by Tony Black
Bec could see the anger rising in Eddie; he’d started to become irritated, leaning forward and planting firm elbows on his thighs. ‘Are you saying no one interviewed her workmates?’ he asked.
‘No one.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Me, too. Got any explanation for that one?’
‘What are you insinuating?’ Eddie’s volume was increasing; his hands got jittery and looked ready to throttle someone.
‘Easy, mate. I’m not insinuating anything. I’m genuinely asking. Why would the officers investigating the death of a young woman not talk to the victim’s workmates?’
Bec watched as Eddie appeared to deflate. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘There’s only two possible answers to that question. And I don’t like either of them.’
‘Sloppy or deliberate. Which would you bet on?’
Eddie looked out the window, watching the rain. Bec wanted to reach over and touch his arm, be reassuring, but it didn’t seem right. They’d connected last night and Eddie was nice, but he wasn’t really her type so she didn’t want him to get the wrong idea about her. The night before had been good for her, a confidence raiser, but somewhere in her mind a voice was saying ‘You just used him to get laid!’ She didn’t like the voice because she was still trying to figure out whether it was right or not.
Eddie turned back to Clay, snapping Bec from her thoughts. ‘Whichever one it is, I have to be very careful with what you’ve told me. Someone is likely to be in deep shit one way or another.’
‘Will you keep me in the loop?’ said Clay. ‘I mean, as far as you can.’
‘No worries.’ Eddie rose from his chair. ‘You’ve done some good work, mate, but you might want to be careful about that Fullerton stuff. The kinda bloke who sends thugs after someone is not the kinda bloke you wanna mess with.’
‘Obviously.’
‘No. I mean it. Until we fully know what we’re dealing with here, keep your nose out of trouble.’
Eddie headed towards the door, then stopped and turned to Bec. ‘What are you up to?’
Bec was caught off guard. ‘Ahh… I’m going to hang here for a little bit. OK?’
‘Fine. Hey, do what you want.’ He looked across at Clay and back to Bec. ‘Although maybe lay off whatever it was he was smoking in here before I arrived.’ Eddie winked at Bec, waved at Clay, and was gone.
The sound of the front door closing coincided with Clay tapping the side of his hexagonal coffee table. Bec had noticed its weird shape when she stayed over, and had assumed the table was solid, but at Clay’s tap a secret little drawer slid open, from which he pulled out the mixbowl and the ashtray with the half-smoked joint resting on the edge.
‘Nice table,’ said Bec.
‘Thanks. I bought it at a garage sale. I think a bikie owned it originally.’
‘Maybe you should give that stuff a rest.’
‘Hey,’ said Clay as he relit the joint, ‘I just had my face bashed in. Gimme a break.’
‘Then maybe you should lay off the Fullerton story.’
Clay inhaled deeply and eyed Bec in a way that she didn’t like. ‘Why would you say that?’ he said, as he exhaled.
‘Because I’m worried about you. A beating like the one you took… you could’ve been killed.’
‘I may have embellished the story a little in the retelling.’
‘I’m not joking around. One punch is all it takes.’
Clay toked again and exhaled. The smoke sat in a thick cloud between them and Bec could barely see his face.
‘I’ll be careful,’ he said finally. ‘But to be honest, this whole incident is only going to make me chase harder.’
‘I know,’ said Bec. ‘I mean, I’ve only known you a bit, but I knew you were going to say that.’
Chapter 20
Clay usually relished a few extra days off work, but they passed at such a languid pace he wished he was back at his desk. He was reluctant to leave the house while his face still resembled a dropped pie, not out of vanity, but because he couldn’t be bothered dealing with the funny looks and accompanying questions.
He read books, tidied his apartment, and almost turned the television on, but knew it would just burn up his blood. Clay couldn’t even remember the last time he’d turned the damned thing on, but it had probably ended in a close call between hurling it out the second-storey window and switching it off again.
With so much time on his hands, it was difficult not to start drinking or smoking weed early in the day, but he resisted for as long as he could. In the end, Clay told himself it took the edge off and distracted him; stopped him running the incomplete stories of Fullerton Industries and Kerry Collins through his head again and again. That was the real reason he wanted to be back at work, he realised: unfinished business.
By Saturday morning, the swelling around his left eye was gone, in its place a purple smear like someone had attacked him with a packet of blueberries. Feeling like he could face the world again, Clay opened his door to a warm sunny day and stood on an envelope that must have been slid partway under the door.
For reasons he couldn’t fathom, a feeling of dread started rising in his chest and up to his throat as he tore the envelope open. It turned out to be well-founded.
‘Dear Mr Moloney, we regret to inform you that you are required to vacate your premises within 28 days… orders of the building owner… due to refurbishment… to repurpose the premises… thank you for your tenancy… valued customer… hope you consider Willis Real Estate for your future rental requirements… apologise for inconvenience…’
Clay screwed the letter into a ball, threw it into the hallway, and yanked the door shut. The wood hit the jamb with a thud, releasing a cloud of dust. What more could go wrong? Stories still in the trap. Face used as a football. And now a bloody eviction.
‘Bugger this, I’m going to the pub!’
Ordinarily, Clay’s feet would have propelled him straight to the Hotel Warrnambool, with no effort of deliberation needed. But today he stalled. The violence of a few nights ago replayed in his mind and for the first time ever the thought of going near the Warrny caused a ball of anxiety to start bouncing in his gut. What if the goons returned? What if they were waiting for him?
Heat rose in his chest; it was anger splashing against dread, like the ocean meeting a breakwater. Those bastards had not only physically injured him, they had him fearful of going to one of his favourite places, of doing something he wouldn’t have thought twice about normally. He was starting to feel sorry for himself, and he resented that the most. Self-pity wasn’t worth spit to Clay.
The sun shone. The previous day’s rain had evaporated, but it felt like more was on the way. I can’t let them win, he thought. But still he couldn’t stand the idea of facing the scene of his bashing. He didn’t want to see his blood on the asphalt. He didn’t want to be reminded of the night because he didn’t know how he’d react. What if he flipped out?
He lashed out at the world: ‘If I can’t go to the Warrny, I’ll go to every other bloody pub in town.’ A pub crawl is an act of defiance, he thought. He wanted to believe he was right, but was hit with a twinge of disdain. He was just looking for an excuse to get fall-down drunk and he knew it. But as far as lame justification went, an eviction and an assault were pretty good excuses.
The morning and early afternoon passed in a steady progression of bars and beers – the Vic, the Cally, the Whalers, The Last Coach. Early in the proceedings Clay had bumped into Al Smithson, a co-worker responsible for the arts and music pages at the paper. Al was in his sixties, from England originally, vaguely eccentric, long-haired and bearded, and a good bloke. He was also one of the guys Clay occasionally bought marijuana from. They sat on opposite sides of the office and didn’t mingle much at work, but Clay was a big fan of Al’s. He always had interesting stories to tell about the good old days of punk rock in England or his early days of journalism in Australia or the time he took acid with such-and-such at s
ome exotic location. And he was more than keen to join an impromptu pub crawl.
‘Is that the Irish lass, the photographer, over there?’ said Al. They were seated at one end of the bar at The Last Coach, half a dozen pints into the day, and Al was nodding to the far end.
Clay glanced along the run of timber and beer taps to where Bec and Eddie stood, ordering from the girl in black next to the till, before eyeing Al, who had a cheeky grin on his face.
‘Yep.’
‘Who’s that fella she’s with?’
‘Copper named Eddie. Mate of mine.’
‘Ah.’
‘What? What do you mean by “ah”?’ Clay suddenly felt really drunk. He realised it, like a wave crashing in and taking him out at the knees. He was trying to get his thoughts in order and they wouldn’t line up. That was when he knew that he was truly intoxicated – that lost at sea, pummelled from all sides, can’t keep your feet, feeling. It hit him all of a sudden. Belligerence started to build.
‘What I mean, Clay my friend,’ said Al, a slightly drunken wobble creeping into his London accent, ‘is that you have set a fine woman up with a fine friend, probably. That is what I mean by “ah”.’
‘Whatever. It won’t last.’
‘And then she’ll come crawling back to you?’
Clay glared at Al, but didn’t say anything.
‘I’ve seen you around the office, mate, and the way you talk to her,’ said Al. ‘I have worked in newsrooms from here to Istanbul to Seattle and back again. I have seen this a million times over. You like her.’
‘Piss off.’
‘What? Why is that such an antagonising thing to say?’
Clay continued to glare at Al. The silence dragged out. ‘You got any weed?’ Clay said eventually.
‘Of course. But this ain’t over.’
The pair downed the last of their pints and exited the pub into the orange glow of late afternoon. Bec and Eddie didn’t appear to have seen them and Clay didn’t attempt to catch their attention on the way out.
Clay followed as Al crossed the street and sat on a park bench out the front of the Gallery, a nightclub that Clay avoided at all costs, not least because its signage spelt the word ‘niteclub’. It was yet to open for the night and fill to the brim with fake-tanned girls in too-short skirts and the throng of tight-shirted males that followed in their wake. The street corner was quiet and peaceful. Aside from The Last Coach on the opposite side of the intersection, no pedestrians were bothering with this part of the CBD at this hour of the afternoon.
Al pulled a small pre-rolled joint from his tobacco pouch and lit it after a short glance up and down the street. He inhaled and passed it to Clay.
Just below the surface, Clay was fuming about Al’s insinuations, but refused to bring it up lest it be revealed that Clay was fuming.
Al flicked his gaze to Clay as Clay handed the marijuana cigarette back. ‘It’s OK, man,’ said Al. ‘Bec seems like a lovely bird. But you might want to let her know you fancy her. Before it’s too late and that.’
‘I don’t fancy her,’ said Clay.
‘Yeah, ya do.’
Clay glared at Al again but Al didn’t reciprocate, too focused on the plume of smoke rolling out of his pursed lips. ‘I got evicted today,’ Clay said eventually.
‘Bummer, man. What are you going to do about it?’
‘I don’t know. I was thinking maybe I’d call…’ Clay stopped dead mid-sentence. He’d been on the verge of saying Bec and he knew it, and he knew Al knew it, but he hoped otherwise. Clay looked at Al, trying to figure out what to say next.
‘Bec,’ said Al. ‘You were thinking maybe you’d call Bec. Or me. I’m your next best friend at work, right? I won’t be offended. Who’s it going to be?’
Clay realised he’d backed himself into a corner and sat without speaking for a while. The Englishman passed the joint to the Australian, who accepted it gratefully, happy for the distraction.
Clay sucked on the joint and exhaled. He was already starting to feel more relaxed and even a bit more sober, or at least, the joint gave him the illusion of sobriety. ‘So what do I do, Al?’ he said. ‘I can’t very well walk back into The Last Coach while Eddie’s here and say to Bec, “Hey, I like you.”’
‘So you admit it then?’
Clay looked at Al, who had a gleeful look in his eye. ‘Screw you,’ said Clay.
‘Oh, come on!’ said Al. ‘Why is it so bad and terrible to admit you like someone? I mean, what are you, twelve?’
Clay dragged on the joint again and passed it to Al, and from that moment on Clay kept his mouth shut. Al murmured a few platitudes but Clay wasn’t listening. When the joint was finished they walked east towards the main street. There were only two bars left in the CBD – aside from the Hotel Warrnambool – that Clay hadn’t been to on his spontaneous pub crawl and they both lay across the road from his apartment.
‘Seanchai or Loft?’ asked Al as they approached Liebig Street. The sun was kissing the horizon and the main drag was starting to get a vibe about it.
‘Loft.’
The pair headed through the haze of smokers arced around the door, and up the stairs. The night’s bands were still a couple of hours away from starting and there were only a few handfuls of patrons present.
Al ducked into the toilets and Clay headed for the bar. As he waited for his order he looked around, wondering if Bec and Eddie had changed venues, despite knowing they were probably still at The Last Coach. He could feel his chest tightening as he gazed around the pub.
The barman returned with his two pints of beer, distracting Clay, who fumbled with his wallet, showering a random assortment of notes onto the beer-soaked mat covering the hardwood countertop. ‘Sorry, Jarrod,’ he mumbled to the barman.
Jarrod picked out the right note without a word and Clay stuffed the rest of the money back in his wallet before continuing his scan of the bar.
‘You look a lot cuter without coffee poured all over you,’ said a familiar voice behind him.
Clay turned and there was Gabby. She was wearing a lot of eye make-up, her lips matched the colour of her hair, and the ring in her left nostril was now a stud with a small blue gem in it. Clay unconsciously inhaled – she smelt amazing. Gabby was wearing the perfume she knew he liked.
‘If you order a coffee, I’m out the door,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Gabby said. ‘I got a bit jealous.’ She was suddenly taken aback – she’d just gotten a good look at Clay’s bruised face. ‘What the hell happened to you?’
‘Nothing major. It’s fine. And that woman on the couch – she’s a co-worker. And that couch is where she slept, for the record.’
‘I don’t care. I did care, but I don’t. I don’t own you. You’re not my boyfriend. You can sleep with whoever you want.’
‘Like I said, I didn’t sleep with her.’
‘Like I said, I don’t care.’
‘Well, I’m glad we sorted that out.’
‘Me too. Wanna get drunk?’
‘I’ve got a six-pint head start on you.’
‘Maybe I better get a couple of shots then. No one likes to be the sober one at the party. But are you sure your face is OK?’
‘It’s fine. You should see the other guy.’
Gabby snorted a raucous laugh. ‘I don’t believe that for a second. Even I could take you in a fight, old man!’
‘Rubbish. You want a shot at the crown, little lady?’
‘I sure do.’ She grinned. ‘The match is set for later this evening. Your place.’
Chapter 21
Under the light of a full moon, Jacinta Porter watched the waves roll in towards Thunder Point. From her seat behind the wheel of her rusty Ford Laser, she couldn’t quite see the swells reach their destination against the rocks below, but she could hear them. It was a windless night, odd for Warrnambool, and the sound of water crashing on limestone rang up through her open window with surprising clarity.
Ja
cinta flicked her cigarette butt out onto the asphalt of the empty car park and checked the time on her phone again. This guy isn’t usually late, she thought. Arrogant, yes, slightly scary, yes, and filthy rich, yes, but never late.
A set of headlights appeared in her rear-view mirror and Jacinta took a deep breath, bracing herself. Tonight is the night, she thought. Tonight you ask for more money. Right after you finish having sex with him, as he’s going through that overflowing billfold of his, you ask him for more money. He can’t say no, she told herself. You know too much.
‘I know too much,’ she said out loud to herself, practising a confident tone. ‘I could go to the police.’ Jacinta cleared her throat and tried again. ‘I could go to the police,’ she said, in a more strident voice this time. ‘I know too much. Pay up, hotshot.’
Jacinta giggled a little at that last bit. She was still kinda high. She probably shouldn’t have been driving, but she hadn’t expected to get the call. Saturdays were her one night off, so Jacinta had thought she would be fine to have a couple of drinks and do a few lines of MDMA.
The car rolled around the roundabout slowly, its headlights caressing Jacinta’s car, before accelerating and disappearing off into the night. She was alone at Thunder Point again, and Jacinta realised she’d been holding her breath. She wished she had some more MDMA to snort, but it was back at June’s house. Instead, she pulled out a Choice filtered and lit up.
Ten minutes passed before another car arrived. From the shape and halogen glow of the headlights, Jacinta was certain this was the rich guy’s car. She took a deep breath, flicked on the interior light, and checked herself in the mirror. Hair good, no lipstick on teeth, top adjusted for maximum cleavage. She flicked the light off again. Her pulse – already running pretty fast from the amphetamine in her system – bumped up another notch. She hated this part of the night. So far there had been nothing untoward happen, but the rich guy’s insistence on her not bringing a minder made her feel far from safe. The small handgun in her handbag did little to allay the fears, but Jacinta told herself everything had been fine so far. Nothing bad was going to happen.
