looked as if a giant fist had smashed through the roof, driving upper floors down through those below and dropping the whole lot into the underground car park. There was failed metal everywhere—steel girders twisted like spaghetti and reinforcing rods sticking out of concrete like bones poking through the skin. The whole area was surrounded by a cyclone fence and scaffolding and the demolisher’s sign looked like a puny piece of boasting. In fact, demolition and reconstruction were well underway, but the site still looked as if nature rather than man was calling the shots.
I drove past the club and the fire station next door and turned into King Street. A motel sign by the side of the road reminded me of that practical necessity. I turned off into a street that climbed a hill and located the motel near the crest. The Hillside, what else? It commanded a view of the city and the water and it had a pool. Lotto winners have to spend their money somehow. I booked in and swam several laps of the somewhat murky pool, which isn’t as impressive as it sounds—it was about ten metres long. After a shower and a can of beer from the minibar, I fell asleep on the bed. My last thought was of the chevrons on Glenys Withers’ crisp, white shirtsleeve. Kiss me goodnight, Senior Sergeant.
I woke up about five o’clock with the late afternoon sun streaming into the small, warm room. As often happens, I woke with questions in my head. This time they were what happened to Oscar Bach’s business and who wound up his affairs? Probably some solicitor in Newcastle. I reproached myself—I could have been doing something useful instead of sleeping. I took my notebook and the Gregory’s for Newcastle and environs and set out for Dudley.
I became aware of the car following me soon after making the turn off from the highway to Kahiba. Bad move, to leave the main road when you’re the subject of possible hostile attention, but there it was. The tail was a dark, anonymous-looking sedan—a bad sign. Amateurs follow people and commit crimes in red Alfas, people who know what they’re about, don’t. I drove along the narrow road with the forest on either side, speeding up just a bit to make sure I was the subject. I was. The dark car stayed with me. I slowed down and two other cars pulled out and passed me and the tail. Now it was just us and I wasn’t in the mood. I gunned the motor and decided to make a race of it through this section to Whitebridge where it looked as if there might be more people around.
The Falcon was in good order and speedy. I was pulling away from what I decided was a Toyota when I saw the level crossing ahead. My reaction was purely instinctive. I hit the brakes and went into the sort of skidding slide that slows down time. When I was young there were a lot of these crossings around Sydney and people got killed at them regularly. I could remember front-page newspaper pictures of the tangled wrecks and blood-daubed victims. These pictures were going through my head as I fought the skid, strained my ears for the sound of a train and kept my eyes on the rear vision mirror.
I stopped the skid and the car just before the crossing and needed a fraction of a second to be sure that the line was clear. I didn’t get it. The Toyota slewed past me in a controlled glide and stopped with its front bumper inches away from mine. Another movement from either vehicle and the road would be littered with broken glass and plastic. For no good reason, something Helen Broadway had once said came into my head, ‘Bourgeois love of property affects all classes.’ I swore and rammed the gear shift into first, ready to plough forward, when I felt and heard the window by my right ear shatter. Glass showered in on me as I threw myself across to the other side of the bench seat. The Falcon stalled and so did I.
I could feel the blood on my face, just like those victims of thirty years before. I scrabbled for the Colt I kept in a clip under the dashboard before I remembered that I didn’t have it there anymore. It was in the cupboard under the stairs in Glebe. New car, the quiet life. My Smith & Wesson was in the glove box. I heaved myself back at the driver’s side door, determined to do something.
‘Fuck you,’ a voice said. ‘I’ve got your fuckin’ blood all over me.’
He was big, carrying what looked like a short crowbar and leaning against the door. I glared at him—big, broad face, drooping moustache, weight-lifter’s neck, white T-shirt—all flecked with blood.
‘Fuck you, too,’ I said. ‘Open the door and I’ll bend that crowbar across your head.’
He was calm. He was good. He was very good. He said, ‘The message is, watch yourself, smartarse.’ He reached through the broken window and tapped me delicately on the right temple with the crowbar. The warm, bright afternoon turned to midnight.
7
I must have been out for a minute only or even less. I was aware of a face at the broken window and a voice not directed at me.
‘He’s alive.’
‘I’m all right,’ I said.
‘He says he’s all right.’
Another voice said, ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here, then.’
Young voices. Young men. Long hair, jeans and sneakers. I turned my head and saw them jump back into a Holden Commodore with several hundredweight of chrome trim. The engine roared and the Commodore took off in the direction of Whitebridge. Its rear end bucked as it jolted across the tracks. Not hard to work out—stolen car; kids with just enough conscience to take a look. I still had the tracks to cross and I wondered if I could do it.
The Falcon had stalled, so the first move wasn’t too hard. Turn the key off and on again. I did that and the motor caught first time. Regular servicing, nothing like it. Then I tried getting into first gear. That worked all right so I was encouraged to attempt to straighten the wheels and drive across the railway line. No problems, although the jolting was something I could have done without. I was beginning to admire the guy with the crowbar. An artist. I was coming out of the fog fast with just a headache and a ringing in my ears to remember him by.
I drove super-cautiously to Whitebridge, always ready
for the road to suddenly turn into a big dipper or end in the middle of a football ground. I’d been concussed enough times to know the tricks the brain can play. But nothing like that happened. The traffic both ways was light, the way it gets in the country when you leave the main road, and I blessed the fact. One oncoming headlight, unnecessary anyway in the evening glow and on high beam, hit me between the eyes like a stun-gun.
I made it to Whitebridge and turned onto Dudley Road running along the crest of the headland. There was sparkling, dark blue water in the distance on both sides and I felt as if I was driving along a highway that would take me all the way out to sea, maybe to Lord Howe Island. I stopped under a light, realising that the tap on the temple had affected me more than I’d thought. I consulted the Gregory’s and reckoned I could set a course for Bombala Road. Why not? It wasn’t nearly as far as Lord Howe Island.
I drove past the turn-off to Redhead, promising myself a look at the beach where thirty years before I’d ridden a surfboard and tried to convince a local girl to come and have a holiday in Sydney with me. Dudley has two pubs which seems at least one too many for such a small place. Both pubs had cars pulled up outside them and small groups of drinkers sucking it down quietly along with the fresh sea air. Ocean Street cut the headland in two. I tried to remember the number of Oscar Bach’s cottage and couldn’t. Well, that’s what note-taking is for. Dudley, this part of it at least, had closed down for the night. Men in singlets were watering lawns and the few elderly people sitting out on their front porches looked about ready to go in and switch on the TV. Almost every house sprouted a high mast and a set of complex antennae.
I turned into Bombala Street and saw the land fall away and the ocean spread itself out in front of me. Lights blinked on land in the far distance but I was too disoriented to know where those lights were shinin’. I was beginning to hear music in my head and I felt surprise when the car began to go faster of its own accord. I felt like saying ‘Stop’ but I had enough sense left to touch the brake. I stop-started down the steep street towards thick bush with the water beyond. A casual observer might have wanted to see my learner’s permit; a cop would have wanted me to blow in a bag.
I stopped outside the last house in the street on the left side by jamming the car’s wheels into the kerb. I got out and heard the surf crashing not too far away. The air smelled of eucalyptus and salt and cicadas started singing as soon as I slammed the car door. I walked across a wide nature strip towards a letter box that had the number 7 written on it in luminous paint. My kind of house number. I must have made it down the steps to the wide deck and all the way to the front door, but it wasn’t something I was aware of at the time.
I recognised Horrie Jacobs’ voice, although it was coming from far away. Then his diminuitive shape was close by and I heard a female make a noise between a gasp and a groan. Then I was sitting down somewhere quiet and warm and my head was being sponged. The female was doing the work and her hands were incredibly gentle. For some reason I preferred to keep my eyes closed.
‘Mrs Jacobs?’ I said.
‘May. Hold steady. There’s a bit of glass here wants getting out.’
I didn’t feel a thing. ‘You’re good at this.’
‘Horrie was a miner. Do you think he didn’t come home with cuts and bruises under all that coal dust? You bet he did. And who fixed him up? Me, that’s who.’
Horrie’s voice was coming from the same hemisphere as everyone else now. ‘You’re right, Cliff. She is good at it.’
‘You’ve got to be. How many times did Ralph come in after games with bits of skin hanging off him? And was Suzie all that much better?’
‘Our son and second daughter,’ Horrie said. ‘A tomboy that Suzie.’
I nodded and regretted it. ‘Did I bleed on anything?’
‘Just your shirt,’ May Jacobs said. ‘And I can put that in the wash.’
‘What happened?’ Horrie said. ‘Did you run into someone?’
‘Someone ran into me,’ I said. ‘He made his point with a crowbar, the point being not to push too hard on this enquiry of yours.’
‘Told you,’ May Jacobs said.
She was six or seven inches taller than him, making her a tall woman for her generation. She looked as if she’d been broadly built when younger and more active. Now she’d fined down somewhat, but she would still have outweighed Horrie by twenty pounds. Horrie Jacobs looked at his wife. ‘You didn’t say anything about this sort of trouble. This backs up what I think. Doesn’t it, Cliff?’
I was lying on a padded cane lounge in a large sitting room that seemed to have three glass walls. There was a towel under my head and the ache was easing. I sat up slowly and carefully. They’d taken off my shoes and the thick carpet under my feet felt good. Pleasant sensations were returning, always a good sign. I could think of another sensation that’d be welcome.
‘Leave him alone, Horrie, I’m telling you,’ May Jacobs said. I could detect the slight foreign sound in her voice for the first time. ‘Poor man’s had a terrible knock. Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Hardy?’
It was about the last thing I wanted and it must have shown in my face. Horrie chuckled. ‘He needs something stronger than that, love. Hang on.’
He went quickly out of the room and I felt I had to apologise. I’d seen ex-boozers seize a chance to start again before, any chance. ‘Tea’d be fine, Mrs Jacobs,’ I said. ‘I don’t want …’
‘Hush. He knows what he’s doing. Are you well enough to talk? We’re going to have to thrash this out.’
Horrie came back before I could answer. He had a big brandy in a wine glass and he gave it to me. ‘That’ll see you right. Good stuff that, they tell me. Ralph brought it back from some trip or other.’
I touched my face and could feel where blood had crusted on some cuts. I sipped the brandy and then had a solid slug. Good stuff? It was Grade A Cognac and it seemed to run through every blood vessel to soothe all the parts that hurt. May went off to make tea for Horrie and herself and I looked around the room while I worked on the brandy. Big, cane furniture, carpet, huge windows. There was a large bookcase filled with a variety of books stacked in as if they were there to be read and looked at instead of displayed. There were cushions and magazines lying around. A couple of broad-leafed plants sprouted from earthernware pots. The fireplace was big and, to judge from the slight smoke stains on the wall and roof above it, got plenty of use in the winter. It was a nice, plain room. Horrie Jacobs watched me survey his domain.
‘Doesn’t look like a millionaire’s place, does it? Ralph’s always at me to do it up but I dunno, it suits May and me.’
‘I think it’s fine. Which way’s the water?’
He pointed to a window that was filled with points of light I took to be stars. ‘Thataway. View’ll knock your eyes out in the morning. Oh, sorry, that’s not the best thing to say.’ He leaned forward and examined my battered head. ‘Didn’t miss your eye by that much. I’d better ring the police.’
‘No, I’ve already seen the police and got some cooperation. I don’t want to muddy the waters with them.’ I waved the glass at him thinking that he might take the hint and give me a refill but he didn’t move. ‘I’m okay. I was careless. I think you’re right—there is something behind Oscar Bach’s death, but …’
May came back into the room carrying a tray with two mugs of tea, a plate of biscuits and a bottle of Panadol tablets on it. She put the tray on the floor and pulled up one of the heavy cane chairs with a quick, strong heave. Her broad face was framed by a floating wreath of white hair. Her dark eyes, slightly slanted and deep, fixed me. ‘Look up,’ she said, ‘look down, left, right. How old are you? Where are you right now?’
I did all these things, told her how old I was and finished with, ‘At 7 Bombala Road, Dudley.’
‘Street,’ Horrie said.
I was still extending the glass in his direction. ‘Near enough. D’you think I could have a little more brandy?’
�
��That’d be all right,’ May said. Horrie left the room and she spoke urgently. ‘I didn’t like that Oscar. There was something … wrong about him. Horrie couldn’t see it. I’m Polish. I’ve seen a lot of things you wouldn’t believe and heard about a lot more. If he got killed by someone I wouldn’t be surprised, but I can’t see what it’s got to do with my Horrie. He’s not young and not as strong as he looks. I don’t want him to be upset, you understand me?’
I was getting confused: Horrie was coming at me from one direction; May from another and Ralph, maybe Ralph, from yet another. A family affair. The worst kind. Perhaps Suzie and her sisters’d want to put their oars in, too. Horrie gave me another, smaller, brandy and I sipped it while they drank their tea and the stars twinkled outside the window.
I heard Horrie say, ‘He was a good mate, love. He didn’t mind that I wouldn’t go to the pub. He never asked for a penny off me.’
May said, ‘I know, but Polish women have feelings about these things …’
‘Think of the fish we caught. How he cleaned them for you.’
‘Fish are free from the ocean.’
‘It takes skill to catch them. A good fisherman’s a good bloke, I always say.’
May gave me a despairing look. They’d had this talk a hundred times before. I was intensely interested in her instinct and feelings. I had another woman working for me, I seemed to remember. What was her name? Helen? No, Glenys … I drank the brandy which suddenly smelled and tasted of sex, of sweat, massage oil and the other good things.
‘Get the glass and move the cushions, Horrie,’ May said. ‘He’s dropping off. I’ll get a blanket.’
I said, ‘I’m at a motel …
I felt something soft cover me and I heard May’s voice. ‘Not tonight you’re not, Mr Tough Guy.’
