by Peter Corris
“Paul didn’t know about it?”
“No.”
I chewed on that for a minute, thinking what a savage animal pride could be. She knew what I was thinking. I forced a smile.
“Well, we’ll worry about that when we have to. What did Ray have to say about his father? That’s what’s on his mind, isn’t it?”
She drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders; the tanned skin was drawn tight over the frame of her bones and in the half-light the hollows below and to both sides of her neck looked like smears and daubs of dark war-paint.
“Ray was always more interested in his real father than Chris. That’s funny, because Chris is the reflective, scholarly one. I remember I once said something to Chris about it; like, did he mind not knowing his real father. He said, ‘Mum, that’s the least of my worries.’ It was true, too. Ray would ask about him sometimes; I’d try to fob him off. I don’t suppose I did it very well. I just wanted to forget, blot it all out. But you can’t blot things out for other people, can you?”
I shook my head.
“Chris thought of Paul as his father, Ray didn’t. It comes down to that. Perhaps it was just the extra year or so that made the difference. A few more meetings, games … I don’t know.”
“You didn’t talk about this with Paul?”
“No, never.”
“So, what happened three months ago? What happened today?”
“Much the same thing really. Ray accusing me of concealing things about his father from him. Of preventing him from meeting him. Calling me a liar. It’s true, I am. I did conceal things, I’d hate them to meet. I’m sure it would wreck everything. But I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t know where Peter was. I don’t, and I haven’t had any contact with him for years. Ray seems determined to find him. He’s going to Brisbane to get help from Chris.”
“I can’t quite see why you didn’t talk any of this over with Paul.”
“I wish I had now. But I couldn’t. I had a very bad time after leaving Peter. Some bad experiences. I couldn’t believe that anyone so wonderful as Paul could exist, let alone want me and the boys. I didn’t want there to be any problems. None.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Yes, Mr Hardy. There was no divorce. As far as I know, I’m still married to Peter Keegan.”
I had to think up a story for Paul Guthrie, fast. A version of the truth is what I came out with—Ray’s troubles were still unclear to us but he had talked about his brother.
“He told your wife he was going to Brisbane to see Chris,” I told him after Pat Guthrie had made some reassuring noises and told her husband that she had a lot of confidence in Mr Hardy, and that she was going to have a sleep.
“Why, for Christ sake?” We were in the kitchen and Guthrie was making tea. I hoped to avoid that.
“I don’t know for sure, but it could be a good sign. The other boy’s steady, you say.”
Guthrie nodded and went on with his preparations. I don’t mind the rituals, which look comforting as such rituals should; it’s the taste of the stuff I can’t stand. Guthrie had mentioned a drink when I arrived, but maybe he’d meant tea all along.
“Could you ring him up? Tell him Ray’s on the way? Maybe he could get him to stay with him for a while, something like that.”
The kitchen door opened and Pat Guthrie came in. “I thought I’d like some tea. What are you two doing?”
Guthrie touched her arm as if it was a privilege. “I’m making tea, and Hardy has just asked if we can ring Chris.”
She shook her head. “No, he lives in some sort of student house where they don’t have a phone.”
“I could send him a telegram asking him to ring,” Guthrie said. “Or get a message to him at the university.”
“That’d take days.” Pat Guthrie looked at me appraisingly and seemed to find in my favour. “Perhaps Mr Hardy could go up there and see if he can help bring Ray to his senses. I’m worried about him ranting around, especially in strange places. I think Mr Hardy and Chris would get along all right.”
Did that make me the reflective type, I thought, scholarly, even? Flattering.
“Good idea,” Guthrie said. He went across the kitchen and put his strong, oarsman’s around his wife’s slim waist. “Hardy?”
I said I’d go, got the address and details on Chris Guthrie’s university courses from them, and left. I didn’t have to drink the tea.
10
I got some money from the autobank at Railway Square and a surprised look at home from Hilde when I phone-booked a seat to Brisbane. She followed me as I ran around the house gathering things.
“Now?” she said. “It’s night time.”
“We never sleep.”
“That could be true,” she said. “You certainly didn’t sleep here last night.” I made a face at her and she went on.
“And from the look of you, maybe you didn’t sleep much anywhere. Mmmm?”
She was wearing a tracksuit and sneakers, prepared for one of her long, late night runs. I grinned at her and mimed running on the spot.
“Sleep or not, I beat a pennant standard tennis player 9-7 in the tie-breaker today.”
“Is that so? I’m sure Helen Broadway would love to hear all about it, point by point. How was your serve?”
I grabbed her arm. “I’ll break it, I swear, if you don’t tell me everything you know.”
She laughed and I let her go. “She rang a couple of times. Said she’d be out tonight but you could ring in the morning. Sexy voice.”
“Great voice, yes. Thanks, Hilde. I’ll see you.”
“When will you be back?”
“Don’t know.”
* * *
I had my picture gallery, my gun, some clothes and books, and a collection of burglary tools in an overnight bag. If they were scanning the hand luggage I’d have to put the gun and tools in a locker and go naked in the world. In my wallet I had my private enquiry agent’s licence which would mean about as much in Queensland as a Fantale wrapper. I had credit cards, which everyone would like, and electric shaver and a toothbrush, which no one could object to.
It was late and the airport was quiet; I parked, got seat-allocated and walked straight into the departure lounge—no scanner. My fellow passengers were a mixture of business folk and family folk. A couple of kids, up too late, were giving their mother hell, and the benign smiles of the two nuns opposite only made her more agitated. Me too.
We took off on time and I ordered a double scotch as soon as I could and settled down with Howard Hughes. The kids went into first class, which was a relief; the nuns were back in second class, but they didn’t make any noise. I was reading about Hughes’s big-fish spending to corrupt the politicians in the little pool of Nevada and trying to tell myself it couldn’t happen here, when we landed in Brisbane.
I like Brisbane: I like the warm air and the houses up on stilts and the suburban gardens that are like small jungles. I hired a yellow Ford Laser at the airport, which was the least gaudy car they had. It had nothing on the clock but its springs were shot: it had a Brisbane street directory though, and at that time of night I was glad to be hiring that as well as the springs. I drove to the address I had for Chris Guthrie in the suburb of Paddington.
The same things have happened to Paddington, Brisbane, as have happened to Paddington, Sydney (and Paddington, London, for all I know): it’s an inner-city suburb, once intensely working class, now saved or ruined by a middle class invasion, depending on your point of view. Unlike a lot of Brisbane, it is hilly and I noticed an encouraging number of pubs while I got myself lost in the dark, leafy streets. There had been some rain and the gardens gave off a moist, lush smell that would have gone better with the growling of tigers than the barking of dogs, which was what I got as I stumbled around looking for numbers on fence posts.
It was after midnight when I found the house: it was set high up on stilts with a lot of discarded furniture and machinery
quietly mouldering and rusting underneath it. The garden was overgrown and fragrant with the wet, night smell. No dog. I pushed through the undergrowth and went up a set of rickety steps to a wide verandah. I knocked, waited, and knocked again. A light came on in the house and a frightened female voice asked from close behind the door who was on the other side.
“I’m looking for Chris Guthrie,” I said.
“He isn’t here.”
“He does live here?”
“Yes, sort of. But he’s not here now.”
“Do we have to talk through the door?”
“Go away. I’m sick of people coming around at all hours for him. I have to study and I have to sleep. Go away!”
“Just a minute. What other people? When?”
“There was a guy tonight who said he was his brother and all the others for the past couple of months—the ones who look like cops, and sound like you.”
“Where is Chris? D’you know? It’s important.”
“Will you go away if I tell you what I told the last guy?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Ask at the railway freight yard at St. Lucia. I think he works there. He pays his room rent here sometimes but he moves around a bit. That’s all I know. Please go away.”
“He’s a student.”
“He dropped out.”
“Will you look at a photograph, please?”
“No!” The light went out and I was left standing at the door with a photograph in my hand. There was a low hum of insects from the gardens, but otherwise the night was graveyard quiet: there’d be a lot of noise if I tried to force an entry and I didn’t imagine the Brisbane cops would be amused at a Sydney private man pushing the citizens around in the wee small hours. I put the photograph away, said goodnight to the door, trying not to sound like a policeman, and left the house.
It was too late to do anything more. I stopped at the first open motel I came to, put crosses at random on the breakfast menu and fell into bed. I lay there with my mind buzzing. “Achieve one thing every day,” my Scots grandmother advised me when I was young. I wondered what she would count as an achievement. I wondered what she would call a day. It was about thirty years and ten thousand days too late to ask her. My mind was hopping, leaping about now: a lifetime could be about twenty-five thousand days.
Grandma Kelly had lived to be eighty-odd; had she achieved thirty thousand things? Maybe she had. My one thing—locating Ray Guthrie—didn’t seem so much now, but it didn’t seem any easier, either. I went to sleep trying to count the things I’d achieved in forty-odd God-fearing years.
At 5 a.m. it was getting light, and I was wide awake. I stuck my head out the door and sniffed the soft, sub-tropical air. I wrapped one of the motel towels around me and went down to the pool and swam a few laps in the nude. The water was cold and too heavily chlorinated. I stayed under a hot shower for fifteen minutes until I was warm and decontaminated. Then I had an hour to wait for breakfast; I spent some of the time thinking about the information conveyed by the disembodied voice of last night: other enquirers, moving about, drop-out, voices like cops. It sounded something like a Brisbane version of the events in Sydney, and wasn’t likely to be any more pleasant.
Then I did some thinking about Helen Broadway—time zones; were they any different?—daylight saving and a reasonable hour to call. I ate the soggy breakfast, drank the lukewarm coffee, and made the call. I tried to remember the layout of the flat. No phone by the bed, in the living room; she’d be wearing her silk gown. The phone didn’t have to ring for long.
“Christ, long distance,” she said. “Where are you—New York?”
“Brisbane. It’s eighty degrees already, and I’ve had a swim.”
“I want to see you.”
“Me too. Wish you were here.”
“Why aren’t I?”
“I’m mostly to be found behind the wheel of a car going to places where no one wants to know me. I don’t know how long I’ll be here. If you left now there’s a good chance our paths would cross in mid-air, if you see what I mean.”
“I think so. Is your life always so hectic?”
“No, mostly, I have lots of time for Bondi Beach, movies, cappuccino …”
“That sounds better. Well, this is costing you something.”
“Not me. My client.”
“Same man?”
“Yeah. The kid came up to look for his brother. Now we’re both looking for him.”
“Are-you-in-danger? I say again: Are-you-in-danger?”
I laughed. “Only moderately. I’ll call you soon as I get back, Helen.”
“Promise?”
I promised, and meant it. I got dressed and paid the bill.
The manageress looked at me with disapproval; she almost looked at my credit card with disapproval. Maybe she thought I lowered the tone of the place by being in the pool in the raw.
St. Lucia is a garden suburb and the parts that flank the river would have to be called verdant. Winding roads with smooth footpaths follow the river, and spawn joggers who seemed to outnumber the civilians this fine, crisp morning. I objected to them less now that headbands appeared to be out of fashion. The number of zebra crossings along the river road, controlled by flashing lights, suggested that the joggers had an in with the local council.
The freight yard was a million psychological miles from the certainty and confidence of the big houses by the river and the clear signposts to the university. It was reached by a dusty road that turned off another road which had swung away from the well-heeled section of the district. The railway line here was what the Americans call a spur—an off-shoot, a by-way. There were low, broken-down fences around the goods yard and the road to an old brick office seemed to be marked by smashed wooden freight pallets. A small car park was defined by star stakes which were bent and askew and trailed their wires aimlessly.
I arrived at around 9.30 a.m., which seemed to be too early for commercial activity or civilised communication. The bearded youth in overalls who opened the office door looked at me with loathing.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“You’re too early. No one’s here.”
“Don’t put yourself down,” I said. “You’re here.”
He hitched at his overalls, which was unnecessary, because there was no way they could fall down. But he seemed to find it worth doing and he did it again. It dawned on me that he was stoned.
“Let’s go inside and talk,” I said. He resisted—my second time at being refused entry in ten hours. “Okay, let’s stand our ground. Do you know Chris Guthrie?”
He shook his head and hitched the overalls again. It was too much. He’s started to shake his head before I’d spoken the name. He was bigger than me and younger, and if he was stoned and I was sober at 9.30 in the morning, that was his problem. I pushed him back against the wall, not gently.
“Guthrie,” I barked. “Where?”
He pointed to the right, down the railway track. “He s … sometimes sleeps in the old freight car down there. I don’t know whether he’s there now or not.”
I let him come back from the wall and he slid down it into a squatting position. He smiled vacantly up at me.
“I hope nothing important ever happens around here—you wouldn’t seem to be up to the job.”
“It doesn’t,” he said.
I tramped down the derelict platform, which was only raised a couple of inches above the rail. The whole place was an object lesson in how fast the bush would reclaim the city: the wood I saw was splintered and rotten, the metal was rusted and weeds were pushing up and growing aggressively through the cracked concrete.
The freight car was an old, immobilised ruin, blackened by fire and crumbling from disuse. The sliding door was half-open; it wouldn’t budge and I levered myself up and in. Light came in through chinks and gaps in the slatted sides—enough light to see the figure of a man slumped in a corner on a pile of hessian bags.
He was in a half-sitting
position with his back against the fire-scorched wall. He was barefoot and wearing jeans and a tattered T-shirt. A bag hung over one shoulder like half of a poncho. There were a couple of days’ worth of youthful fuzz on his face and his brown hair was long and matted: things moved in it. His eyes were closed and his mouth was puffy and blueish. He was Chris Guthrie. The disposable plastic needle hung in his arm like a caterpillar on a leaf. I jerked it out and a trickle of blood ran from the puncture mark, which was one of a number, crusted and mottled, running up the inside of his thin, brown arm.
He was wasted and the grime was flaking off him, but there was a slight rise and fall to his chest. I bent forward to lift an eyelid when I heard a sound behind me and spun around. Ray Guthrie was climbing into the freight car; I was temporarily dazzled by the light and against it, Ray looked fuzzy in outline, shaggy like a gorilla. The noises he was making were scarcely more intelligible.
“You bastard,” he roared. “Don’t touch him.”
“Easy, Ray …” I moved toward him to conciliate, but I could feel the grim set of my face and with the needle still in my hand I must have looked like the king of the pushers. He jumped at me, arms flailing. I dropped the needle and retreated, trying to keep from stumbling on the debris-strewn floor. He hit me with a long, looping punch that landed on the shoulder and didn’t have much sting; I hit back instinctively, catching him on the cheekbone. He went back and I shuffled back to the nearest wall.
“Ray,” I gasped, “I’m a friend, your father hired …” The word was enough to set him off again; he came in with both fists pumping and it was a matter of protecting myself from damage. I hooked him, which brought him up short, then I pushed: he stumbled back and fell out of the car. I jumped after him and landed close, but a bit winded. He was game; he pulled himself up and threw another punch. I warded that one off, which takes less wind than throwing one yourself.
“Stop it, Ray. I’m trying to help you.”
He bent and picked up a piece from a broken pallet, swung it like a club. I recoiled and that gave him a moment to look at me.
