The Trojan Dog

by Dorothy Johnston

  ‘Do you know who’s there right now?’

  Mrs Styvcek’s eyes widened, a twinkle at the back of them. ‘Well I don’t know whether there’s always someone there, now do I, dear? The walls are thick in these old flats. I do hear the phone ringing quite a lot, I will say that. They asked me what the rent was,’ she continued. ‘Why didn’t they ask her that, if they wanted to know?’

  ‘Her? Would that be Isobel Merewether?’

  Mrs Styvcek nodded, then pressed her lips together.

  ‘What about this Angela person?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve never set eyes on her.’

  I finished my drink, took a deep breath of pampered indoor garden and said, ‘I was wondering, would you do me a small favour? I’m going up there now. Do you think you could—after I’ve been inside for five minutes—could you knock on the door and ask to speak to—’

  ‘Isobel? You want me to speak to Isobel, dear? What about?’

  ‘Anything,’ I answered. ‘Talk about the weather. No, wait. Tell Isobel you’ve just had a call from the police. You’re not sure what to tell them.’

  ‘Well, dear, she knows the police have interviewed everybody in the block.’

  ‘Say the police have asked you to inform them when she leaves and at what time.’

  Mrs Styvcek gave a deep, sly chuckle. ‘And my conscience is pricking at me. Why would it do that?’

  ‘Nothing illegal or sinister,’ I assured her. ‘I just need a couple of minutes in there on my own.’

  . . .

  Climbing the stairs, I could hear the weary, determined cry of a child who would just as soon stop, but wasn’t going to give in while its mother was in earshot.

  I came to a white door with a professionally printed sign in dark blue that said Access Computing.

  I knocked. A young woman opened the door and frowned at me. I recognised her as Isobel Merewether from her television interviews.

  ‘Is this Access Computing?’ I asked as politely as I could.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re closed at present.’ When Isobel spoke, her mouth scarcely moved.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Will you be open later today?’

  ‘We’re closed indefinitely. What did you want?’ Isobel spread the fingers of her left hand and smoothed back her hair. Her nails were long, with fresh, peach-coloured varnish, and she wore no rings.

  On TV, Isobel had reminded me of Claire Disraeli, Guy Harmer’s girlfriend. In person, Isobel’s hair and skin were darker, her eyes brown, not blue; but the resemblance was still there, in long slim legs and general polish.

  I took a deep breath and explained that I was from Lismore. I was trying to set myself up to do word processing and other kinds of contract work from home. I’d heard about Access Computing and since my husband had to come to Brisbane for a few days, I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to find out more about them. While she ­listened to all this, Isobel’s eyes and lips narrowed—her lips narrowed so much they almost disappeared.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ she said when I’d finished.

  ‘Well, could I at least have a glass of water, please? I’ve had rather a long walk to get here.’

  Isobel’s eyes darkened from Italian leather brown to almost black. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Excuse me for a minute.’

  She disappeared down a corridor, turning left, while I stepped through an open doorway to my right.

  Cream curtains had been pulled right back, and a high sun filled the room. A bowl of dead fuchsias sat in the middle of a window ledge. Two blank-faced computers were placed side by side. The office had a feeling of lightness, almost of dizziness, a combination of being high up, the penetrating sun. I wondered what it would be like in a storm. A cardboard box held a printer, a couple of modems, a mouse and other sundries. Clearly, Isobel was packing up.

  A quick tug at the drawers convinced me that the filing cabinet was locked. I flicked through some Access Computing brochures, which were lying on a low glass coffee table. I was looking for a handwritten note, a phone number, anything.

  Mrs Styvcek was right on cue. Her knock was loud, peremptory. It startled me, even though I was expecting it. Isobel glared at me through the doorway, glass of water in one hand, undecided whether to hustle me back into the corridor. I smiled reassuringly, and she turned towards the door.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Styvcek,’ I heard her say. ‘I’m busy, I’m afraid. I have someone with me.’

  I blocked out their voices and opened the door of a built-in cupboard. Boxes with Compic’s name and logo were stacked in three tall piles. I picked one up. It felt unusually light.

  I heard Isobel’s step behind me, and turned round.

  ‘Could I take one of these?’ I said brightly, waving a brochure at her.

  Isobel was hanging on to her manners by a fingernail. ‘I told you we’re not operating. Now I really must ask you to leave.’

  But I insisted on the glass of water and took my time to drink it, ­pretending indifference to the hostility coming in waves off Isobel’s designer T-shirt.

  I was walking down the stairs when Mrs Styvcek appeared, her small malicious face reminding me of a neighbour’s cat that liked to hiss at Fred.

  She beckoned me over and said in a stage whisper, ‘You are from the police, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, really. I’m not.’

  ‘A private investigator?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no.’

  I would’ve liked to quiz Mrs Styvcek further, but I was already imagining everything I’d said being relayed straight back to Isobel.

  ‘But you got what you wanted, dearie?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Mrs Styvcek’s black eyes followed me as I walked away, resolutely not looking back.

  I felt as though I’d eaten something rotten. Isobel was so slimy you could slip on her and break both legs. I pictured Access Computing’s office stripped and empty. Impossibly distant from the city, from clients, suspended over that hillside—who was the show for?

  Wishing I’d been sensible enough to bring a hat, I made my way back to the bus stop. There was a bus waiting, and I ran towards it.

  Safe inside, I looked back along the street. Already the block of flats seemed a mirage, an apparition, splay-legged on the rim of the hill, both decrepit and cocksure.

  What was the relationship between Rae Evans and Isobel, if indeed there was one? Had Rae tried to be all things to all women? Had ­generosity been the source of her power, and her undoing? It wouldn’t be the first time a woman in her position had succumbed to the ­temptation, or had it foisted on her. Femocrat. I hated that word. But Rae had never struck me as a woman who liked using power. Not ­outgoing enough, too remote. Women who enjoyed power showed it. It came off them like a scent.

  Certainly Rae had invited something from me. Trust? Acknowledge­ment of a common past? Or had she only wanted to get me to the point where she could make that barbed confession about her and my mother, for reasons of her own?

  For a moment I imagined I could stand inside Rae’s shoes. I felt the customary slide of silk against my throat, as though only a filament of skin separated me from the answer to my questions.

  It wasn’t just that Access Computing was a shonky operation. I could have pardoned Rae’s ignorance of that, could have bitten off and swallowed it. But Rae had acted disdainfully, as though the whole mess was beneath her, as though the money from Access Computing, in her bank account, was someone else’s problem. At the same time, that night at the lake, for instance, when she’d made that remark about watching the water rise, she’d seemed incredibly vulnerable. Frighteningly so.

  Was the prosecution planning to get up in court and blow Access Computing out of the water? I wondered again about the paper records that had been stolen. Who knew that the file on the Compic tender was missing? Every government department has a multitude of checks, cross-references, people whose job it is to look
over other people’s shoulders. But a determined shadow can easily steal between them.

  I had a new thought. What if Access Computing didn’t exist, had never existed as a separate entity? It might explain that office in the middle of nowhere, Isobel and the almost certainly fictitious Angela Carlishaw. Access Computing had run courses for women and given advice and run a bulletin board. But what if their main purpose was altogether different?

  . . .

  I could see people dancing there—it was obviously a floor made for dancing on—maybe next weekend, when the computer show had packed up and gone home. I felt dwarfed by the flat glossy spaces of the convention centre, the smells of floor polish and expensive electronics. Looking around for stand E 59, I heard a voice over-primed with alcohol complaining about recycled hash from Expo.

  All the stands were full. Young women dressed for a night out brushed against students in black baseball caps and Michael Jordan sweatshirts. Everyone carried plastic bags full of advertising bumf. The kids moved quickly from exhibit to exhibit, trying out the demon­strations, confidently logging on.

  The big guns were there: IBM, Canon, Sun. I passed their stands, barely registering the familiar names and logos. The hall was air-conditioned and I began to shiver.

  Security men in black nylon jackets looked as interested as anybody, each one carrying a mobile phone. There were plenty of them, but it was hard to see how any of the gear could be ripped off. Each stand had three or four minders, sometimes half-a-dozen.

  A man manipulating a mouse as if it was his first time freeze-framed a woman on an outsize monitor. He made her words a drone of nonsense by slowing them down almost to stop. On another monitor, part of the same display, a young woman was enlarging a detailed, beautifully coloured photograph of a tiger’s head. One click of the mouse and a dotted line appeared around the animal’s right eye. A second click, and the tiger winked. I looked up. The sign above the stand said Compic.

  I spotted Guy Harmer operating Ivan’s virtual reality equipment. I smiled hello and Guy nodded, preoccupied with a circle of young women waiting for a turn. Guy never missed a trick. I told myself that in a second I would turn round, and there would be Ivan.

  Guy mouthed ‘Just a minute’ as he adjusted the helmet on a woman whose shiny black suit made it seem as if the VR headset was part of some futuristic uniform. The woman moved slowly in a semicircle inside her harness, turning from right to left and back again, grasping the joystick as if it was some sort of lifeline. Her lips looked like spilt plum sauce against the black. It was strange how that exposed mouth had to carry the whole weight of her expression.

  ‘Guy?’ I said. ‘Where’s Ivan?’

  Guy hesitated, as if about to tell me that he didn’t know, then gestured with his free arm while he helped the woman in black to regain her balance. I looked to where he pointed, and saw Ivan leaning against a concrete column, drinking from a plastic cup. I’d seen the woman, his companion, before—that is, he’d once shown me a photo of her. It was Lauren, his wife.

  . . .

  Guy offered to buy me dinner.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I think I’ll just go back to the hotel.’

  ‘Not the best idea you’ve ever had, Sandy.’ Guy put his arm around my shoulders, smiling kindly. ‘Help me pack this stuff up, and we’ll grab a bite somewhere.’

  ‘But don’t you have a—’ I was going to say date.

  Guy smiled again and shook his head, parodying a small boy accused of doing something wrong. He was as neat and smooth and cool as though he’d just had his suit pressed, not spent hours answering questions and helping people on and off a platform. I began to wrap the headset carefully in bubble plastic, not looking towards the fake Greek column from which Ivan had disappeared with Lauren.

  An hour or so later, I was watching Guy order in a seafood restaurant he said he’d tried on a previous trip—‘wasn’t too bad then’. I bit my tongue and didn’t tell him that places with starched, fluted serviettes and a wine list as long as your arm were definitely not my style. I let him order for me, and when the wine came, I drank my first glass quickly.

  ‘Ivan never talked about her,’ I said. Was my voice really cracking? I wasn’t going to cry in the middle of a classy restaurant. I took another gulp of wine.

  ‘Half of Brisbane was there,’ Guy said. ‘She probably just turned up. I bet there’s nothing in it.’

  There was no sarcasm or amusement in Guy’s grey eyes. It was like him to pretend that any event he was associated with was hugely popular.

  ‘Have you ever met her?’

  ‘I’ve worked with Ivan for about five years,’ Guy said carefully. ‘I knew he’d been married, but that’s all.’

  ‘You know, I met this fairy-tale person today,’ I said to change the subject. ‘A kind of Rapunzel.’

  ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair?’

  I nodded. ‘But a wicked one.’

  ‘Wicked?’ A smile fanned Guy’s smooth cheeks.

  ‘Way up at the top of a block of flats,’ I said, reflecting for a moment on Rae Evans’s collection of sassy, secretive women.

  ‘Are all good girls wicked underneath?’ Guy asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Did Rapunzel seem like my type?’ Guy continued. ‘This is ­interesting.’

  ‘Blonde. Tall. Immaculate. I guess so, yes.’

  Guy laughed. ‘Perhaps you know something about me I don’t know myself.’

  I laughed with him. I glimpsed how Guy would look in middle age if things went according to plan—perfectly groomed, wealthy, dining in expensive restaurants with women half his age.

  Our food arrived, and I bent my head to it gratefully while the waiter refilled my glass.

  ‘Is she Evans’s type?’ Guy persisted. ‘This fairy-story character of yours?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Can you see the two of them together?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t.’

  Guy narrowed his eyes, then lowered them and concentrated on his barramundi. We didn’t speak for a few moments. I was more than ever conscious that Guy didn’t belong in the public service. Was this fair? Why should public servants all be of one type? The ones I’d met ­certainly weren’t. Still, I knew that if I’d reminded Guy just then that he worked for a government department, he would have stared at me as though my comment was in the worst possible taste.

  ‘You know,’ Guy said, ‘I’m surprised none of the reporters asked Evans whether she’d been to Brisbane recently. Or better still, did their homework and found out for themselves.’

  ‘Why would Rae Evans come to Brisbane?’

  ‘Protecting her investment.’

  I helped myself to salad. ‘Why do you dislike Rae? What’s she done to you?’

  Guy was looking at me with frank sexual appraisal. I resisted an impulse to run my fingers through my hair and check my blouse for stains and creases.

  Then he smiled and said, ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about our Russki friend.’

  ‘Ivan left you in the lurch today as well,’ I said, trying for a lighter tone, filing away the information that Guy hadn’t answered my question about Rae, that, like Di Trapani and Ivan, he evaded the question of what he had against her.

  Guy laughed without rancour, letting me know that he didn’t ­consider Ivan a rival, either personally or professionally. He was in Brisbane for reasons of his own, maybe something simple as picking up a new girl.

  ‘How did you know about us?’ I asked. ‘About Ivan and me?’

  Guy raised a perfect eyebrow. ‘You two would hardly win first prize for discretion. But I’m sure this’ll sort itself out. Semyonov’ll be feeling guilty as hell.’

  ‘Ivan looked as though—’ I began. But I couldn’t think how Ivan had looked. Drunk. But he wasn’t. Ivan didn’t drink, part of his reaction against his father, and his father’s habits.

  Guy picked up his glass, studied the pale green-gold wine,
or perhaps his reflection in it, and said, ‘Poor bastard was in shock.’

  . . .

  ‘Sandra.’

  Ivan heaved himself up on to his elbows and peered at the digital clock. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Walking,’ I said. ‘And—with Guy. Where’s Lauren?’

  ‘I took her to dinner in the revolving restaurant.’ Ivan let himself slump back against the pillows. ‘Should be called revolting restaurant.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I said. ‘Why let me walk into it like that?’

  Ivan’s anger and frustration filled the room, boiling milk under a skin about to burst.

  ‘Lauren read my name in a flier. Does it matter? Christ! I didn’t invite her. Would I have done it like that? Humiliation gets so damn boring after a while. I get so damn bored. Christ!’

  I began to undress, feeling cold and cheated. It was like a broken promise that the city had made me, to stand there shivering with cold.

  ‘I never wanted to get married,’ Ivan said accusingly. ‘It was tempting fate. Tempting? Hey, look down here, you fates! Here’s a guy just asking for it!’

  I thought about asking for another room, but I was practically undressed now and too tired to be bothered.

  ‘When Lauren left, a part of me thought, well, it had to happen!’

  Now Ivan had begun, he might go on all night.

  ‘A body has to lie low! Lauren never understood that, of course. Why should she! Adultery has to be paid for! You’re a coward, Sandra! Too scared to write to that yuppie husband of yours and tell him you’re having an affair! What d’you think he’s going to do? Fly home and shoot us both? Othello with a pony-tail?’

  Inside my head I was screaming, But there’s Peter.

  . . .

  I woke up early, feeling terribly thirsty. On my way to the basin to get a glass of water, I walked through a great wad of sunlight that the thin curtains seemed to invite into the room.