Salt and Blood

by Peter Corris

  ‘You’ll do,’ she said. ‘Let’s go in.’

  ‘This is where you say, “I’ll do the talking.”’

  ‘You’ll say what you like when you choose. You always do.’

  The gate had an ivy-covered wrought-iron and timber canopy with an electronic buzzer set in the brickwork. Glen hit the buzzer and said her name into the intercom. The gate swung open. We walked up sixty or seventy metres of paving that had just the right amount of moss growing between the slate blocks, with closely weeded garden beds and lawn like putting greens on either side, to a set of ten sandstone steps worn concave by well-shod feet. A wide, tiled verandah ran the length of the house and before you could enter you had to negotiate a heavy security screen and yet another buzzer.

  Press and wait. After a minute or more the door opened, giving me time to look around and see the surveillance camera mounted a metre above our heads. The Harknesses clearly didn’t like surprise visitors or maybe they didn’t like visitors at all. The woman who opened the door didn’t exactly wear a maid’s uniform but she didn’t look quite like a civilian either. Severe belted dress in a dark fabric, cream scarf, dark stockings, sensible shoes. She was neither young nor old, fat nor thin, as if she’d been designed to blend into the background.

  ‘Ms Withers and …?’

  ‘Mr Hardy,’ Glen said.

  She nodded. ‘Lady Rachel and Mr Harkness are in the east sitting room. Will you come this way, please.’

  We stepped out of the twenty-first century into the nineteenth. The entrance hall was vast and cold with a wide staircase ascending into shadows on one side and a dimly lit passage on the other. The parquet floor made Glen and the woman’s leather heels ring and my rubber ones squeak. We followed our guide about the length of a cricket pitch to a wood panelled door where she knocked discreetly before opening it. Up to this point the place had been cold, lacked light and smelled of money and floor polish, but this room carried an aroma of coffee and tobacco and the afternoon light flooded in from French windows letting out to the verandah with the garden not far off.

  We walked across an ornately worked carpet towards leather chairs and a couch where a man and a woman were sitting beside a trolley carrying a silver coffee pot and matching jugs, a sugar bowl likewise. Porcelain cups. The man was drinking coffee and smoking a chunky cigar, the woman was just sitting. The man put his cup down on the trolley and came forward holding his cigar in front of him like a torch. He was big, 190 centimetres or so, giving him a couple on me, and he could have spotted me a few kilos as well. Put him at ninety plus. A lot of it was soft though, discreetly masked by the pinstriped double-breaster.

  ‘Ms Withers,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  Glen introduced me to Harkness and he introduced us both to his mother. At a guess, Lady Rachel Harkness was in her sixties, fashionably thin with the lacquered look rich women acquire from dieting, makeup and perhaps a little discreet plastic surgery. Her hair was a subtle blend of silver and blonde and everything about her—the silk dress, minimal jewellery, elegant pose and restrained expression—conspired to say, Look at me with envy. I am beautiful and rich.

  The rapport between the two appeared to be very good although I had a suspicion they had rehearsed this meeting. Glen and I sat down and Warren Harkness served us coffee. I refused a cigar. With his mother saying almost nothing but making little confirmatory gestures with her head and hands, Harkness outlined the assignment.

  ‘My brother married Lucille Hammond on the rebound as they say, from the collapse of another relationship. They weren’t at all suited. Rodney was … is, a quiet, serious sort of chap, when he’s ah … in control of himself. Lucille was wild, younger than him of course. Extroverted. She was Catholic and wouldn’t use birth control. They had a child quite quickly, a girl. Rodney was delighted but Lucille didn’t accept the responsibility. She chafed under it, you might say. They fought. I’m sorry to say that she provoked Rodney into hitting her. She left him. Rodney had some letters from her and he sent her some money. He was desperate to make amends. But she told him she never wanted to see him again and she broke off all contact. That’s when Rodney began to drink and behave … erratically.’

  Harkness paused to offer us more coffee and make sure his mother had everything she wanted. Nice manners, or perhaps a good sense of dramatic timing. I was irritated and I could feel Glen’s similar reaction. We obviously weren’t intended to interrupt the flow but Glen did anyway.

  ‘Do you have these letters, Mr Harkness?’ she asked. ‘And the details of the money and so on?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Harkness killed his cigar in a crystal ashtray and his mother wrinkled her nose at the smell—the first spontaneous movement she’d made. Control was her middle name.

  ‘This is difficult for us,’ Harkness went on. ‘Rodney embezzled some money. He lost it gambling and tried to recoup it by dealing in drugs. The police became aware of it. There were various unpleasant incidents. Someone attempted to blackmail Rodney and he injured the person very severely. He attempted to bribe a police officer and then assaulted him. If matters had run their course he would have been sentenced to a prison term and no doubt have deteriorated further.’

  Harkness was looking at me by this stage. I nodded but I thought, I doubt he’d have served seven years. I still wasn’t being invited to comment but I did. ‘You were able to make other arrangements.’

  Harkness glanced at his mother who nodded slightly and spoke in her slightly stagy top-drawer accent. ‘Yes. Several psychiatrists examined Rodney and he was declared unfit to plead to the charges. His responsibility was judged to be diminished. He was placed in institutional care and his state of mind was reviewed from time to time.’

  The formal tableau was getting me down. I deliberately made my cup and saucer rattle as I put them back on the trolley. ‘How’s he doing?’

  Harkness shook his head and some loose flesh moved on his face. Jowls on the way. ‘Opinions differ. Our … some doctors say he is still delusional. Others decided otherwise.’

  Lady Rachel Harkness’s sculptured lips formed into a tight line. ‘There has been interference from some quarter and we want Ms Withers to find out all she can about that. There may be professional misconduct involved.’

  You want to lock the poor fucker up again, I thought, but Glen cut in smoothly.

  ‘I’m sure there will be avenues to follow on that,’ she said. ‘And I understand you want to reunite Mr Harkness with his wife and child.’

  ‘No,’ Lady Rachel said sharply.

  Warren looked uncomfortable and as if he’d like to get another cigar going, but perhaps one was all Mum allowed him. ‘I may have given you a false impression there in our preliminary talk, Ms Withers,’ he said. ‘We are only interested in the child. We believe that Rodney might respond positively to meeting his daughter again.’

  ‘And the mother?’ I said.

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ Lady Rachel said. ‘All we want to say about her is that she was a most unsuitable person. No character, no background. Most unsuitable.’ I’d swear her accent slipped a notch or two.

  They went on to outline what they hoped I could do for them. Their biggest worry was that Rodney Harkness would get back on the grog despite his long drying-out. They had managed to modify the court release order the civil liberties people had secured to provide that, in addition to psychological counselling and monitoring, he should be assigned a companion for at least the first few weeks to keep him on the straight and narrow.

  ‘How does he feel about that?’ I asked.

  ‘I understand he’s reluctant but will comply.’

  You understand, I thought. ‘Have you seen him, Mr Harkness?’

  ‘Briefly. He has refused to live here with us so I’ve rented him a flat in Bondi. He used to be a keen surfer. I’m hoping that can be part of his rehabilitation.’

  I avoided looking at Glen. ‘If he wants to drink there’s no way to stop
him.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to,’ Lady Rachel said sharply. ‘Your job will be to help him be strong. To stick to that resolution.’

  I thought about it, feeling sceptical but maybe looking reliable. I had the feeling that I’d passed muster with the Harknesses and I could see relief pass over Glen’s face and the mother and son exchanged nods. I don’t like to be nodded over and I barely listened to what followed. I occupied myself by looking around the room, which was all in good taste but with nothing personal to it. I caught an angry look from Glen and swung my attention back to Harkness. I was to collect Rodney at Rutherford House on Sunday afternoon. Harkness would courier all the relevant documents along with photographs of Lucille née Hammond and the daughter, whose name was Rose, to Glen that evening. And that was about it. Lady Rachel said something complimentary about Glen’s reputation and her son nodded. They were big on nodding. I shook Harkness’s doughy hand and touched his mother’s cold fingers. We said our goodbyes; Harkness escorted us to the door and the woman in black took us out with more leather tapping on wood and rubber squeaking.

  We’d been in there for almost an hour and the sun was getting lower in the sky, casting tall tree shadows across the lawn. The day had been warm but a cool breeze had got up. Rodney was going to need his wetsuit.

  We walked down the path in silence until we got to the gate. ‘You didn’t exactly go out of your way to be charming,’ Glen said.

  I turned around and looked back at the house. There was something faintly ridiculous about a place that size being occupied by just two people. Or maybe something sinister.

  ‘It’s hard to be charming when a couple of shits are treating you like shit,’ I said.

  3

  The cool air got chillier as Glen marched ahead to her car. I had to lengthen and quicken my stride to catch up with her.

  ‘What?’

  She dug in her bag for her keys and I saw that her hand was trembling when she pulled them out.

  ‘Glen, I …’ I reached to touch her but she pulled back.

  ‘We have to talk.’

  It was a dreaded phrase, one that had been spoken before all our fights. ‘‘What about?’ I said. ‘This job is bullshit, Glen. You know what they’re about. We …’

  ‘That’s what we have to talk about. Let’s go to Bondi. The Gelato Bar. Okay?’

  I shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  On the drive to Bondi I reviewed my impressions of Glen’s clients. One of my failings, reinforced by being in this job for so long, is a habit of thinking the worst of people. I struggle against it and try to find the positive side, but I was having difficulty with the Harknesses. She seemed to be a patrician clothes horse. Cold and narcissistic. He was a soft mother’s boy who looked to have had a very easy ride and their concern about the son and brother certainly had nothing to do with affection for him.

  The more I thought about it the more I reckoned I should try to dissuade Glen from taking on the case. Another negative thought—I didn’t think she should be a party to letting that pair get the grand-daughter/niece into their clutches. I was cruising Campbell Parade looking for a parking spot before a positive note of any kind entered my thinking—from what I’d heard I had a certain amount of sympathy for Rodney Harkness.

  The Gelato Bar has been there ever since I can remember, and without much change of decor or style. If it ain’t broke … I was a little surprised Glen hadn’t suggested a resolution-confirming pub. It was late enough in the day for me. She was in a booth when I got there and had already fended off a few people who’d contested her right to occupy it as a single.

  ‘I’m buying,’ she said. ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘Long black.’

  The waitress had been hovering and took the order quickly. Flat white for Glen. She began using the wrapped sugar cubes as building blocks. I reached over and dismantled the structure, putting the cubes back in the bowl.

  ‘What’s this about, Glen? What’s the matter?’

  She lifted her face and the stress showing in it aged her a couple of years. ‘Let’s wait till the coffee comes.’

  We sat there with a silence building between us that I found impossible to interpret except that there was something serious behind it. The coffee came and Glen grabbed hers, stirred a couple of cubes of sugar into it and gulped at it. She drank half of the cup quickly before wiping her mouth on a napkin. ‘I’m not doing too well with the alcohol thing,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, shit. I’m sorry. What about the ten steps and all that?’

  ‘It helps but it’s still fucking hard. I thought it’d get easier but it doesn’t.’

  I drank some coffee with the unhelpful thought that I wished it was whisky and didn’t say anything. Glen finished her drink and started fiddling with the spoon in the froth. I didn’t try to stop her. ‘At first I was doing great. It was terrific not to be thinking about booze all the time. Not to be worried about being more than an hour away from a possible drink. I liked losing the weight, getting back into skirts I hadn’t worn, hadn’t been able to wear for a couple of years. I’m vain enough to be pleased that I looked better, especially after the break-up with Colin … You know.’

  Glen had married a policeman after our affair finished. ‘It’s rough.’

  ‘Mm. But gradually I started to take those things for granted and you know what I began to think?’

  ‘I can guess,’ I said. ‘You started to think you could have all those plusses and maybe have a drink or two as well.’

  ‘Yes!’ she said fiercely. ‘I haven’t, I know that’s bullshit from the other times I stopped and started, but Christ it’s so hard sometimes.’

  ‘I know a bit about it,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I know you do, but you seem to be able to stay in control. I was getting up to a bottle of gin a day, or more. A few times I woke up at home and couldn’t remember anything much past noon.’

  I hadn’t heard about her alcoholism in this kind of detail before but I knew the pattern and how destructive it was and how hard to break. The waitress took Glen’s cup and she clenched her fists. I ordered two more coffees although I was only halfway through mine. I drained it and passed a couple of sugar cubes across for her to play with.

  She forced a smile. ‘Thanks. The AA meetings helped tremendously at first, but I can’t take all that higher power crap and there seems to be more of it creeping in. And I’m getting bored earlier and more easily. I’m having trouble sleeping.’

  She took off the sunglasses she’d been wearing and her eyes looked tired and strained. I noticed that her makeup was heavier than usual. Last night in the flattering light of the pub and with a few drinks on board I’d thought she looked fine; here under the fluorescent light, cracks were showing.

  I tried to say something comforting but she was in full flight.

  ‘It’s really horrible, Cliff. You wander around in your spare time trying to fill up the spaces. I fiddle with things that don’t need doing just to be doing something, anything, to keep my mind off it. Talk about doing it a day at a time. Sometimes an hour feels like a fucking day, and a day feels like …’

  She broke off as the coffees arrived. She dipped her head so the waitress couldn’t see the pain in her face. We got to work with the sugar and spoons. I expected her to go on but she’d run out of steam.

  ‘Are you seeing anyone about it, like a psychologist?’

  ‘I’ve seen a couple, including a hypnotist. It doesn’t do any good. I don’t care why I’m an alcoholic, whether it’s because I’m a repressed bisexual or have low self-esteem or whatever.’

  ‘They say it’s a disease. Could be genetic or …’

  ‘Bullshit. It’s a compulsion, an obsession. You give in to it or you fight it, but the fight’s so hard. I’m sorry.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Dragging you here to lay all this on you. The point is I haven’t been doing well with the agency lately. I’ve mucked a couple of things up because of this. Lost conce
ntration. Cliff, the only way I can get through this is to work! When I’m busy it’s not nearly so bad. So I need this job, I need it badly. It’s ideal—lots of time-consuming digging and searching. Lots of possibilities and maybe some travel. Something to fill up those fucking empty holes. So I’m asking you to come in on it with me. There’s no one else I can talk to like this. No one else to understand.’

  I took the contract from my blazer pocket, unfolded it and signed. Glen grabbed a napkin and dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, ‘but when you say come in on it with you, I think you should mean that. You’ve got to keep me informed as you find things out and I’ll do the same. And let me help if I can.’

  ‘I will.’ She signed below my signature. ‘I’ll fax you a copy for your files. If there’s stuff you should see in the material I’m getting tonight I’ll get it to you.’

  ‘But they’re still shits.’

  She smiled and some of the tension slipped away. ‘They are, aren’t they? Did you notice how her accent slipped when she got angry?’

  ‘Yep. They’re hoping he can be shunted straight back inside. By the way, what did Rodney do before he got put away?’

  ‘He was an actor—a bit of theatre, TV, commercials.’

  ‘They must’ve loved that. I bet there’s something about the family money involved here. Tell you now I won’t come at that if I’ve got any say, not unless he’s really off the rails.’

  We finished the coffee and Glen put the contract in her bag, patted at her hair and put her sunglasses back although she wouldn’t need them outside now. I stood and stretched discreetly the way I have to after sitting down for a spell these days. ‘You can call me any time if you need to talk or want company.’

  ‘Still on your own?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  I caught a glimpse of us in a mirror as we left the place. We looked like a couple but everyone knows mirrors lie.

  I drove to the office and, now that I was committed to the Harkness job, I tidied up a few loose ends and replied to two faxes and an email, refusing offered jobs with regrets. Then I went to the gym for a late workout because I wasn’t sure when I’d next get the chance. A quick one in the Toxteth and then it was home to cook, eat, read a few chapters of David Hickie’s book about Chow Hayes, the gunman. Hayes had done his dash by the time I was rubbing shoulders with those types in Sydney and I wasn’t sorry. A hard man. The book held my interest but I kept breaking off, half expecting a call from Glen. She didn’t ring and I decided that it was a good sign—she’d found the strength to get through another night. I hoped I was right.