The Other Side of Sorrow

by Peter Corris

We both slept in snatches, wet as we were. We shared the chocolate and the whisky, with Geoff having more of the one and me more of the other. It’d been a long while since I’d spent the night in a car and the last time I’d resolved never to do it again. Now I remembered why. I was stiff in every bone and the time dragged. When the first streaks of light appeared in the sky I felt like cheering although there was nothing to cheer about.

  We shivered in those peculiarly cold first seconds after dawn, although we were both warmly dressed—me in my leather jacket and Geoff in his plus the parka. Geoff seemed to be dozing so I checked the .38, but he suddenly spoke.

  ‘D’you think you’ll need that?’

  ‘I hope not. Does it bother you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. So it should, but I haven’t shot anyone on my side for years.’

  Not much of a joke, but the best I could do with locked joints, a stiff back and a ricked neck. I used the torch to study the map. I wasn’t looking forward to slogging through the rain and mud looking for someone who mightn’t even be there, but I did want to get out of the car. When I felt I could see well enough to keep my footing, I opened the door and stepped out into the wet world.

  Geoff got out the other side and turned his back to the wind. The rain was still falling but not as heavily as it had during the night.

  ‘Bugger it!’ He slammed his mobile shut. ‘Batteries.’

  ‘Use mine.’

  He took it from the glove box and I moved away while he made the call. Water from the trees dripped down my neck but I was so damp it hardly mattered.

  The car door slammed. ‘No change.’

  ‘Let’s get going. I think I’ve got my bearings. The shacks are down here. We can follow the fence and then work our way right.’

  Following the fence meant, in fact, hanging onto it. The ground was so slippery and muddy that, even in my hiking boots, I slithered rather than walked. Younger, lighter and fitter, Geoff didn’t have to grab at the fence so often, but he fell once and muddied himself all down one side. The fence turned left and we had to go right. There was an old track that had once had a layer of coal scree over it. Now it was a black, gooey mess we inched along beside rather than on. The water was ankle-deep in spots and where there was no tree shelter the wind whipped us in wet gusts.

  I pointed. ‘Down there.’

  Three fibro shacks, or rather two and a half, clustered in a clearing in the middle of a steeply sloping sea of mud. Fifty, maybe sixty metres away. Geoff didn’t seem to be paying attention so I pulled at his sleeve, but he was looking back up and to the south. He pointed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘By that big rock.’

  I peered through the rain.

  ‘Van,’ Geoff said. ‘Covered with a tarp.’

  He was right and I felt my pulse rate go up a notch as I looked at the greenish, humped shape. I nodded and turned my attention back to the shacks. There obviously hadn’t been any intention to re-build them after the initial damage; stumps had collapsed, sending them skewwhiff, and iron was missing from the roofs. On one, a deck had fallen away and hung off the structure like a rickety fire escape. The far one looked to be in the best condition with a more or less intact roof, several intact windows and a couple of long props holding a skillion in place. It had a deck that had once run around three sides. Only two sections remained and one was poised over a gully where the water from higher up roared down at breakneck pace. I could see sizeable rocks rolling in the water along with tree branches and other debris.

  I took out my Swiss army knife and handed it to Geoff.

  He was too surprised not to take it. ‘What the fuck’s this for?’

  ‘You’re going up to the van. I want you to disable it anyway you can.’

  ‘What’re you going to do?’

  ‘Flush him out.’

  ‘I want to help.’

  ‘You will be helping.’

  ‘No way. I …’

  ‘You’ll do as I say, Geoff. That was the deal, remember? We’re almost there. Talbot’ll be tired, wet, cold and hungry most likely. And scared. I won’t have any trouble with him.’

  ‘What about … her?’

  ‘She’ll be all right.’ I shoved him hard. ‘Get going.’

  He moved off up the slope towards the van. When I was sure he’d committed himself, I began to work my way down towards the shacks. There was no substantial cover—just a few scruffy bushes, an almost rusted-away car body and a disintegrating heap of timber and rubble that had once been an outdoor dunny. I made all the use I could of the cover and slowly, wetly—slithering and bent double—reached the back of the shack where a decayed set of wooden steps had been reinforced by several brick-filled milk crates.

  I took out the .38, tested the milk crates for stability, went up them and turned the door handle. It swung in with a loud creak but the rain had got heavier and the pounding on the iron roof would’ve drowned anything but a heavy metal band. For the first time I thanked the rain. The house was a ruin; cracks in the walls, gaps in the floor, sloping door jambs. It smelled of mice, rot and damp. I was in what had been a kitchen, but the equipment had been stripped out and the only piped water came from a hose from the outside running into a pipe where the sink had been. The roof leaked and there was plenty of water on the floor. I checked two uncloseable doors, one on either side of the passage after the kitchen. One room empty, the other full of rubbish.

  I heard sounds coming from the front room and paused outside a door more or less fitted in its frame. A radio was playing and a man was raising his voice above the music and the noise of the rain.

  ‘Turn that fuckin’ thing off. I want to fuckin’ talk to you.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear any more of your bullshit.’

  I shoved the door in and went into the room with the gun held down by my leg but in clear view. Megan French was lying on a mattress. A portable radio was by her side. She wore black—jeans, boots and a sweater. Talbot was standing over her, awkwardly angled with his back to me. He heard me come in, spun around and had to grab the wall for support.

  ‘Who the fuck? Jesus, the fuckin’ private eye.’

  ‘That’s right. This is the end of the run, Talbot. The police’re on their way.’

  He was tall and lean in mud-splattered white overalls with a denim jacket over them. He was unshaven and the dark stubble gave his narrow face a saturnine look. His eyes were shrewd as he backed up to the wall. ‘Bullshit. You’ve come for her. Well, you can have her. Just leave me alone.’

  ‘Damien.’

  ‘Shut up! Fair trade? Her for me?’

  ‘No trade, Talbot. Megan, your mother sent me to get you.’

  She’d been lying down until that one word—mother—brought her upright. She sprang from the mattress. I could see the athleticism that had carried her over Tadpole Creek so easily, but her dark, beaky face was twisted with rage.

  ‘Mother! Some fuckin’ mother. That stuck-up bitch abandoned me at birth.’

  ‘Yeah! Tell ’em, Meg.’

  Talbot was high on something or perhaps coming down. His hands were clenching and unclenching as he flexed muscles in his arms and shoulders. He was going to be hard to control.

  ‘You can talk to her about that,’ I said. ‘Just come with me, both of you.’

  ‘No!’ She threw herself in front of Talbot, who’d been waiting for something just like this. He grabbed her around the throat in an arm lock and took something from the bib pocket of his overalls. A click and a twenty-centimetre blade was against her throat.

  ‘Put the gun down or I’ll take her head off.’

  I wondered if he had the strength to hold her. She looked physically capable of contesting with him, but the knife made the difference. He had the point under her chin and she could feel it.

  ‘You’re in trouble, Talbot,’ I said. ‘I mean over the guard. But it’s not the end of the world. If you let Megan go and come with me it’ll
be better for you. Something in your favour. You’re looking at prison but not forever. Harm her and it’s entirely different. Kidnapping plus more violence and you’ll be lucky to be out before you’re fifty.’

  ‘Fifty,’ he sneered. ‘Who cares about fifty.’

  ‘You will, believe me.’

  ‘Believe you? That’s a joke. I haven’t believed anyone but myself for …’

  ‘You’re talking to yourself. Stop it! Let her go. She hasn’t hurt you.’

  ‘The fuck she hasn’t. Everyone’s hurt me and I’m just starting to hurt back. If you want her still breathing drop the fuckin’ gun!’

  There was no chance I’d let him have the gun. I ejected the magazine and threw it back into the passage. I dropped the gun onto the mattress and came forward.

  ‘Stay there!’ he yelled.

  I stopped. I had to keep him talking, shake him somehow and give Megan a chance to get away. ‘What happened between you and the doctor, Talbot?’

  ‘That fat bastard. He lied to me like everyone else. He promised me … Back off!’

  ‘But he cut you loose when you killed the guard, right?’

  He wasn’t listening and Megan wasn’t doing anything constructive. Talbot slid along the wall towards the French windows that gave out onto the deck. He was stronger than he looked, dragging Megan with him easily and keeping the knife where it belonged.

  ‘Smart arse. Fuckin’ smart arse. We’re leaving and you’re not going to stop us.’

  Then I realised that she wasn’t resisting. She was going along with him. They reached the windows and Talbot leaned his weight against them. They sprang apart and the wind billowed Talbot and Megan’s clothes as they backed out onto the deck. I picked up the empty gun and followed. I had a spare magazine in my jacket but this didn’t seem like the time to produce it.

  The wind was howling and the whole building shook as gusts hit it. The deck was in as ruinous a state as the rest of the house and Talbot’s boots slipped as he moved towards the corner of the house. There had to be some way down at the side—steps or a ladder—but I hadn’t seen it. This wasn’t too bad, Megan wasn’t fighting him but where could they go? If this continued on up to the van the odds’d be even.

  ‘There’s nowhere to go, Talbot,’ I shouted. ‘Your van’s been disabled.’

  ‘I’ll take your car or whatever I can find.’ He cut her and the blood ran down her neck. I don’t think she felt it. She was going with him, backing around the corner.

  ‘Megan. Your brother’s up there. He …’

  She screamed: ‘I haven’t got a brother! I haven’t got anybody!’

  She pushed away from him like a middleweight breaking a lightweight’s clinch, and came at me with her fingers spread, thrusting at my eyes. I side-stepped and she hit the wall with a force that made the deck shake. Talbot lunged forward, then grabbed the rail and moved back around the corner. I slipped and skidded after him. The full force of the wind hit him; he staggered and the rail gave way. He went over the edge into the roaring torrent and disappeared.

  ‘Damien! No!’

  Megan French came up beside me, shoved me aside like something weightless and for a moment I was sure she was going to jump from the deck into the surging water. I grabbed her arms and held her but there was no need. She sagged against me and I helped her back into the house. She dropped down onto the mattress and squatted there with her knees drawn up and her head in her hands.

  ‘He can’t swim,’ she said.

  I crouched, careful not to loom over her. ‘It wouldn’t matter,’ I said. ‘Not in that.’

  ‘I nearly jumped in.’

  ‘I know, but you didn’t.’

  I found myself minutely examining my feelings and reactions. I felt protective, relieved that she was safe, and slightly self-congratulatory that I’d seen things through to this point. Did I feel anything else? Paternal? I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell. Up close, wet and bedraggled as she was, the resemblance to Eve wasn’t striking. Professional instincts were taking over—she was a young woman, the subject of my enquiries, and in trouble.

  She rubbed the sleeves of her sweater across her eyes, face and hair and looked at me. ‘What now? Police?’

  ‘I don’t know. What happened with the guard?’

  ‘It was a sort of accident really. Damien challenged him and the guard hit him with his torch. Damien lost his cool and took the torch away and …’

  ‘Did you see this?’

  ‘No. That’s what Damien told me. He was sort of pleased to have killed someone at last. Always knew he would. But he was scared, too.’

  ‘Why did you go with him?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Megan …’

  ‘Get fucked. Who’re you that I should tell you things?’

  That’s when I made a decision. ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You can come with me and see your mother and try to behave like a human being. If you do that I’ll try to protect you. Or I can just throw you to the cops as Talbot’s accomplice. Your choice.’

  Too hard, I thought as soon as I’d said it. She’s too young to handle stuff like that. But I was wrong. The real measure of a person is in terms of what he or she has been through and Megan French had been through a lot. She looked around the dilapidated room and the few possessions she and Talbot had brought into it. Blood was still trickling from the cut but she was unaware of it.

  ‘I used to come here when I was a student.’

  ‘I know. Your … Mrs French, told me. That’s how I got here. She cares about you.’

  ‘Jesus, you really have been digging, haven’t you? What’s your name?’

  ‘Hardy. Cliff Hardy.’

  She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘Don’t tell me she’s pissed that bastard off?’

  ‘Her husband? No, she just got away from him for a bit. Just long enough.’

  ‘Poor dumb thing. If I go along with you, what about Damien?’

  ‘He’ll be found and it’ll be over.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Things can be arranged. But I have to know a bit more. What did Dr Macleod promise Talbot?’

  She looked at the duffel bag on the bed that had apparently belonged to Talbot. There was a packet of tobacco, a lighter, a paperback book. It wasn’t much to leave behind.

  ‘He said he’d set up a sort of conservation foundation with Damien as its head. He really did care about conservation, but … but he cared about smack more. The doctor supplied him.’

  ‘Okay. What’s it going to be?’

  ‘This is just a job for you, right?’

  I could see and feel her gathering strength, sorting things out, making decisions and I wanted to help her, confirm the strength she was mustering, but I held off.

  ‘That’s right. A job.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing then.’

  25

  I recovered the magazine for the .38 and made sure I’d left no signs of my presence in the house. Megan gathered up her things and didn’t touch anything of Talbot’s. She didn’t speak or look at me. She behaved as if I wasn’t there and that she was doing things of her own choosing in her own way. She was passive, remote. I was wary.

  The rain had eased to a wind-whipped drizzle. Geoff was waiting by the van which was sitting up on its still-inflated tyres. He and Megan looked at each other as if each was a specimen in a glass jar.

  ‘Megan,’ I said. ‘This is Geoff Samuels.’

  Geoff handled it well. He nodded neutrally to her, took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She pressed it against the cut. He gave her just enough attention before turning to me. ‘Where’s Talbot?’

  I pointed to the roaring channel. ‘He fell in. Drowned.’

  Geoff took my knife from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. ‘I didn’t think it was a good idea to disable it. I thought we might need it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But we don’t.’

  I had the flask with a
last inch in it in my pocket. I moved closer to the van for shelter, took out the flask and drained it.

  ‘I saw you and … your mother one day,’ Megan said. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Cancer,’ Geoff said. ‘She’s dying. She might be dead now. She wanted to meet you before she died.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Unfinished business,’ I said. ‘Come on, we’d better get going.’

  We got the Falcon unbogged and started, more due to Geoff's skill than mine. I dug and pushed, he fiddled. The rain got heavier and all signs that we’d been there were rapidly washing away as we inched down the track or what was left of it. I let Geoff drive and he did it well, taking the bends slowly and keeping the revs up when we had to negotiate hub-high water. Megan sat quietly in the back with her bag and I had to stop myself from turning around to look at her. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to look at her. Was I afraid she was going to jump out, or was I still asking myself that question? I did sneak one quick look. She was staring out the window. Her expression was blank and with her short hair and rain-washed face she looked young but not afraid.

  Surprisingly, the coast road was still open and we drove to Thirroul where Geoff got batteries for his mobile and a mechanic complimented him on the job he’d done on the car and added a few touches of his own. It was still early and, as the rain eased, a few more vehicles appeared and people in slickers carrying umbrellas came onto the streets. Wet and muddy though we and the car were, it was nothing remarkable. I bought three coffees and cups of hot chips and we sat in the car and let the windows steam up.

  ‘Tell me how it happened,’ Geoff said.

  I told him.

  Megan said, ‘He wouldn’t have hurt me. He was scared. You heavied him. It’s your fault he’s dead.’

  The rain had washed the blood from the cut on her neck and she’d tied the handkerchief over it, but blood was still slightly oozing. ‘He cut you,’ I said.

  She fingered the wound and winced a little. She hadn’t been aware of the pain until then. She said again, but with less conviction, ‘He was scared.’

  ‘We were all scared. It was a bad situation.’

  She’d eaten her chips and drunk most of the coffee. She looked at the containers as if wondering where the contents had gone. Then she looked at me. ‘Why were you scared? You had a gun.’