Comeback - [Cliff Hardy 37]

by Peter Corris

  A strong whiff of alcohol came from him.

  ‘I’m glad of that,’ I said. ‘How about helping me release this seatbelt.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It’s over now.’

  ‘What is?’

  He sighed and I could smell the rum. ‘Everything.’

  He was looking straight at me but I wasn’t sure he was seeing me. I’d seen that fixed look before on the faces of people who didn’t care what happened to them.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be like that.’

  ‘Yes it does. Do you go to the movies, Mr Hardy?’

  Keep him talking, I thought. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I feel... I feel as if I’ve been in a movie for a long time. Ever since Bobby…’

  ‘It’s not a movie. It’s real. You need help, Jason.’

  He was leaning against the car because he was drunk and because his body had betrayed him. ‘It’s not real,’ he said. ‘Nothing is real.’

  He turned, stumbled. Almost fell and laughed as he regained his balance. He walked back to the 4WD. He turned and said something I couldn’t hear. I’m no lip reader but I think he said two words—’the end’.

  He climbed in awkwardly, one hand lifting his right leg, and made a series of movements to allow him to work the controls. He started the motor and drove off in the direction of his farm.

  I was aching down my right side and my left arm and shoulder were numb. It took twenty minutes to restore the feeling, then it hurt and it was a centimetre by centimetre process to dig into my jeans pocket for my Swiss army knife. I sawed through the seatbelt and scrambled painfully across to the passenger door and out of the car. When I decided I could walk I got the gun from the glove box and limped in the direction Jason had taken.

  Lot 12 provided an open view down a straight dirt and gravel road to a small farmhouse and a large shed. I headed for a point where a clump of trees fringed the property and I could see across flat, open ground to the buildings. The sky had cleared and the light was holding. There were three vehicles parked nearby—one white car, one red and the dusty 4WD.

  There was a cool breeze. I struggled into my jacket and checked the pistol. There was no cover of any kind between the fence and buildings. With difficulty I parted the strands of barbed wire and stepped through. I felt very exposed as I walked across the rough ground, stopping from time to time to check for movement ahead. Nothing. A hundred metres from the house a drainage ditch I couldn’t see from the road ran across the paddock. A little beyond that was a long, flat strip of land about twenty metres wide and running for at least a hundred metres to the south. Wheel marks showed on the closely mown grass. A runway of some kind.

  I moved on until I reached the cars. The VW was old and rusty. I glanced inside and saw the same kind of chaos as in Chloe Monkhurst’s bedroom. The white Commodore was dusty but well maintained. The driver’s position was fitted with a hand throttle and a device to help with using the pedals. Same with the 4WD. There was a red paint smudge on the passenger-side bumper bar of the Commodore.

  I moved cautiously towards the house. It was an old-style farmhouse, double-fronted with a tin roof and a bullnose verandah supported by sturdy posts. The roof was steeply pitched with two windows. There was no garden or ornamentation of any kind, but the porch and the surrounding area were tidy and swept clean. The front door was standing open but I worked my way around, crouching low as I passed the side windows with the pistol in my hand. No sounds from inside except something being rattled by the breeze.

  The shed was several metres off to the right with a stand of paperbark trees affording it some shade. It faced the long runway. It had a skylight but no windows. Its double doors were open and a ride-on lawnmower stood just outside them. I approached it carefully. There was just enough light from the skylight to see a workbench, various bits of equipment and fuel drums inside, all in neat order. Nothing else.

  I put the gun in my pocket and approached the back of the house. There was a lean-to with an ancient washing machine and a double cement tub. What used to be called a washhouse. Split wood was stacked in a box beside the back door. I went into the house; everything was clean and tidy and the door moved smoothly on oiled hinges. The kitchen was old style, with a linoleum floor, wood-burning stove, chip hot-water heater, a kerosene refrigerator and an enamel sink. An empty glass sat in the sink. I sniffed it. Rum.

  I moved through the house, inspecting the two bedrooms and the sitting room. The bedrooms held double beds and old wardrobes and chests of drawers. The only signs of modernity were in the sitting room, where there was a home entertainment unit with a massive screen and shelves full of DVDs. Two large bookshelves were crammed with books, mostly to do with stage and screen. There were a few on gymnastics and diving. An old-fashioned drinks tray stood on a sideboard. It contained half-full bottles of dry sherry, brandy and whisky; the bottle of Bundaberg rum was empty.

  The old house creaked around me and the rattling I’d heard from outside was louder and coming from upstairs, joined now with another noise. I paused and waited until I’d distinguished the two sounds: a blind flapping and human sobbing. With my stiff right leg protesting, I struggled up the narrow staircase and into the small room on the right of the landing.

  Chloe Monkhurst sat on an upturned tea chest by the window. She was racked by sobs as she stared out the window.

  ‘Chloe,’ I said.

  She turned towards me and a pistol in her shaking hand came up pointed straight at my chest.

  ~ * ~

  23

  I stopped in the doorway and leaned against the jamb.

  ‘Put it down, Chloe.’

  ‘I’ll shoot you.’

  ‘No you won’t. The gun’s too heavy. You can hardly hold it.’

  She tried to hold the pistol steady with her other hand but her eyes were blurred by tears and she fumbled. I got to her in two strides and wrenched the gun away, exerting the minimum amount of force. It was a Glock automatic, fully loaded and quite weighty. I put it on the floor out of her reach and stood beside her. She’d stopped crying but her shoulders had slumped forward making her look small and vulnerable.

  ‘Where’s Jason, Chloe?’ I said.

  She didn’t answer for what seemed like minutes but was probably only seconds. There was something so tragic in her manner that time seemed distorted. The window was open and the light was fading fast.

  ‘You’ll never catch him.’

  ‘Why not? I’ve got this far.’

  ‘Yes. I shouldn’t have told him about you.’

  I squatted beside her. ‘You told him all about your father and Bobby Forrest, didn’t you?’

  Her eyes drifted down to a set of photographs she’d spread out on the floor in front of her. I’d noticed them when I’d put the gun down but now I bent to take a closer look. There were twelve, arranged in a semicircle. Jason Clement was the subject: Jason at the beach, Jason aiming a pistol, Jason in company with people I didn’t recognise, and four or five of Jason with Chloe. In one he was kissing her tattooed arm, in others they were smiling together at the camera or at each other. In one he was on crutches. It struck me how young he looked and how fresh and open his smile was. In the group photo several of the others were turned towards him and their looks were admiring. Youth, good looks and charisma—a powerful combination.

  Chloe moved her feet and destroyed the pattern of the photos. She reached down and flicked some of them over, the ones in which they were together and glowing. She sniffed and knuckled her eyes. I had some tissues in a pocket of my jacket and I gave them to her. She wiped her face and dropped the tissues on the floor as she’d done a thousand times before.

  ‘I love him.’

  ‘I understand that. So when Jason found out all about Bobby and how he was happy and everything, he couldn’t stand it and he killed him.’

  ‘He’d had his life ruined. He had the right.’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘He used to be so
good-looking and he could do everything and now he can’t even…’

  ‘He’s got some sort of plane, hasn’t he?’

  She nodded. ‘An ultra-light.’

  ‘Where’s he going?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘You’re not making sense. I’m not trying to destroy him. Maybe it was an accident. It doesn’t have to be the end of his life.’

  She shook her head and seemed unable to speak. Then she pointed to the pistol. ‘I told him to throw it away but he wouldn’t.’

  ‘What happened when you told him I’d been talking to your father?’

  ‘He said he knew you’d catch up with him sooner or later. You or the police. He said he didn’t care. He didn’t care that I loved him. He didn’t believe me.’

  ‘That’s hard.’

  ‘He gave me a test. He said if I loved him I should go with him in the plane. I wanted to but I was too scared. I couldn’t do it. So he laughed and said it couldn’t be much of a love.’

  ‘Why were you scared? Had you ever been in the plane before?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You don’t understand. He drank nearly a whole bottle of rum and he left the gun so you or the police would be able to prove what he’d done. He got the plane out of the shed. He said he had enough fuel for an hour’s flying and that he planned to be a thousand feet up when it ran out.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘I don’t know. It feels like a long time. I didn’t have the guts to go with him. He said I’d see him come down and be able to say goodbye.’

  She started crying again as a distant buzzing sound grew louder and closer.

  ■ ■ ■

  I retrieved the Glock and went downstairs and outside to stand at the top of the runway. I knew nothing at all about ultra-lights. Could they glide when the fuel ran out or did they drop like a stone? Was Clement serious about suicide, or would he change his mind or lose his nerve and land safely?

  The sky was dark now but as the buzzing noise drew closer and became louder I could see a moving light high above. How high I had no idea—five hundred feet, a thousand feet? High enough anyway not to want to fall from. I looked back at the house and saw Chloe standing at the window watching the moving light.

  The engine noise intensified as the plane swooped low over the house. It was painted white and just visible against the clouds. Then it climbed up towards the darkness and began a series of high, slow-seeming circuits above the property. It maintained or increased the height with each circuit and showed no signs of making an approach to the runway. With the light almost gone, it was doubtful that the pilot would be able to see the landing strip, and the ground to either side of it was rough and uneven.

  Suddenly the engine noise changed into a sputtering whine that carried down to me on the breeze. I knew I was about to witness the death of another young person, the end of a life scarcely begun, and the realisation was like a heavy weight on my shoulders.

  The light appeared to hang in the air for a second and then it went out. I lost sight of the plane and then picked it up again as it fell, turning end over end like a bird shot on the wing. The plane landed on the roof of the shed with a shattering sound as the skylight broke. Then there was an explosion and a sheet of flame as the shed burst apart at the seams.

  I was too close and the blast knocked me flat as I heard Chloe’s scream.

  ~ * ~

  24

  I rolled away from the blast and the heat and heard several more explosions. When I got to my feet I saw the skeleton of the place glowing red hot. The wooden parts of the shed were burning fiercely and the paperbarks were burning like torches.

  I staggered back to the house and sat on the steps. Chloe appeared beside me. I moved to give her room and put my arm around her shoulders. She wasn’t crying.

  ‘He really did it,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. You were right not to go with him.’

  She sighed and when she spoke her voice sounded older than before. ‘I suppose so. Look, I need a smoke. I’ve got some dope in my car. You won’t stop me, will you?’

  ‘No, but better be quick. That fire’s going to attract a lot of attention.’

  She went to her car, treading gingerly barefoot on the rough ground. She opened it, reached into the glove box and rolled a very big joint. She held it up inquiringly. I shook my head. She lit up and stood, smoking and watching the fire. She finished the joint and came back to tuck the stash under the steps. We sat there while the wood smouldered and the trees burned and shot sparks into the sky until we heard the sirens.

  She rubbed at a fresh-looking tattoo on her right forearm. ‘What will I say?’

  ‘Tell them the truth.’

  ‘That I helped Jason kill Bobby Forrest.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

  ‘I did, you know,’ she said and she went back into the house. I followed her but she’d gone upstairs. The sirens were close now and I thought I should be on the spot. I looked longingly at the drinks tray but thought better of it. I put the Glock on the sideboard and went out to meet them.

  The police, an ambulance and the fire brigade arrived. I talked to them at the scene and several times later, along with someone from the Department of Civil Aviation. I was permitted to drive myself back to the city, but Chloe went in the ambulance. She was sobbing again, almost hysterical. Maybe she had acting talent after all.

  What took place at police headquarters subsequently they called debriefing. It felt more like the kind of spray football coaches direct at poorly performing players. The Glock had fired the bullet that killed Bobby Forrest and the paint on the Commodore’s bumper bar matched that on the Alfa Romeo.

  I told Sean Rockwell he should be pleased the case was closed.

  ‘You should’ve come to us.’

  ‘With what? I had nothing solid.’

  ‘I’d have listened to your suspicions and your reasoning.’

  ‘Would you? I’ll bear that in mind next time. Face it, Inspector, you’re a busy man with a lot of things on your plate. This was all I had to think about and that’s the difference.’

  He gave me a weary smile. He wasn’t a bad bloke. ‘I bet you didn’t even get the Falcon fixed,’ he said.

  ■ ■ ■

  The media gave it a big splash but such things have a brief time in the sun and it wasn’t long before the story was displaced by others. I resisted all the offers and approaches for interviews. I didn’t follow the coverage closely, but I didn’t see any mention of the Newtown acting school, so Kylie March would be happy. Or maybe not. I remembered what she’d said about the value of managed notoriety.

  I could certainly do without it and I took a short holiday in the Illawarra. I stayed in the Thirroul motel where Brett Whiteley had died but I scarcely spent any time there. I met Sarah on the evening I arrived and we ate and drank and walked on the beach and made love on a mattress on the deck of her house with the waves just audible when we stopped panting and laughing. We body-surfed at Thirroul beach, ate in the cafes and pubs that provide good food and service that help to keep the area going now that the coal mines have closed and the heavy industry has mostly shut down. We watched the hang-gliders who took off from Stanwell Tops and drifted and swooped far out to sea. The sight of them reawakened a query that had lodged somewhere in my mind but in the heat of our reunion I couldn’t bring it into focus. She sang; I loved her voice. We swapped stories; it was all good, but she was Illawarra and I was Sydney. They weren’t so far apart and we thought we could see a kind of future for us.

  When I got back I set up a meeting with Ray Frost and Jane Devereaux. It was sad, but it went well. We said we’d stay in touch but we haven’t. At Jane’s invitation I went to the launch of Harry Tickener’s book, The Whole Truth. There were a lot of media people there but not Michael Tennyson. The tape I had was insurance for Jane and for me and I wondered how long I should keep it and what I should do with it eventually. It was an uncomfortable feeling.r />
  I haven’t heard anything since about Chloe Monkhurst but I keep expecting to. There were no proceedings against her but I couldn’t help wondering what she’d meant when she said: ‘I did, you know.‘ She was stoned when she said it but not totally stoned.

  The questions the hang-gliders, men and women, had prompted me to ask myself as they soared above the Tasman Sea were these: how disabled was Jason Clement? How competent or otherwise was he with firearms? He had had misadventures with guns before. Had Chloe really been in the car with him or was she as deluded and obsessed about Jason as he was about Bobby Forrest? I didn’t know, and although it niggled at me, I didn’t want to know.