Torn Apart

by Peter Corris

  She leaned against me. ‘I thought I’d feel something but I don’t. This is creepy. You look so much like him and I loved him so much for so long. Off and on, I mean. God, I’m going to end up telling you my life story.’

  The hard shell had well and truly cracked and for a minute we stood still. I was thinking about Patrick and I was sure she was, too. I guided her back to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m a good listener,’ I said. ‘Look, would you like a drink? A toast to Patrick? It’s a bit early but . . .’

  She smiled and stayed close to me. ‘It’s later somewhere. I’d like that. It’s been a while since I drank wine in the morning but why not? I wish . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was going to say I wish I’d met you before Paddy. What a dumb thing to say. Sorry.’

  I got a bottle of white from the fridge and poured. We both sat and touched glasses without speaking. She took a decent slug of the wine and smiled at me. She had small, even teeth and her eyes crinkled with the smile. She did everything gracefully and I wanted badly to touch her. I was suddenly aware of my scruffy appearance.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ I said. ‘Hard to put it into words, but . . .’

  ‘Try, why don’t you?’

  I reached out and covered her smooth hand with my battered paw. We stood. I knocked my glass over and the wine spilled. I put my arms around her. We stood in a tight embrace. I thought I could hear her heart pounding. I could definitely feel mine.

  She said, ‘I thought I came just to talk, but now I’m not sure. Without knowing it I think maybe I came for this.’ She pressed close against me and her hand went down to my erection.

  We made love in the tangled sheets and blankets I’d left after my sleepless night. Her body was smooth, lean and pale and she was athletic and inventive with it. I found myself almost fighting to get my share of the pleasure and we were sweaty and panting when she shoved a pillow under her rump and pulled me down and into her. We fucked hard, and I don’t know who came first. We rolled apart, gasping. Sweat beaded her upper lip and I wiped it off with a finger.

  She laughed. ‘Yes, that happens when it’s good. Not very chic.’

  ‘Chic’s overrated.’

  She traced the scar line from my bypass, not much more now than a series of discolourations. ‘There’s a difference. Shit, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘It’s okay. We were both in the grip of something a bit weird.’

  ‘Are you sorry?’

  ‘No.’

  The room was cold. The heat we’d generated was fading and I clawed up the sheet, jerked the blanket free of the tangle and covered us. The desire she’d triggered in me was still there and I pulled her close and wrapped my arms around her. She felt my unshaven chin.

  ‘I’m glad you hadn’t shaved,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have bristle rash, but I can look at it and tell myself I’ve had a top fuck from someone who wanted it as much as I did.’

  We showered, separately, in the upstairs bathroom, got dressed and went back to the kitchen. By now it was later in the morning, late enough to have another go at the white wine. The day had improved during our lovemaking, and we took the drinks out into the courtyard where we could sit comfortably in the patch of sun protected from the wind. I told Sheila what I’d learned about the dodgy dealings of Pavee Security and the dead end I’d struck there and with the company that had bought his shares.

  ‘Sorry to tell you,’ I said, ‘but there was no money involved. Just a share transfer.’

  ‘But the shares are worth money. Sorry to sound so mercenary, but I think I’m entitled. He was a psychological mess when he came back from that ridiculous soldier of fortune episode, and I just about supported him through university. Then he upped and left.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He became successful with his property developments. He still needed me for a while because it was edgy stuff—juggling loans and contracts, dealing with unions and politicians—but when it all sorted out and the money came in, he didn’t need me anymore. I think he associated me with his earlier struggles.’

  ‘Why didn’t you divorce him and get a share of the assets then?’

  She sipped her drink and shivered. I went inside and got a jacket, the one Patrick had borrowed as it happened, and draped it round her shoulders. Our hands touched as she drew it closer.

  ‘Thanks. It’s nice out here. I was busy then and doing pretty well. I thought it might work out. Then I went to America for a while and bombed. I lost touch with him and I was hitting the booze pretty hard. I was . . . ashamed.’

  I could understand that. In my experience, at those low ebb points you can still maintain some pride even though it’s not in your best interest. It feels like all you have left.

  We were sitting side by side on a seat I’d constructed out of stacked bricks and pine planks—the limit of my skills. I put my arm around her shoulder and she stiffened.

  ‘Do you believe me about not being divorced?’

  ‘I want to say yes.’

  ‘Jesus, an honest man. Let me show you something.’

  She got up and went into the house. I watched her elegant strut on her high heels and knew all my impulses were affected by the sexual experience and a hope for more. She came back and handed me a photograph. It showed a man and a woman outside the Sydney Registry Office. Patrick, in a stylish dark suit, was looking at Sheila as if he wanted to make love to her right there on the steps. She, in a low-necked sheath dress and carrying flowers, looked as if she’d oblige. Another couple, presumably their witnesses, looked almost embarrassed in the presence of such overt sexuality.

  Sheila came closer, took my hand and locked it between her thighs.

  ‘You’d have looked just like that back then, wouldn’t you, Cliff?’

  ‘Never had a suit that good.’

  She laughed. We kissed and went back upstairs to do it again.

  Sheila asked me if I knew anything about making a claim against an estate where there was no will. ‘I think the spouse automatically inherits.’

  ‘You said Paddy told you we were divorced.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He might’ve told other people the same. That could . . . complicate things.’

  ‘Would Harvey be up to sorting it out?’

  She shook her head and I gave her the name and number of my solicitor, Viv Garner, who I thought could advise her.

  We were downstairs, behaving slightly awkwardly. She’d told me she was sharing a flat in Balmain but didn’t say who with. She gave me her mobile number but not the address. I gave her my number.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of auditions to go to over the next few days. I’ll try to see Mr Garner and I’ll give you a call if I learn anything useful.’

  ‘Call me anyway.’

  We moved down the passage.

  ‘What will you be doing, Cliff?’

  ‘Still poking around to see if I can find out who killed him.’

  We got to the door, reached for each other and kissed hard. She moved her head until her mouth was close to my ear. Her hair smelled just faintly of tobacco smoke.

  ‘Is that dangerous?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘But you’ll do it anyway.’

  ‘Don’t you want . . . justice?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve done a bit of Shakespeare in my time. He didn’t believe in justice and neither do I . . . I only want for you not to be hurt.’

  It was mid-afternoon and cool again as the shadows lengthened. She was driving a tired red Beetle. She revved it hard and took off slowly, smokily. I stood on the pavement and watched the car out of sight. I wanted to believe all she said, but I remembered how differently she’d appeared at first and that she was an actress. She hadn’t told me her address; b
ut then, I hadn’t told her I was waiting for Patrick’s package from the UK.

  I rummaged through one of the cardboard boxes I keep old files in until I found the one involving Soldier Szabo. He was a career criminal, a standover man, hired by a developer who’d run into some trouble with people trying to protect old buildings. Szabo’d exceeded his brief and killed two people and would’ve killed me if I hadn’t got lucky. I looked through the notes to see if there was any useful information about him. Not much, other than that he had a wife and a flat in Norton Street, Leichhardt. That was the best part of twenty years ago, but some people stay put. Like me.

  My useful contacts in the RTA, the police and the parole services had gone along with my PEA licence. Those contacts had made locating people a lot easier than it would be now. There were too many Szabos in the telephone directory to make that useful, and none in Leichhardt. The only thing to do was ask around—risky because word could get back. Before I could do that I needed the gun.

  The excitement Sheila Malloy had caused was ebbing, but I found it difficult to think of anything else or to concentrate on other matters. Too restless to read, didn’t want to hang around Megan and Hank, a bit too early for serious eating and drinking. I realised that I hadn’t checked the mail and when I did I found two cards advising of parcels to be collected at the post office—one for Patrick and one for me. I’d seen Patrick’s signature on his passport and when he’d signed traveller’s cheques and I forged it on his card, nominating myself as his agent. Remembering that my package of books was weighty and Patrick’s had looked much the same, I drove rather than walked to the post office as usual. I presented the cards and my ID and collected the parcels.

  I had no reason to think Patrick’s parcel contained anything of particular interest but, unlike me, he’d paid hefty insurance on it and had sealed it more carefully and with heavier tape. But I’m slack about such things. I opened the long blade on my Swiss army knife and started on the job of cutting the tape on the postpack.

  I freed the flap, lifted it and emptied the contents out onto the kitchen bench. There were a couple of books—guides to Irish sights and scenes and a hardback map, a book of instruction for fiddle players, and a boxed miniature chess set. Patrick had tried to teach me the game during a dull time waiting for a flight but I’d proved unteachable. There was a surprising amount of packing, in the form of sheets from the London Times. I put the box aside and noticed that it didn’t rattle as it always had when he’d handled it. I undid the clasp. Inside, instead of the chess pieces, was a heavily taped package about the size of a couple of cigarette packets.

  The doorbell rang and for a moment I thought it might be Sheila, abandoning her audition calls and coming back to carry on where we’d left off. But the peephole showed me that it was a man wearing a suit and a serious expression. I opened the door.

  ‘Cliff Hardy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He held up his warrant card and produced a document he unfolded and waved in front of me.

  ‘I have a warrant to search these premises on the grounds of suspicion of the importation of illicit items, as specified in the Customs Act.’

  They read me my rights and then it was back to Surry Hills again. I knew I was in trouble. My standing with the police, never high, these days was positively poor. They had me red-handed for forging a name and opening a package not addressed to me. The fact that Patrick had been murdered in my house didn’t help. Their behaviour would depend very much on what the illicit substance was, and I had no idea.

  I was ushered into an interview room and left for the best part of an hour. Standard procedure, but I knew they’d be digging out bits of paper and talking to people like the cop in charge of the investigation into Patrick’s death. I struggled to remember his name. In the past I’d have entered it in the notebook for the case I was working on. Not now. Trying to remember the name gave me something to do. I tried the usual tricks: visualising the person; running through the alphabet hoping a letter would trigger the memory. My mental image of him was too vague to be helpful. I got it on the third run-through—W for Welsh, Detective Inspector. First name forgotten, but that didn’t matter. They’d be talking to him for sure, and he’d remember that I’d said nothing about parcels coming from the UK.

  If I’d been expected to read the name on the arresting officer’s warrant card, I hadn’t: I’d been given no names since. When he came back into the room and turned on the recording equipment, I saw that he was looking nervous, fumbling the switches. I hadn’t noticed it before in the surprise and the speed of the proceedings, but he was young.

  He settled in a chair a metre away from mine with a small metal desk between us. He looked at me, swore and left the room, coming back a minute or two later with a file. He opened it and cleared ‘Interview with . . .’

  ‘You haven’t turned on the recorder,’ I said. ‘Light’s not showing.’

  He had the misfortune to have a fair complexion, which showed his blush. He switched on the recorder and cleared his throat. With his hand on the file, he began again.

  ‘Interview with Mr Cliff Hardy by Acting Detective Sergeant Kurt Reimas, Surry Hills . . . ’

  He stated the date and looked up.

  ‘I’m not saying a word without my lawyer being present.’

  ‘That can be arranged, of course,’ he said. ‘But I’d encourage you to cooperate in this preliminary interview . . .’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve been through this many times, Acting Sergeant. Not another word.’

  What I said seemed to encourage him. He closed the file and turned off the recorder. ‘I’m sure you have,’ he said. ‘Served a sentence at Berrima, I see, stripped of an investigator’s licence . . . but things have changed. You can be held for some time now without charge or access to legal advice.’

  ‘To do with terrorism.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s subject to wide interpretation. You’ve recently returned from overseas in the company of a person who has been murdered in a brutal manner, and you’ve been found in possession of an imported illicit substance. Do you want to reconsider?’

  ‘No.’

  They took me to the lock-up and put me in an observation cubicle, one of a set, with a perspex wall and a heavy metal door. Nothing there but a cement bench to sit on and a metal toilet. I was the only resident. I knew this had to be temporary. If the intention was to keep me for days this wouldn’t do. You couldn’t sleep there. It was meant to scare me but it didn’t; I’d been in worse places.

  After a few hours I was moved to a cell with a washbasin, a toilet and a set of metal bunks. A man was lying on the top bunk. He sat up as I came in and his head almost hit the low roof.

  ‘Got a smoke, mate?’ he said.

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘Fuck.’ He lay back down and those were the only words I ever heard him speak.

  I sat on the bunk and prepared myself for a long wait. I doubted that Reimas would try to invoke the terrorism provisions against me. It’d be a thin case and, after recent failures, the police would be wary of taking that course. It might have been different if the substance was anthrax or something similar, but I couldn’t see Patrick as a terrorist. Heroin or cocaine were more probable, I supposed, but the UK didn’t seem a likely source. Also, the terrorism accusation meant involving the federal police, something state cops were always reluctant to do. Sooner or later they’d have to charge me and take me before a magistrate. Couldn’t do that without allowing me legal representation.

  It was a long night. My companion snored and coughed and climbed down three or four times to piss. Prostate trouble and emphysema. At 6 am a Corrective Services officer told him he was going to Parramatta. He groaned and took one last intermittent, trickling piss and was gone.

  Ten minutes later I was given a cup of tea and two slices of toast, both cold. I
ignored them. I’d missed my evening and morning meds. I didn’t think that would do me any great harm, but I disliked the feeling of dependency. By ten o’clock the inactivity and lack of human interaction were eating at me. I felt dishevelled and dirty after sleeping in my clothes. I hadn’t shaved for forty-eight hours and my face itched. I was thinking of asking for a razor when I was handed a mobile phone.

  ‘You look dreadful,’ Viv Garner said.

  We were in an interview room like the one I’d been in before except there was no recording equipment and we both had cups of reasonably acceptable coffee.

  ‘I’m not at my best,’ I said, but in fact I felt all right, mostly due to relief at being, if not at liberty, not in a cell.

  ‘I thought when you were . . . forcibly retired, things would calm down. But here we are again.’

  ‘Keeps you on your toes.’

  ‘Don’t joke, Cliff. This could be serious.’

  ‘What was in the chess box?’

  ‘Steroids. Powerful steroids with built-in masking agents. State of the art or better. Highly illegal. Worth a fortune.’

  ‘What about this terrorism stuff?’

  ‘Bluff, to scare you.’

  ‘They can’t think I had anything to do with steroids.’

  ‘You’re a gym goer and you’ve had a bypass. You could be looking to regain your former fitness.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Cliff, they’ve got you forging a signature and opening another person’s mail. And they’re talking about a withholding evidence charge—your old bugbear.’

  I knew what he meant, the failure to tell Welsh about the packages posted from London, and a charge I’d once been convicted on.

  ‘That’s thin though, isn’t it? I could say I didn’t know about them, or I forgot.’

  Viv shook his head. ‘For some reason, God knows why, they must’ve tracked the parcels. I’m betting they know the stuff was posted from the same place at the same time. You didn’t know much about this cousin of yours, did you?’