Man in the Shadows (2 page)

3

T
HE sun was shining in my eyes and it was only a couple of metres away. I twisted my head and that hurt more than the burning sun. I tried to lift my arm to block out the light; my shoulder was stiff and painful but I got my hand across my face.

‘He's all right,' a voice said.

‘Who's all right?' I said.

‘You are.' This was another voice. ‘Do you know where you are?'

‘Hospital grounds.'

‘You're inside the hospital. You've been unconscious.'

I tried to lift the upper part of my body from what I discovered was a narrow bed. It hurt and someone tried to hold me down but I got there. Everything swum around—room, faces, my legs stetched out in front of me for all of two metres. I closed my eyes. That was better. My neck hurt probably worse than my shoulder. Nothing else hurt very much. My mouth was dry.

‘Some water, please.'

I opened my eyes when I felt the glass held to my mouth, took a sip and swallowed. Much better.

‘A possible concussion?' one of the voices said. A shadow fell across me. ‘I'm Dr Grey. Just lie back and let me examine you.'

I did it. Why not? As awakenings from physical attacks go it was much better than most. I felt strong hands on my temples; the light shone again
but this time the sun had gone back up where it belonged.

‘Look left, look right, look up. Possible concussion, but I think not.'

I could feel sympathy and concern waning so I stayed lying down. The next voice was milder. ‘I'm Dr Smith. I want your explanation for what happened.'

I looked at them through half-opened eyes. Grey was a bulky man with heavy spectacles. He wore a white skull cap like a surgeon which was an alarming thing to see from my position. ‘I was trying to be non-violent, Doctor. I pushed one man and tripped another. Then someone clobbered me.'

‘That is not funny.' Grey said. ‘You trespassed in the company of another man who behaved in a way calculated to disturb some already very disturbed people. You . . . '

‘Where is he? Did he get away?'

‘Listen to me! You are in serious trouble.'

I sat up again and took the water from the man I took to be Dr Smith. He was an older, gentler-looking type wearing similar clothes to Grey—white coat over shirt and tie. Another man stood by the door in the white-painted, almost chilly room. He was the rabbit puncher. ‘I'm a little confused, Doctor,' I said. ‘I may owe you an apology. Things sort of got out of control.'

‘That's not good enough,' Grey spluttered. ‘I want . . . '

‘Now, Bruce,' Smith said, ‘I think we have a reasonable man here. I'm the administrator of the hospital, Mr Hardy. We should be able to straighten things out.'

Grey didn't like that. ‘I've got a half dozen people down there who're going to need special treatment for days over this, maybe longer. This bloody hooligan . . . '

Even though I wasn't at my most acute I could tell that Grey was under more pressure than was good for him. He was red in the face and a purple vein was throbbing under the flushed skin near his right eye. ‘Have you called the police?' I asked.

‘No.' Grey bit down hard on the word.

I drank some water and handed the glass back to Smith. ‘Perhaps you should.'

‘I don't think that's necessary,' Smith said. ‘Just tell us what you and the other man were doing.'

‘You have to see it from my point of view, Doctor. I'm here in some part of a building I'm not familiar with in the company of three men who could be axe murderers for all I know.' I pointed to the man at the door. ‘I know he delivers a good hit. You know my name so I assume you've taken my wallet. I just don't feel safe.'

‘This is absurd,' Grey snorted.

‘So, call the police. What's stopping you?' I swung my legs off the bed and put my feet gingerly on the floor. I wondered if I could support my weight. A pratfall wouldn't have created the right impression just then.

‘What circumstances would make you feel more comfortable, Mr Hardy?' Smith said.

Any public place
, I thought. Preferably where they serve drinks. ‘What about your office? With a view of the gate, a few people around, a telephone on the desk and my wallet in my hand.' I pointed again. ‘I can do without him and I wouldn't mind a drink.'

Smith smiled. ‘Happily, my office has a view of the gate and of the water and I've got a good single malt. How does that sound?'

We sat in Smith's pleasant office, admired the view and I rubbed the back of my neck. I examined my wallet and put it in my pocket.

‘Now,' Smith said, ‘try this.' He poured the
whisky; I sipped it and nodded. Smith took a sip and favoured me with one of his benign smiles. ‘What were you up to?'

That made it sound almost like a schoolboy prank. I could've climbed through the window and walked to the front gate. There were no men bigger than me around, no guns. I wondered why I still had a sense of extreme danger.

‘I was hired by a man who had undergone psychosurgery here. He said he had a friend named Guy who was in danger of receiving the same treatment. He was very upset about it. I got the impression he wanted my help in securing Guy's release.'

‘I see.' Smith drank some more whisky. He swung around to a table on which there was a fair sized computer with a monitor to match. His back was turned to me as he took something from his pocket. I recognised it as my notebook. The neck punch must have fogged me because I hadn't realised it was missing. Smith flicked open a page, nodded and closed the book. He tapped keys for a while, consulted the screen and tapped some more. I finished my drink and looked at the view.

Smith swivelled slowly away from the screen until we were face to face; he handed me the notebook and reached for the bottle. I shook my head. ‘Moderation,' he said. ‘An excellent thing. We have a mystery on our hands, Mr Hardy. This hospital has never had a patient of the name your client gave you, that is, Gareth Greenway, and does not have one with the name of Guy—either as a first or second name.'

 

4

I
accepted the second drink and began to wonder whether it might not be better to feel slightly drunk rather than very foolish. The shadows from the trees had spread across the surface of the water so that it was uniformly dark. The trees were moving in the light breeze but the water was still. A nice view, but it gave me no ideas.

‘I assume you have an address for your Mr Greenway?' Smith said. ‘Some . . . documentation other than your notes?'

‘No. He paid me in cash and we came straight from my office to here. I suppose I thought I'd attend to the formalities later.'

‘That sounds rather unprofessional.'

I let it ride and took another sip of the good, smooth whisky, the stuff that soothes away words like ‘unprofessional'. My mind jumped to the newspaper item I'd read about the course in ‘Private Agency Practice' that was going to be a prerequisite for people in my business henceforth. I had a feeling I'd just failed Elementary Precautions I.

‘This puts you in a rather difficult position, Mr Hardy. You could be charged with trespass, assault and so on.'

I grunted.

‘But it seems more important to know what Greenway, or whoever he is in reality, was doing. You agree?'

‘I'd certainly like to have a private talk with him.'

‘Precisely. So would I. Would you consider a commission from me to locate him and throw some light on this unfortunate affair?'

I finished the second drink and was sure I didn't want any more. I could smell ‘deal' or possibly ‘fix' and you need a clear head when those things are in the air—whether you intend to accept or not. ‘I'm not sure of the ethics of that,' I said.

‘Surely in your business ethics have to be flexible.'

‘Like in yours. Do you do psychosurgery here?'

‘Yes. I could introduce you to some people who're very grateful for the fact.'

‘No thanks.'

‘You are ignorant and prejudiced.' There was some steel in Smith under the blandness. I stood up and fought the giddiness that swept over me. When I was steady I slapped my pockets. ‘Where're my car keys?'

‘I've no idea. You can leave by the front gate, Mr Hardy, but let me say this to you.' Smith walked past me; his sure, firm movements seemed to emphasise my own rockiness. He pulled open the door. ‘I'll put it no firmer than this—you have committed offences that could bring your licence to practise into question. I'm quite well connected in legal and public service circles and I can be a vindictive man.'

‘Maybe you should have that quality cut out of you.' I went through the door.

‘I will expect to hear something from you about your supposed client within a few days, Mr Hardy. Or you will be hearing things you will not like. I can assure you of that.'

‘Thanks for the drink,' I said, but I said it to a closed door. I went down a short passage past a receptionist's booth where a woman in a starched white uniform smiled at me with starched white teeth. I went out the door and down a short path to
a gate in the high fence. The double gates, wide enough to admit a truck, were locked and so was the smaller single gate. I looked back at the building and caught a flash of teeth. A buzzer sounded and the gate jumped open.

It took me half an hour to locate my car and quite a few minutes to get a successful hotwire start; on the old Falcon I could do it in seconds. I hadn't eaten lunch and since then I'd absorbed a good rabbit punch, two large whiskies and some humiliation. I drove home slowly, parked down the street and on the other side in a spot where I could look the house over. If anyone had visited with my keys during my absence they'd been careful. The gate that doesn't quite close was in the not-quite-closed position as before; the local newspapers looked to be arranged in the same way they had been in the morning when I stepped over them.

Inside I sniffed the air for an unfamiliar smell but it was all too familiar—the rising damp, the cat's piss on the carpet and the scent of frangipani that drifts in through the louvre windows at the back of the house. I checked the answering machine in case ‘Gareth Greenway' had phoned with an explanation and apology. No such luck. The phone rang and I snatched it up.

‘Mr Hardy? This is Dr Smith. I'm glad to see you got home all right. It occurred to me that you were in no condition to drive.'

‘I'm tough, but I'm touched by your concern. Also I'm lucky.'

‘Yes, you are. We've found your keys. You can pick them up the next time you're here.'

‘You seem pretty sure I will be.'

‘Yes. Any kind of negative publicity is bad for a hospital. If this Greenway is some kind of ratbag journalist . . . '

‘You've got a problem. Okay, Dr Smith, I'm sure we'll be talking again.'

I hung up and sat down to worry. That did no good. I ate a tuna sandwich to tone up my brain cells, took some aspirin for the pain and some more whisky for the humiliation and went to bed.

Aspirin and whisky don't make for very good sleep. I woke up a couple of times, once because the cat was yowling outside. I got up and played it a tune on the can opener. Later a backfire on Glebe Point Road woke me and left me staring at the ceiling for an hour.

It was the frangipani that got me to thinking about Helen. She'd given it to me in its big tub as a gift, transported it all the way from her Bondi flat balcony, when she'd finally made the decision to go back to her husband and her kid on a full-time basis. Our six-monthly polygamous set-up hadn't worked. ‘It never does,' people drunk and sober had told me. They were right.

I got up and made a cup of weak coffee and sat thinking about how I'd dragged Helen down from Kempsey to Sydney. How we'd pledged this and that and fucked until we ached. Then we'd talked until our mouths were dry and all the words were changing their meanings.

I put the coffee down and it went cold. I wanted to smoke but there was nothing available. Helen had smoked one Gitane a day which left no packets, not even any butts, lying around. As a little light seeped into the bedroom I remembered the last scene, played out right here. The tears and goodbyes. And the bloody frangipani. I could still smell it as I finally fell asleep.

 

5

I
came awake fast and nervous. The hammering sounded as if it was on my bedroom door. Then I realised that it was downstairs. I grabbed a dressing gown, almost tripped on the stairs and reached the door in a foul temper. The knocking kept on. I jerked the door open.

‘What in hell's . . .?'

‘Let me in, quick!'

‘Who're you?'

‘Annie Parker. Quick!' The person who was supposed to be dead slipped past me into the hall.

‘Have you got a gun? Jesus, they'll be here any minute.'

‘Who?' I'd asked three questions in a row and was getting sick of it.

She moved down the hall. ‘Please. You know me. Annie. Just get the gun and stand in the door and let them see it. Please!'

The way she flattened herself against the wall like a back lane fighter convinced me. I got the .38 from the cupboard under the stairs, checked that the safety was on and stood in the doorway with the gun held low but in view. I felt ridiculous; dressing gown, bare legs and cold feet. A red Mazda stopped outside the house. It edged back a little so that the driver could get a better look at me. All I saw was a pale face and a turned up collar. I couldn't see his passenger at all. The car engine purred for about half a minute, then the driver revved it and moved off fast.

I closed the door and looked at the woman sitting on the bottom stair. She was medium-sized with light hair; she had on heavy sunglasses and was wrapped in a sort of imitation of an aviator's jacket with straps and zippers and a hood.

She dug cigarettes out of a pocket in the jacket and lit one. ‘Recognise me?'

I nodded. She bore some resemblance to the skinny, strung-out kid I'd dealt with some years back but, in a way, more to her mother. Or to what her mother might have looked like at about her age which I reckoned to be somewhere around twenty-five. ‘Sure, Annie. I recognise you.' I was going to say that her name had come up in a recent conversation but something trapped and desperate about her smoking stopped me.

She puffed smoke. ‘Yeah, I haven't changed much. More's the fucking pity.'

‘Do you need help?'

‘Don't we all? No, I was in the area when those bastards heavied me. I tried to hide in the park but they flushed me out with the bloody headlights. I remembered your place. So I'm here. I can piss off in a minute if you like.'

I walked past her and put the gun away in the cupboard. ‘Come through to the kitchen. I want some coffee. You?'

‘Coffee, yeah, okay.'

It was bright and warm in the kitchen. Annie took off her jacket and hung it over a chair. She was wearing a clean white T-shirt with SAFE SEX lettered on it and jeans. I let the cat in and she took the tin from me and fed it. Then she sat and smoked, cat on lap, while I made the coffee. The cat seemed to like the smell of the tobacco which is perhaps why we don't get along so well.

‘You're looking a bit better than when I last saw you,' I said, ‘but I hear you've had some trouble.'

‘Trouble. Yeah. You knew Mum died?'

‘No, I didn't. I hadn't seen her around for a while. She wasn't that old, was she?'

She shook her head and gave a short, wheezy laugh. ‘Died of hard work.'

No fear of that for you
, I thought, but I didn't say anything. I poured the coffee and carried a mug to her where she sat so the cat wouldn't be disturbed. That's a knack cats have—being considered. I'd gone out on a long limb for Annie. Maybe she was one of the people who soak up consideration like cats.

The first sips of coffee cleared my brain. ‘You look all right, Annie. Are you clean?'

She shrugged. ‘Methadone programme. I'm doing all right.'

She grinned and it looked as if she was struggling to pull herself up out of quicksand. ‘Could I have some sugar?'

I got it for her but her hands shook so much she almost dropped her mug; the cat stirred, feeling her agitation. She stroked it, to calm herself. ‘Didn't you used to have a girlfriend around here? Blonde? Student or something?'

‘She wasn't a girlfriend, she was a boarder. Friend. Now she's a married dentist with a kid.'

Annie looked around the untidy kitchen and living room. It wasn't exactly squalid but the signs of minimal maintenance were plain. ‘No chick in residence, eh?'

I shook my head.

‘It figures. You were always a cold bastard. Good at your job though.'

‘Thanks. I have to tell you this, Annie. I met a man named Greenway and he told me you were dead.'

She nodded slowly. ‘That doesn't surprise me.'

‘Tell me about him.'

It came out, bit by bit, over the rest of the coffee
and a lot of cigarettes. Annie had spent some time in England, come back to Australia clean but had drifted into the smack world again. She'd struggled though.

‘I was maintaining when I met Gareth,' she said.

‘What's that?'

‘Using, but in very small amounts and very disciplined—so many hits a week, so many no-hit days, a clean week once a month. People go on like that for years, decades, it's not so bad.'

Then she met Greenway at the clinic where she got her syringes and worked part-time as a sort of minder, baby-sitter, coffee maker. She was attracted. They had a hot affair. Then he dropped her.

‘Was he an addict?' I asked.

‘He acted like one.'

‘What does that mean?' I spoke more sharply than I intended and she bristled.

‘Fuck, I don't know. He didn't shoot it, he said he smoked and popped. I never saw him do anything but grass. But he was edgy, like I feel now when you snap like that. What's the matter with you? What did I say?'

‘I'm sorry. Nothing. Tell me about what happened between you.'

‘Usual thing. Lots of grass, lots of wine, lots of fucking and late night TV. That's how I came to mention you. We'd been watching some private eye movie and I told him about the time you . . . handled that narc and the others at Palm Beach. He was interested in that.'

‘Have you ever been in Southwood Hospital, Annie?'

‘Yeah, for a while.'

‘He told me that's where he met you.'

‘Bloody liar. He'd lie about anything. It was after that, a good while after.'

‘What was Southwood like?'

‘Bloody awful. Scary.'

‘In what way?'

‘Every way. You should've seen some of the kids there. They picked them up in the streets. Real horror cases. I don't want to talk about it. Shit!'

‘What?'

‘I left my stuff with those creeps. Shit!'

‘Maybe we can do something about that. Tell me about what happened with you and Greenway.'

‘He was living in this place at the Cross. One day he was there and the next day he wasn't. Nobody knew where he'd gone. I went down hard. I broke my own rules—hit up every day. Then I went on the methadone.'

‘What about those characters that chased you in here?'

‘I was scoring in the flats down the end of your street, by the water.'

‘Are you going to try maintaining again?'

‘I don't know. Shit, I believed him, you know? We had a great time and I thought he was for real. Fuck it. Who cares? I'd better go.'

It was after ten o'clock by then, late enough. I made us a couple of white wines and sodas and we sat in the backyard with the drinks and the cat. I explained to her why I needed to find Greenway and she seemed to understand, although she wouldn't talk about the hospital. I asked her where she was living and it sounded like a series of couches and floors and sleeping bags.

‘Did you score in the flats?'

She shook her head.

The sun and the wine relaxed her. Her hands stopped shaking. She told me a bit about her time in England. She laughed, remembering good times and perhaps not giving up hope for more. I asked her to stay for a few days and she accepted.
Might need your help to find Greenway
, I thought, but I knew I
needed the company more. So now I had a junkie in the house. I also had the cat around a lot more, seeing as how it likes the smell of cigarette smoke.