by Peter Klein
‘What the hell happened to my daughter?’
Russell Henshaw, striding into the hospital waiting room like he owned the place. I tried to tell him she was in a coma and that’s all I knew, but he stormed off to reception and demanded to speak to the doctor in charge. The woman at the counter told him the doctor was still busy, but that she’d come out and see him as soon as she could. In the meantime, he was welcome to take a seat. He gave the waiting room a dismissive glance. Not used to marking time.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he demanded.
The receptionist looked at him through the security window with tired, unimpressed eyes. She’d been up half the night dealing with abusive drunks and drug addicts and now this bozo of a prima donna was trying to pull rank.
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘I recognise you. You’re the radio guy; I’ve heard your show. But I’m the woman who runs the front desk and right now, you can take a seat like everyone else or come back some other time.’
Henshaw’s glaring response was completely lost on her. Well, could he see his daughter then? No, not yet. Still being tended to. He came back over to where I was sitting, bristling with indignation.
‘Incompetent bastards,’ he said.
Henshaw looked like he’d only had a few hours’ sleep before my message had roused him. Shadowed, hooded eyes protested against being awoken at that hour. He’d obviously dressed hurriedly, thrown on some old jeans and runners, a complete mismatch to his top half which consisted of a suit jacket and business shirt he might have been wearing the night before.
‘Well, what happened?’ he asked me again.
‘We were coming home from a night out when she got into an argument over a cab. One of the women in their group hit her on the head with a beer bottle.’
‘That’s just utterly appalling. Where were you?’ he asked accusingly.
‘I was with her.’
‘If you’d been with her, protecting her, this might never have happened.’
I let that pass.
‘Where did this altercation take place?’
When I told him he hit the roof.
‘You bloody fool! Walking around there at that time of night with my daughter! Don’t you listen to the radio, read the papers? In case you’ve been living under a rock for the past ten years, it’s dangerous out there.’
What was I supposed to do, apologise for Maxine’s behaviour? Obviously it was entirely my fault. ‘Look, it just happened. Okay? It’s one of those things.’
‘Did the police catch them?’
‘No.’
‘I won’t rest until I find out who was responsible for assaulting my daughter.’
I’d given a brief statement to the two police officers who’d shown up, describing our attackers. Could have been any of ten thousand clubbers. Good luck to him.
‘Mr Henshaw?’
We looked up to see a woman dressed in a white lab coat peering at us through slim-framed glasses. She introduced herself as Doctor Karen Southby. She was tallish, her head still covered in a hair mesh, and she had a no-nonsense manner which suggested she’d tell you exactly how it was.
‘Yes. I’m Maxine’s father.’
No mention of me, of course. Had to introduce myself.
‘You can come and see her now if you like. But I have to warn you, she’s in a comatose state.’
‘How bad is she, is she going to be all right?’ said Henshaw.
The doctor talked to us as she walked, probably a matter of necessity; she simply had too many patients to attend and couldn’t stand around and chat like a local family doctor could. She led us through some fold-back doors and we followed her into a ward.
‘I won’t beat about the bush, Mr Henshaw. Anyone in her state is at risk.’
The doctor kept up a brisk pace, pushing through corridors and doors with us trailing along in her wake. Henshaw put a hand on her elbow to anchor her and when she stopped he said, ‘What sort of risk are you talking about?’
She shrugged matter-of-factly and looked Henshaw straight in the eye. ‘Sometimes the patient recovers completely. Other times, it can involve lifelong brain damage or even death.’
Henshaw swallowed and took a deep breath.
I asked the obvious. ‘What category does Maxine fit into right now?’
‘We won’t really know until we can diagnose her properly. She may need surgery, she may not. I can tell you we’ve taken some blood tests which indicate she had an extremely high alcohol level.’
Henshaw shot me an accusatory glance. My fault, of course, that she was tanked.
‘How long is she likely to stay in a coma?’ I asked.
‘A day, a week. Perhaps more. The longer it is, the slimmer her chances of recovery.’
Jesus; optimistic sort, wasn’t she.
We came to Maxine’s ward and the doctor led us over to her bed. A nurse was fussing around adjusting an intravenous drip. I hardly recognised her. Poor girl had an oxygen mask on and what seemed like a dozen different tubes attaching her to a monitor.
‘Can she hear us?’ I asked.
The doctor shook her head. ‘I doubt it. She’s in a state of deep sleep.’
The nurse took her temperature as we looked on. ‘Stable,’ she said to the doctor. Only bit of good news I’d heard so far.
We only stayed for a little while; both of us were awkward in each other’s company. Just he and I looking at Maxine’s unconscious body. Nothing to say to each other, or to Maxine.
‘Well, there’s not much we can do at the moment,’ I said, making leaving noises.
‘Yes, you’re right. Why don’t you go? Leave her alone, like you did last night.’
Ignorant fool was playing the blame game. Hardly the time or place, both of us standing over her in bed.
‘Russell, I’m not responsible for what happened to Maxine.’
‘Aren’t you? You heard the doctor; the blood test showed she was full of booze. You took her out, got her drunk and ended up in Queen Street at that hour. Of course it’s your fault.’
I shook my head. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘No? Let me tell you something,’ he said with an aggressive sneer. ‘I’ve never liked you. I picked you straightaway as a gold-digging, two-bob gambler who’ll end up with the arse out of your pants.’
‘Is that right?’
‘You’re no good and I don’t want you seeing Maxine again.’
‘Shouldn’t she be the one who decides that?’
He took a step closer to me, ferocious, spiteful eyes blaming me for what had happened to his daughter.
‘You stay away from her.’
I shouldn’t have come to the races today. I was sluggish, making mistakes. Tired from the lack of sleep and too much wine, which was still washing around in my head from last night. But of course Maxine was the real reason I couldn’t concentrate. I’d called the hospital earlier to see if there’d been any change in her condition. Nothing. Stable, but still in a coma. I didn’t know quite what to do. Should I go back to the hospital, sit by her bed? Send flowers, a card? Damn it, I’m bloody hopeless in these types of situations; what was I supposed to do? I ended up calling my brother David. I told him what had happened, including Henshaw warning me off his daughter.
‘Listen, don’t worry about Henshaw,’ he said. ‘He’s always been a control freak. He’s just spinning out about Maxine.’
‘You think so?’
‘Course he is.’
I could hear David’s mind ticking over at the other end of the phone. Always methodical, planning the best option even in a crisis, just like he did with the horses.
‘There’s nothing you can do, for now. Maxine’s in hospital where she needs to be. You said they’d notify you as soon as anything changes.’
‘I guess so. I was worried about Henshaw blaming me for the whole thing and taking his horses away from Dad.’
‘Don’t be an idiot. That’s not going to happen, and even if it did, you think the old
man gives a shit about Russell Henshaw? You know what a massive effort he is to train for?’
I thought back to last night at the hospital, at Henshaw’s impossibly rude behaviour at the hospital’s reception and the grilling he’d given me.
‘I can imagine.’
‘Believe me, he’s not worth it. All his unannounced visits, his constant phone calls wanting to know about the horses. If he wants to walk away from Parraboo Lodge, then that’s his problem, not ours. But I’ll talk to the old man about it if it makes you feel better.’
‘Thanks, David.’
‘And don’t let Henshaw put you off Maxine. If you want be with her, that’s for you and her to decide.’
As always, my brother’s reassuring voice cheered me up and left me feeling a bit more optimistic about things. But even after talking with David, things weren’t working out at the track. I kept bumping into people I didn’t want to meet. Trader Bill pestered me at the edge of the betting ring. He lies in wait like a flathead buried in the sand, and when some likely prey passes by, he pounces as if from nowhere. Even though it was December and nudging a warm twenty-eight degrees, Trader still wore a tatty old overcoat. How else would he cover the armful of watches he was trying to sell me? Told him I still had his watch from last year and no, I didn’t have a lazy spot I could lend him.
When I managed to ditch Trader, I walked straight into Russell Henshaw, who was with his usual entourage of hangers-on. He was the last person I wanted to meet today and probably me, him. He sized me up; his quarrelsome face looked as if he was readying himself for another argument. I got in first; no harm in being civil.
‘Any news on Maxine?’ I asked.
‘None,’ he said brusquely and kept walking. Royalty don’t fraternise with riffraff, especially gold-digging boyfriends who’d so obviously been responsible for their daughter’s injuries. The next person on my didn’t-want-to-meet list was Kagan Hall. Thankfully I heard him before I saw him, so I was able to make a successful detour around where he was standing. He was yakking away to some group of would-be racehorse owners in front of the horse stalls. Carrying on about some new colt he’d bought and they’d better be quick, because the shares were selling fast. He was ogling some strapper in the stalls while he was talking; didn’t he ever stop?
In the betting ring I wasn’t switched on like I should have been. I’d taken evens about a horse I’d sworn was set to start in the red. Damn thing had drifted out to two dollars forty. I’d missed the fives about a filly I’d played in race three and ended up getting no better than four fifty. When a horse I backed in the main race missed the start and flew home to be beaten by a nose, I closed up shop and called it a day. No sense in throwing good money after bad. I rang the hospital again, but after hearing there was still no change in Maxine’s condition, I decided to go to the bar and catch up with the gang over afternoon tea.
There were a few of the regular crew I could see in the corner, so I bought a salad sandwich and a cup of coffee and went over to join them. It turned out that David had run into Tiny earlier and had passed on what had happened to Maxine. So they all knew about her; saved me having to break the news.
Everyone was genuinely sorry for her. Tiny, for all his prior harping on about clubland and how dangerous a place it was, didn’t once say I told you so. Instead, he was quite sympathetic, as indeed they all were. There were no barbs about my ‘Miss Troubles’ today.
‘Mate, it’s a shithole, that place,’ said Tiny. ‘They oughta fair dinkum send the army in there on a weekend and barricade it. It’s about the only way to stop the fightin’. How many of ’em were there?’
‘Five. Three guys and two girls. At least the guys fought clean. More than I can say for the two girls.’
‘Everyone wants to fight with a weapon nowadays. Women especially. It’s like glassin’ someone’s the “in” thing.’
‘I can’t understand it; you know, the mindless, unprovoked violence,’ said Louise.
I shrugged. I didn’t understand either.
Matt had a theory; he always had a theory. ‘I think it’s got something to do with Generation Y. They want something and they want it now. So when they’re under the influence and a bouncer says no, or they’re told to wait, or someone beats them to a cab, they just hit out, you know.’
As expected Ric thought Matt’s theory was a crock of shit. ‘That’s crap, mate. Wanting something now doesn’t necessarily turn you violent. If I go up to the bar and I’ve gotta wait five minutes to get served, am I gonna throw a tantrum and glass the barman?’
‘No,’ said Matt. ‘But you’re not Generation Y and not under the influence of any booze or drugs.’
Louise thought it was a sign of the way our society was headed. ‘I mean, when I was at school, you’d never see girls physically fighting.’ She looked at Tiny for a comment. ‘Did you ever see that growing up at school, luv?’
‘I never saw much school,’ admitted Tiny, ‘but yeah, you’re right. Women are getting wilder. World’s gettin’ a meaner place.’
Hearing the gang’s banter was uplifting; they were a good tonic. After another cup of coffee I decided I’d look at the horses in the mounting yard before the next race. I excused myself and walked through to the members’ side fence where I leant up comfortably against the railing. The first runners were just starting to appear in the yard when Kate sidled up to me.
‘Hi Punter. I’m sorry to hear about Maxine.’
‘Yeah, well, just one of those things.’
‘Has there been any news from the hospital?’
I shook my head glumly. Kate laid a hand on my arm, gave it a squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be okay.’
‘Thanks. By the way, how’s Ned?’
‘Nathan.’
Really should make more of an effort to remember names, especially ex-girfriend’s partner’s names.
‘Nathan’s fine.’
‘Not here today?’
‘No, he’s not what you call an avid racegoer.’
Kate didn’t seem overly eager to talk about him and she swung the conversation back to neutral ground.
‘You winning?’
‘Doing my arse. I’ve pulled up stumps today. Just going to watch this and head home.’
‘I don’t know how you do it. Front up meeting after meeting, week after week. Especially if you lose. Doesn’t it worry you, when you have bad days?’
I thought about it. ‘No, it doesn’t worry me. Around thirty per cent of the races I play each year will end up losers.’
‘Well, can’t you try to improve your run rate or something?’
I laughed. She sounded like a teacher scolding a pupil. ‘Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve had years where I’ve played fewer races, been more selective. Same result. I’ve tried going the other way, betting on more races. Two years ago I went crazy, upped the ante and started betting on the interstates and all the Sunday races.’
‘Same again?’
‘Uh-huh. You’d think more bets would increase the hit rate or playing less races would improve the profitability. It doesn’t work out like that. Or maybe it’s just my betting. But that’s what it is and that’s as good as it’s going to get. As long as it provides me with a living.’
We stood and watched the horses parading for a few moments in companionable silence. The horses seemed especially well presented. One had a blue and red ribbon in her mane. Another had little heart brush marks stencilled across her hind quarters. It was as if they’d made a special effort to show them at their best. The strappers, too, were well turned out, the girls in spotless jodhpurs and polished boots, guys in suits and ties. You’d have thought this was Derby Day the way they were dressed.
‘Smartly done up, aren’t they?’ I said.
Kate put her race book in front of me, her thumb pointing to the sponsor’s name: Laskers Insurance, proudly sponsoring today’s strapper’s prize. ‘This race is for the strapper’s award.’
‘Oh, of course.’ I
remembered seeing the article earlier in the week.
‘Who do you think will win?’
I watched them walking around the ring. Every strapper had made a special effort. Stablehands don’t earn a lot of money, so when an opportunity comes along where they can snaffle a few extra dollars, they usually grasp it with both hands. I saw one guy who presented head and shoulders above the rest. He was wearing a dark suit and a matching hat, looked as if he’d bought it especially for the occasion. Even had a feather in his brim. His horse looked a treat, groomed to a sheen and its four white socks brightly shampooed. Kate thought he was the standout. I wasn’t so sure. I watched the guy from Laskers Insurance in the middle of the ring, inspecting every horse and strapper walking around him. He was a solemn-looking, middle-aged chap who was standing alongside a chubby-faced committeeman from the race club. They both seemed to be taking their task seriously. The committeeman had a clipboard and seemed to be making notes from the other man’s comments as the strappers and their charges paraded. It looked like they were well organised and had some sort of scoring system in place. But Laskers’ man hardly gave the guy strapper we’d been watching a glance. He only had eyes for the fillies. One in particular he seemed to watch intently; a pretty girl wearing an old-time groom’s cap and a matching red ribbon in her hair and in her horse’s mane. When she passed by, she doffed her cap ever so femininely and gave him a smile. That settled it as far as I was concerned.
