On the drive from Botany to Redfern, I tried to sift the facts and impressions I’d acquired so far, but two things kept distracting me-the prospect of seeing O’Fear in Long Bay and my urgent need for a piss. It was no way to go calling on a lady.
On the drive through Mascot, Rosebery and Alexandria, there’s nothing to inspire higher feelings. The residents of Alexandria are still waiting for their long-promised park on the old brickworks and rubbish dump site. It was strange-there was a state election campaign running and I hadn’t heard a word about speeding up work on the park. I amused myself by trying to work out what that meant. I decided that it was a forecast of the election result-the government thought it was going to lose so there was no point in talking about the park and the opposition didn’t have to talk about it because it thought it was going to win.
I had the piss and bought some white wine in a pub in Pitt Street. This part of Redfern was very quiet, almost sedate. There were designer denim shops and Thai restaurants. I paid more for the wine than I expected to, a sure sign that an area is on the rise. I drove around the park and adjacent streets, partly to familiarise myself with an area that seemed to have changed dramatically since the last time I’d been in it, and partly to see if K blank M 2s and 3s was around. I didn’t see it.
Near the park and for a few streets around, a lot of the houses had been renovated. Big three-storeyed terraces and little single-fronted cottages had all had the treatment. Iron lace was back; the fibro and louvres had been knocked out of the balconies and vines grew out of tubs and tangled round where washing had once hung. Tons of cement had been prised up from front and back gardens and greenery was sprouting over the fences. Even the park had had a facelift; the big old trees looked healthy and there were wild thickets of new growth that contrasted well with the orderly layout of the paths, fountain and war memorial.
The last of the useful light went as I parked in Chalmers Street a few doors from number 505. It was one of the two-storeyed jobs, all sandblasted brick, wrought iron and clean tiles. It occurred to me that this was what the next owner would probably do to my house. I shrugged into my jacket, took a grip on the wine and pushed open the gate.
My knock brought quick footsteps on the stairs and Felicia Todd opened the door. She was wearing white pants and a blue silk shirt knotted at the waist. She looked fresh and almost happy. I was suddenly aware of a strong wish to keep her that way.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘You look like you’ve had a hard day.’
I rubbed my hand across my bristly chin. ‘That bad?’
‘I didn’t say bad.’
‘I’ve just come from Mascot where the workers really work. I can tell you that you’re pretty popular out there just now.’
She smiled and patted the bottle under my arm. ‘What’s that? Some plonk?’
‘Yes. I thought… ‘
‘Look, Cliff, herb omelette’s about my limit. If you want to wine and dine, we’d better go out.’
‘I don’t care. A sandwich’ll do me.’
‘No, I’d like to get out.’ She stuck her head through the door and mimed a furtive look up and down the street. ‘Is it safe?’
‘It’s getting cool. You’ll need a jacket.’
She went quickly up the stairs. My nasty suspicious mind wondered whether she had contrived a way to keep me out. Distrust is an occupational hazard; Cyn said I must have distrusted my mother. Felicia came back wearing a grey denim jacket with the fashionable half-worn-out look. She felt in her pocket for the key and slammed the door hard. We stood on the pavement and faced west.
‘Italian? Chinese? Thai? What?’ she said.
‘No Greek?’
‘We can do Greek. D’you like Greek?’
‘Yeah, I do, as a matter of fact.’
‘So do I. Greek it is.’
We walked to a restaurant in Elizabeth Street. She told me she had filled in the day pretty much as she had expected, with walking and taking photographs. She was animated, apparently glad of my company. But then she’d had a boring day.
I was so hungry I wouldn’t have cared what nationality the food was, but the flat bread, skewered lamb and salad were good. Felicia knocked off a glass of wine quickly and then nursed a second for the rest of the meal. I gave her an outline of what I had done during the day. She looked concerned when I told her about the disturbance at Mascot.
‘Was Bob hurt?’ she said.
‘No. They got more hurt than us.’
‘You sound like Barnes. Tell me about the place. I’ve only been out there once or twice, and very briefly.’
‘It’s worth a visit,’ I said. ‘I’ll take you next time.’ I told her about Anna Carboni and the work she was doing for me.
‘It’s funny,’ she said, when I finished talking to do some more chewing.
‘What is?’
‘You met the most hateful person Barnes knew, that’s Willowsmith, and the nicest-Bob Mulholland. You must be getting some interesting impressions.’
‘Willowsmith struck me as dangerous.’
‘He is. I could tell you some stories.’
We were picking at the remains of the salad. by this time. I dipped a bit of bread in the dressing. ‘Bob Mulholland told me something interesting.’ I gave her the story about the US captain.
‘Barnes used to have nightmares about Korea. I came to hate the sound of the word. Could there be anything in that, d’you think?’
‘It seems unlikely. Barnes never mentioned it? No strange Americans turned up recently?’
The waiter cruised up and we ordered coffee. I let him take away the wine bottle with more than an inch still in it. I hoped I was making a good impression. We sat quietly watching the other diners while we waited for the coffee. There was only one smoker and only two people were noticeably affected by alcohol. Times have changed in Redfern and everywhere else. I caught a snatch of conversation about the election: ‘Political parties are a conspiracy against the people. They’re both in trouble.’ I was in agreement; maybe I’d have to revise my analysis of the Alexandria park issue.
Felicia sipped her coffee. ‘There was an American business type Barnes had some dealings with. It was last year. Constable or Sheriff or some name like that… I forget. Michael Hickie’d have the details.’
I took out my notebook, wrote ‘Constable?/Sheriff?’ and sighed.
‘Is this getting you down already, Cliff? I thought you were Mr Stick-at-it.’
I laughed. She had that effect on me. ‘Sounds Yugoslav.’
‘And in fact you are…?’
‘English and Irish. What about you?’
‘The same,’ she said.
The waiter had left the brass coffee pot on the table. I poured some more for both of us. ‘No, I’m not disheartened. I was just wondering where O’Fear fitted into all this.’
‘Ah, yes. O’Fear. Maybe he doesn’t fit.’
‘I’ve got a feeling he does. There’s no problem seeing him in the context of Barnes’ business activities. I’d be willing to bet he’s driven a truck at some stage, and I’m pretty sure he was in Korea.’
She raised her eyebrows at the disliked word. ‘What about art and such?’
I had good reasons for not wanting to go to Long Bay but I must have sounded surly when I spoke. ‘I don’t know. He was a folk singer and a Celtic revival nut. He might have done watercolours of Galway Bay for all I know.’
‘You’re a strange man, Cliff Hardy,’ Felicia said. ‘You’re half charm and half ill-temper. Just like…’
She didn’t finish but I had a fair idea what name she had in mind. It was a moderately awkward moment. We finished our coffee. I paid the bill and we left. It was a nice, mild night, perfect for a stroll around the park or a quiet drink on the balcony in Chalmers Street or a number of other things. But we weren’t going to do any of them. Barriers of guilt and repression were going up fast: the English and the Irish.
As we turned for home I asked her where the paintings and photographs were.
‘Safe,’ she said.
‘I hope they’re not at Thirroul. That’s…
‘The first place anyone would look. I know. What if I told you they’re scattered around? Here and there?’
‘That’d be smart.’
She nodded and lengthened her stride to keep up with me. I hadn’t realised that I’d increased my speed. ‘What’s your next move?’
‘I’ll see O’Fear tomorrow. That reminds me, I should talk to Barnes’ doctor.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s standard.’
‘What are you implying? He was in the peak of health.’
Things were getting sticky. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘If you say so. Now I’m going to Coogee.’
‘Why?’
‘To see if that car’s anywhere near your house.’
She didn’t say anything more as we walked at a slower pace. The park was across the road, dark but not threatening. The lights that marked the paths gleamed through the trees. The leaves were moving in the light breeze. We stopped outside number 505.
‘How long d’you think I should stay here?’ she said.
I shrugged. ‘Depends. A couple of nights.’
‘I’d like to go to the coast.’
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Might know something more by then.’
She clinked her keys in her pocket and I thought she was leaving, but she put her arm half around me, reached up and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Be careful,’ she said.
I did the slow circuit of the streets around the park again with the same result. Then I headed for Coogee. It was a high-mileage day. One of the penalties of the job. The meat and bread had soaked up the wine and the strong coffee was doing its job. Metabolically I was in good shape; emotionally not so good. Something was happening between me and Felicia Todd and I had the uncomfortable feeling that neither of us was in control of it.
It was a magic night in Coogee. The waves were curling up and lying down quietly, hitting the beach like a soft drumbeat, and the sky was clear out over the sea. Above the land were light, high clouds, the kind that obscure the moon for a few minutes and then move on. No sign of the car in question. I parked a hundred metres from the Todd house and walked along the quiet street. You don’t have to be in a car to watch a place. I’ve watched from roofs in my time, even from trees. The wild, scarcely tended front garden was ideal for watching. A couple of lights were on inside, but I expected that. I didn’t expect the shadow that moved, low and fast, in the front room.
I didn’t have a gun; I didn’t have any weapon except my ill-humour. I pushed open the gate and began to move towards the house, keeping to the cover provided by the shrubs and bushes. I searched with one hand for something to throw or hit with, but found nothing. I reached the side of the big front porch, which was high above ground level. The set of steps leading directly up to the porch and front door was bathed in moonlight. I swore under my breath, slipped out of my jacket and stuck my foot in the latticework under the porch. With a bit of a jump and grab I could pull myself up over the rail. I jumped and grabbed and pulled.
My shirt ripped, but that was the only sound I made. I tested the boards on the porch and round them solid. The front door was standing slightly open. I took two cautious steps towards it. A car horn honked twice loudly and I heard a squeal of tyres. I looked in the direction of the sounds and saw a car accelerate past the house and skid around the side street. I jumped forward, shoved the door open and ran into the house. I was halfway down the passage when I heard glass breaking at the back. The dog next door howled. I dashed through to the kitchen. The glass door that led to the terrace was wide open with one of its panes smashed. Glass crunched under my feet as I looked out at the yard; the fence was low and the drop to the street wasn’t much. You’d be unlucky to hurt yourself getting over it. No blood on the floor. A clean getaway.
The dog stopped howling and no lights came on in the house or the flats around. So much ror neighbourliness. I went through the house, which had been thoroughly and messily searched. The alarm had been professionally short-circuited at one of the windows. I turned off the television set, which was showing a state government advertisement about how good things were and how they were going to get better. I cut the palm of my right hand cleaning up the glass and ran water on the cut. The water turned red as it flowed out of the sink. First blood to the other side-whoever they were.
The shirt was a write-off. I ripped the sleeve out and used it to tie up the cut, which was bleeding freely. I locked the back door and pulled the front door shut. Anyone watching would have seen a man with a bleeding hand, dirty pants and a torn shirt rummaging in the shrubbery for his jacket. But I could probably have dug a grave or danced the carioca-no one was looking.
On the drive home to Glebe I tried to figure it out. I concluded that someone knew Felicia Todd wasn’t at home. Did that mean they knew where she was now? Probably. I could imagine a watcher phoning through the message to the searcher that Mrs Todd was going to be busy for the night. But the night had ended abruptly. Was she in danger? Probably not. These people seemed to avoid confrontation. Some comfort in that. Not much. The cut hand throbbed and the rough bandage made driving difficult. I made the turn into my street clumsily and rammed the gutter with my tyres when I stopped.
My house smelled of damp. At least it didn’t smell of cat. I was in a foul mood. I cleaned the cut, put a dressing on it and went to bed. I was almost asleep when the thought came. Two honks probably meant trouble at the front, three meant the back. Smarter than me. I shouldn’t have looked at the street. As soon as I heard the noise, I should have gone straight in.