by Peter Corris
The camera panned quickly back to the presenter. To be fair to her, she was coping well with her obstreperous guest. ‘Red, wouldn’t you say, Ramsay? Blood red? That man was beaten to death.’
A floor attendant shepherded Ramsay back to his seat. He combed his long hair back with his fingers. He was good-looking or would have been but for a nervous, twitchy manner that seemed to affect his facial expressions and bodily movements. He bore some resemblance to his sister and would’ve looked more like her still if he survived another ten years and managed to resolve some of his all too apparent inner conflicts. ‘I’m very sorry about the guard,’ he said slowly. ‘It shouldn’t have happened.’
‘But it did. What can you tell us about …’ the presenter’s eyes flickered to a cue card, ‘… Damien Talbot?’
‘Every organisation has rotten apples.’
The presenter leaned forward. ‘Would you like to expand on that, Ramsay?’
‘Yes.’ He broke off and reached for a glass of water. ‘I mean the police, the church, the media, they all have unworthy people in them, don’t they? I’d much rather talk about what the protest is designed to do.’
The presenter felt herself to be on top now and she showed signs of knowing that she’d presided over a pretty good short grab and that it was time to close off. ‘I’m sure you would, but what I want to know is why would one of your people behave so violently?’
‘I don’t consider him to be a member of the group.’
‘So there’s division within the protest. That’s not going to help your cause, is it?’
Ramsay didn’t answer.
‘What can you tell us about the young woman with him—Megan French?’
‘Nothing. I scarcely knew her.’
‘I see what you mean about the protest having no leader. Maybe it should have had one. I’m Tracey-Jane Marshall and this is Newsbeat.’
A commercial followed and then the tape stopped. It was a lame performance from Ramsay who was clearly out of his depth. He didn’t seem to realise it and looked at Tess for her approval. When he didn’t get it he wet his lips and fidgeted in his seat. ‘That bloody bitch set me up. Her questions weren’t fair.’
No questions would ever be fair for Ramsay, he was one of those people who found something or someone else to blame at every turn.
Tess said, ‘Well, it’ll be forgotten tomorrow. What we have to do is …’
Ramsay jumped from his seat and stood over her. ‘You seem to have forgotten bloody everything. Everything except screwing with this fascist thug …’
He was working himself up to do something, anything, to relieve his frustration, even if it meant hitting Tess. I moved quickly and grabbed his flailing arm.
‘Take it easy, Ramsay. Get a grip on yourself or you’ll do something you’re sorry for.’
For all his size he wasn’t strong and it was child’s play to get him off balance. He sensed that he had no leverage to resist me and it made him even wilder and less effective. He stumbled and almost fell into Tess’s lap. I hauled him upright and he sprayed spittle as he shook himself free.
‘You slut! Screw your brains out. See if I care. I don’t need you. Go to hell.’ He stormed back to the kitchen and swore as he hit something solid. Then the back door crashed open against the wall and I heard his boots on the cement path at the side of the house. Tess was huddled in the chair with her face in her hands. I was torn. I still wanted to talk to Ramsay but Tess’s distress was strong and visible. I knelt by the chair and stroked her head. I heard an engine start, run roughly and then a squeal of tyres as he drove away. Tess heard it all as well and felt it more—her body shook at the sounds. When she looked up there was a pain in her eyes and expression that was hard to watch.
‘I’m sorry about all that,’ she said.
‘He’s got troubles.’
‘You know, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘The … the nature of his troubles.’
I knew all right, from the way he looked at her and behaved, but I said, ‘I’m not sure that it’s my business.’
She sucked in a deep breath. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Look, Cliff, I’m whacked. I’m going to take half a pill and go to sleep. I’d be glad if you’d just stick around until I’m off. Would you mind?’
It was a subtle request. I topped up my coffee and added another drop of Scotch while she got ready for bed.
‘Lock the door, would you, Cliff. Key goes in the flower pot.’
Dark red silk pyjamas, a scrubbed face, a slightly toothpaste-flavoured kiss and she was gone. After a while, I went into the bedroom and looked at her. She’d turned over and drawn her legs up and seemed comfortable. I had an impulse to strip off and crawl in beside her but I knew that wasn’t what she wanted. Just as well I didn’t because when I was putting my jacket on the mobile rang.
I answered, keeping my voice down.
‘Cliff, this is Geoff. Mum’s in hospital. It looks pretty bad. I’ll get back to you when I can.’
19
I didn’t know what hospital Cyn would be in and with family gathering round it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to be there anyway. I was tired and somewhat dispirited. Ramsay Hewitt’s abrupt departure had closed off an avenue of enquiry. I doubted whether Geoff had picked up anything useful at the protest site. It was possible and that it had been put out of his mind by his mother’s crisis, but it seemed unlikely. If I’d had the manpower I might’ve staked out Dr Macleod’s compound to see if Talbot turned up there, but I didn’t, and there was no real reason to think he would.
I checked on Tess again, followed her instructions about the key and left the house. There was nothing for me to do but go home. I felt sober, very sober, but I might have been over the limit. I thought back over what I’d eaten and drunk in the past few hours and decided it was line ball. I drove sedately and caught a late night news bulletin on the way. The police were still hunting what the media were now calling ‘the Tadpole Creek Killer’. I was working at the centre of one of the city’s major news items but felt that I was on the sidelines with no chance of getting into the game.
I turned into my street and cursed when I saw that my usual parking space outside the house was occupied by another car. Inner city dwellers tend to establish conventions and protocols about these things and it was rare for one of the other residents to pinch my spot. The occasional visitor or Glebe diner-out offends, but they were usually gone by this time. I parked further down the street and walked back with the gun in its holster under my jacket.
As I approached the house a woman came out of my neighbour’s place and walked smartly towards the red hatchback parked in what I considered my spot. I stopped and watched her and she stopped and looked at me. I guessed I must’ve looked threatening at that time of night with the experience of the last few hours showing on my face and a suspicious package under my arm
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I live next door to Clive. My name’s Hardy. We’re mates.’
Relief was apparent in every muscle in her body. ‘Oh, the private detective. Clive’s told me about you. Oh God, I’ve taken your space.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I won’t shoot you.’
She laughed. ‘I should hope not. Sorry again. There was a van pulling out from here when I arrived. I didn’t know it was your spot.’
‘Only by convention,’ I said. ‘First come, first served really.’
‘Well, I’ll be off. Goodnight, Mr Hardy.’
‘Goodnight.’ I stood, debating whether to move my car as she pulled neatly away and drove off. Clive is a taxi driver and we both keep irregular hours and live alone. The woman who’d left was thirtyish, about Clive’s age, and attractive. Good luck to you, I thought. And good luck to me, too. I’d decided to leave the car where it was when I saw Clive standing at his gate and beckoning to me.
I wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but I was always ready to give Clive the time of day or more usually, night.
<
br /> ‘Gidday, Clive.’
‘Cliff. Look, it’s probably nothing, but there was a strange-looking van parked outside your place briefly when Sally arrived. I didn’t think anything of it at first. You’ve had that other young bloke staying. Thought it must’ve been to do with something you’re working on. But he gave me a funny look and drove off like a hoon.’
‘What d’you mean, strange looking?’
‘All colours of the rainbow—pyschedelic. What’s wrong?’
My brain snapped on the connections: van—psychedelic design—Damien Talbot. He’d been here!
The tiredness had dropped away as I felt a reaction rise inside me I hadn’t experienced for a long time—that of the hunter becoming the hunted. ‘Tall bloke? Long hair?’
‘That’s him. Anything wrong?’
‘No, mate. Probably not. How long was he here?’
‘In and out I’d say. Well, I’ve gotta clean up and start my shift. ’Night, Cliff.’
My security is reasonably good. The front door is a solid job, deadlocked. The house is free-standing on one side but the bougainvillea grows so thickly in the front that you’d lose a hell of a lot of skin trying to get through. At the back is a drop of a couple of metres to the lane and there are a couple of blocks of flats opposite with windows looking out. Hard to break into. All clear there. I inspected the front porch as best I could in the dim light but there didn’t appear to be anything of concern—no suspicious parcels, no bodies.
I unlocked the door, turned on the light and saw the sheet of paper that had been slipped under the door. I closed the door behind me and picked it up.
LEAVE ME ALONE OR I’LL FUCKING KILL HER!!!
Capitals in heavy black Texta on a sheet of quarto copy paper.
The adrenaline rush that had hit me outside ebbed away and I felt bone-tired. The ‘her’ had to be Megan and I had no idea of where to look for her. I dropped the holster on a chair, stripped off my jacket and went to the bathroom where I washed my face and hands. I drank three glasses of water and made coffee, keeping my mind a blank. When the coffee was ready I drank half a cup scalding hot and refilled it, then went through to look at the paper again and think.
What if the ‘her’ referred to in the note wasn’t Megan French? Bad images were jumping around in my head: sick women, dead women, women sleeping or maybe dead. Tess.
I swallowed a couple of high-octane caffeine tablets, grabbed my gun and jacket and raced out to the car. I headed back towards Tess Hewitt’s house without any of the caution I’d employed before. If Talbot knew where I lived and where Tess lived what was to stop him hurting her?
With the caffeine kicking in I drove too fast and badly, narrowly missing other cars and shrieking around bends on tortured tyres. I didn’t care and I was lucky there were no cops on the road and that I didn’t encounter anyone as out of control as me. I pulled up outside Tess’s house and sprinted for the verandah, stumbling on the path and almost falling up the steps. I clawed the key out of the flowerpot where I’d left it, unlocked the door and strode through to the bedroom with my heart thundering in my chest and my vision blurred.
She was there. A curled-up shape in the centre of the big bed. One arm lay outside the bedclothes and her other hand was clenched and near her mouth. In my hectic state I didn’t quite believe it. I bent down to make sure I could hear her breathing and only eased back when I heard it and saw the slow rise and fall of her body under the blanket. I must have made some noise because she stirred and changed position. She muttered something I couldn’t catch and then settled back into untroubled sleep.
I was sweating from a combination of emotional reaction and chemical disturbance as I backed out of the bedroom. My mouth was sandpaper dry. I went into the kitchen and filled a glass with water and drank it. The Scotch bottle was sitting beside the sink and I poured myself a generous measure and added a little water. I took the drink into the living room and dropped into an easy chair.
I drank the whisky and checked on Tess again. Then I drank more whisky and did another check. I told myself I was there to protect her but I was really there for the comfort of her presence. I acknowledged that just before I fell asleep to the sound of falling rain.
20
‘Cliff. Cliff. Are you all right? What’re you doing here?’
Tess shook me awake from an uneasy sleep that left me with half-remembered dreams and an all-too present crick in my neck. I struggled to the surface and found her standing over me wrapped in her kimono with her hair standing up, tear stains in the remains of yesterday’s makeup. She still looked good and I stood creakily and put my arms around her.
‘It was a hell of a night,’ I said. ‘Things happened after you went to sleep and I had to come back to make sure you were all right.’
‘What things?’
‘Let me get cleaned up and I’ll tell you.’ I was reluctant to let her go and she didn’t seem to want me to. I smoothed down her hair. ‘I’m sorry about Ramsay. I’m very sorry. I feel partly responsible.’
She released herself, backed off and looked at me. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean if I hadn’t started poking around things might not have turned out like this. Probably wouldn’t have.’
She shook her head. ‘No. This goes back before you. Both things—me and Ramsay and the protest. I knew there was something wrong about the Tadpole Creek protest and about Damien Talbot. But the thing had given Ramsay a focus and me too for that matter, and I didn’t want to admit it. You’re not responsible, Cliff. Don’t think that. Have a shower. Ramsay left some shaving stuff here, I think, before he started growing the beard. I’ll make coffee.’
I showered and shaved using one of Ramsay’s disposable razors and a cake of soap. The razor had been used before and soap doesn’t make the best lather. I avoided nicking myself but the result was pretty rough. I tamed my hair with Tess’s brush, but there was nothing I could do about a shirt that had been sweated into, made wet with tears and slept in.
In the kitchen Tess pointed to the coffee pot and a plate of buttered toast and went off to the bathroom. I was feeling seedy and hungover from the Scotch and the caffeine of the night before so I did the only thing possible. I poured the last dregs of the whisky into an inch of black coffee and slugged it down. Then I poured a full mug, added milk and drank it with sugar and three slices of toast. Then I had another mug. It was the most liquids and solids I’d taken in for breakfast in years and I have to admit that it made me feel better.
Tess came in wearing a dark dress and low heels. She’d put on her makeup and her hair was still wet but brushed so that it’d dry into a neat, slightly severe, shape around her head. With a start I realised that she bore a resemblance to Helen Broadway, a lover of some years ago. That relationship hadn’t turned out well and I pushed the thought away. She poured herself some coffee and cut a piece of toast into small squares.
‘I saw the gun,’ she said.
I’d left it on a chair in the living room meaning to put my jacket over it. I nodded.
‘Tell me what’s happened.’ she said.
I told her about Talbot being at my place and the note and my uncertainty about whether the note had referred to Megan French or her. I told her about Macleod and Miss Cartwright’s accusations and the connection with Talbot. She drank coffee, nibbled toast and listened without responding. I still didn’t tell her about my attempt to infiltrate the protest group with Geoff Samuels. I felt bad about it, but I couldn’t think of a way to make it look right. I finished talking, ate some more toast and drank some more coffee.
‘You have to go to the police,’ Tess said.
‘It wouldn’t do any good. They don’t know where to find Talbot any more than I do. And I haven’t got enough to make the police even knock on Macleod’s door.’
‘I wonder if Ramsay knows anything about Talbot and this doctor. He and Damien were close at first, or so it seemed. Until they had a falling out over tactics and … leadership.
’
‘That was one of the things I was going to ask him last night, before he blew his stack.’
‘And what else?’
I fingered an irritating patch of stubble I’d missed with the blunt razor. ‘I suppose about Megan. He told the interviewer that he hardly knew her. D’you think that’s true?’
Tess was slow to answer. ‘We’re getting to it, aren’t we?’
‘Getting to what?’
‘C’mon, Cliff. You’re not that dumb. You saw how Ramsay is with me, about me. Isn’t there something you want to ask?’
‘No. Is there something you want to tell me?’
She gave it serious thought, then snapped her fingers. ‘Okay. Why not? I worked it all out with a therapist a long time ago. I’ve moved on. I’m ten years older than Ramsay. As I said, I looked after him from the time he was fifteen, when our parents died. He took it very hard. He was very close to Mum. Inconsolable. One night he came into my bed. Remember I was young, too and trying to cope with grief and responsibility. Anyway, it happened. A few times. Then we stopped. I thought I’d got through it without damage and I pretty much did. As I say, I got some help later. Ramsay didn’t get through it and he’s refused to discuss it, let alone have therapy. I don’t know anything about his sex life now. I don’t think he has one.’
I nodded and scratched at the stubble.
‘Your reaction?’
‘Admiration for you, sympathy for him.’
She put her arms around me. ‘Thanks. Look, I’m going to have to try to get in touch with him, calm him down. You understand?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’ll try to get him to talk to you. Might be hard.’
‘Okay. I should go and check on a few things. See if there’s anything I’ve missed that might go somewhere.’
‘I’ve got all your numbers, mate. I’ll track you down.’
I wondered if she meant it.
21
For no good reason I drove to the Homebush site and stopped at a point where I could see a lot of the activity. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I could see progress in just those few days. Staying clear of the security posts, I drove as close as I could get to the Tadpole Creek protest. There were fewer people around and one corner of the banner had broken free of its mooring and drooped down. It had the look of a show about to fold. I ran my eye along the unimpressive, sluggish little watercourse with its few scruffy mangroves and general air of insignificance. It was hard to tell what purpose the area on the protesters’ side of the creek had served before their arrival. Part playground, part rubbish dump perhaps.
