Salt and Blood (15 page)

It wasn't all slog. I swam a few times and thought again about moving out of Sydney, going north. Up where I was, less than 200 kilometres north of the big smoke, the air begins to take on a tropical tang and the long beaches seem to promise longer summers and shorter winters than down south. I like the palm trees. The impulse to move grips me from time to time and I've almost yielded to it once or twice. Almost. One night I phoned Jerry and reported on my lack of progress. She was sympathetic. Talking to her tended to push thoughts of leaving Sydney aside.

I wondered how Rod and Glen were doing for money. Rod must have shelled out a bit for his computer and the clothes and other bits and pieces he'd bought. Glen's finances were always rocky. If they were drinking they'd go through a bit in a hurry. I decided to lower my sights and try the caravan parks. I worked north towards Newcastle, west towards Lake Macquarie and then south. I got tired of the sound of my own voice reciting the registration number of the car and the descriptions of Glen and Rod. I got even sicker of the shaken heads, the hostile looks, the air of defeat that hung around some of the establishments.

I pulled into the Ti-Tree Tourist Park near Belmont, which looked to me as if it should have been named the Lantana. This was the lowest on the scale so far. Travelling caravans seemed to be few and the couple of mobile homes that were anchored and hooked up to power and water were faded and tattered. A couple of free-standing cabins had roofs covered in leaves and fallen branches with grass sprouting knee-high in spots the mower couldn't touch.

The fat woman in the office was barely awake in the hot little room, just awake enough to swat at the flies that clustered round the spilt food on her dress. There was a battered soft drink vending machine in one corner of the room and a showcase of sweets and chewing gum on the counter. A waste paper basket held a collection of wrappers from Snickers and Mars Bars and a few Coke cans. I went through my spiel, expecting the usual response.

‘Fuck me!' she spat and the flies buzzed away. ‘Did I see them? You fuckin' bet I seen them. They did a flit owing us money. Pair of drunks, I shoulda known better.'

I nodded. ‘I thought you'd take the money up front.'

‘Yeah, well I took her credit card like a mug, and then the phone went out 'cause some fucker put a backhoe through the cable. When I got on to check it was … how d'you call it?'

‘Dishonoured.'

‘Right. Dis-fuckin'-honoured is right.'

No point asking her where they went. I was puzzling what to do about it when she volunteered some more.

‘They tried to sell their fuckin' surfboard. One of the permanents here told me. If I'd known they was that broke …'

‘Did he buy it?'

She laughed, lifted a rolled-up magazine from under the counter and dealt death to a fly. ‘Gotcha! Ernie? No way. But he told them they could sell it at Blue Waves at Broken Beach. Good board it was. You after them for money, too?'

‘That's right. You say they were drinking?'

‘Haven't cleaned out the bottles yet.'

‘When was this?'

‘Didn't I say? Yesterday, last night.'

Broken Beach was an indentation on the long sweep of beach south of Swansea. It was late afternoon when I got there but still warm and there were still surfers in the water and people on the beach. The place consisted of a collection of shops tucked back from the highway with a couple of pubs and several motels. The surf shop was wide-fronted with boards on display out on the footpath and its name picked out in an arrangement of surf and boogie boards mounted on the roof. Not tasteful, but different.

I parked rear to kerb outside and went in. The music, held down just below deafening, sounded like a combination of Beach Boys and rap. There were surfboards on racks and stands from floor to ceiling and displays of wetsuits and swimsuits and all the other equipment that goes with the cult. Three or four young men in T-shirts and board shorts were wandering around inspecting the goods while another, scarcely older and dressed the same, kept a watchful eye on them.

I approached a tall man with shoulder-length hair that had been red but was bleached and leached by sun and salt water. Wordlessly, I showed him my licence and mimed turning down the music. He reached under the counter and dropped the noise a few decibels.

‘You buy boards?' I said.

He fiddled with his earring. ‘Sometimes, not that much. What've you got?'

‘Not me. I'm looking for someone.' I described Rod and the board and made it clear I wasn't interested in the item, just the seller.

‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Good board. Hardly been wet. I'll move it. Be better in someone else's hands than his, that's for sure.'

‘Why d'you say that?'

‘Bloke was a bit pissed and I could smell dope on him, too. I … you know, wondered if he'd nicked it, but he had the receipt and everything. Just said he was too old for riding. Thought he'd give it a go again but he was past it. Roger there,' he pointed to the assistant, ‘saw him pull up in a Pajero with a woman, so he wasn't a deadbeat or anything. Spoke well and that. She showed us a driver's licence.'

‘This was when?'

‘First thing this morning. I saw them drinking in the Sea Breeze this arvo. Probably staying there. Should, anyway, they were that pissed.'

‘How much did you give him for the board?'

‘Fair price. Four hundred. I'll get five. Business. Speaking of which …'

‘Bluey?'

‘Yes, Rog?'

With a wetsuit vest in each hand, Roger had
escorted one of the customers to the counter. I thanked Bluey and left the shop. The music hotted up as I reached the footpath.

The Sea Breeze was the furthest away of the two hotels but only a hundred metres or so and I set out for it. Two men stepped out from a fast-food shop doorway and blocked my path.

‘Mr Hardy?'

I was anxious to get to the hotel and I sidestepped and tried to keep moving. ‘That's right.'

‘Just a minute, sir. We'd like to have a word with you.'

19

They introduced themselves as detectives, Loomis and Price from Swansea who'd been contacted by Kevin Sherrin. They bought me a coffee in the fast-food joint and we sat down at a bench under an awning on the footpath. Loomis, the older of the two, lit a cigarette.

‘Understand you're looking for Kevin's missus?'

‘His ex, yeah, that's right.'

‘Having any luck?'

I shook my head.

‘Mind telling us what you were doing in the surf shop?'

I had to think fast. If Rod was drinking there was a better than even chance he'd meet any challenge with violence. If he had dope on him he could be in more trouble than he was already. If he and Glen were still holed up in the hotel, the last thing I needed was the company of this pair.

‘Bloke's a surfer,' I said. ‘I was just asking where the best waves were around here.'

Price grinned. ‘And what did you learn?'

‘I was told right here.'

Loomis nodded. ‘That'd be Bluey, all bullshit. Is there anything we can do to help you?'

‘Don't think so, thanks. I was just going to have a drink at the pub over there and keep looking. Only one drink, mind. Which one d'you recommend?'

‘The Sea Breeze,' Loomis said.

Price said, ‘The Commercial.'

I finished the coffee and fiddled with the styrofoam cup. ‘Might have to make it two drinks, then. Thanks for the coffee. I'll tell Kevin you made the offer.'

‘Do that,' Loomis said. They got up and moved away. I watched them, praying they wouldn't check on my story in the surf shop. I breathed easier when I saw that in the time we'd been talking the place had closed. I set off for the Sea Breeze and took a quick look back when I was halfway there. No cops in sight.

The Sea Breeze was a low, rambling fifties-style building in cream brick with some later additions in red brick. Small windows in the older part, more glass in the new bit. First stop was the car park and there was no sign of the Pajero. I swore and then spotted a sign indicating the residents' car park. I dodged around a couple of cars pulling out and followed the sign around the side of the building. The residential section, a row of six units, was at the back built in the red brick style and was a motel to all intents and purposes.

The Pajero stood outside the third door from the left but it didn't look much like the vehicle
I was used to. It was dusty and travel-stained and there were severe dents in the front left mudguard and rear right, and a long scrape down the passenger side. The rear-vision mirror on that side was missing and the radio aerial stood at a crazy angle. I took a look inside. The interior was a mess of clothes, bottles, cans and fast food containers.

‘Glen,' I said. ‘This isn't you.'

I tried the handle of the motel room door and it swung in. The curtains were drawn over all windows and the room was dark. I peered into the gloom with my damaged slow-to-adjust-to-a-change-of-light vision.

The room smelled of alcohol and sweat and marijuana. Glen lay naked on the bed on her back, her pale breasts flat on her chest and her mouth open so that she snored slightly. Rod was fully dressed and sitting on the end of the bed rolling a joint. The ceiling fan was making an insistent hum and I'd opened the door quietly so that he hadn't noticed. His movements had the clumsiness that comes with being stoned or drunk or both and paying too close attention to what's being done.

He hadn't had a shave in a while and his hair was matted and hanging in his eyes, not a help to the joint rolling. I stepped inside and spoke quietly.

‘Rod.'

He reacted as if a cannon had gone off in the room. His fist closed around the makings and he sprang to his feet. His eyes were wide and mad in
his contorted face and saliva bubbled around the corners of his mouth as he gaped at me. It looked as if he didn't recognise me.

‘It's Cliff, Rod.'

He let out a roar, part pain, part anger, part fear, and rushed towards me. I was caught in the narrow opening between the door and a breakfast table and had nowhere to go. He dropped his shoulder and hit me mid-chest with all his weight and leverage and momentum. I was thrown back against the half-open door. My head jerked back and smacked full square into the heel of the door. I heard the sound and felt the impact, but then everything slid away into a reddish haze as my knees gave way and the floor rushed up to meet me.

I wasn't fully unconscious but close to it, too close to move or speak and my eyes kept fluttering closed. I was aware of sounds and movement, but my chest hurt and I was fighting for breath. I realised that I was lying face down and that years of ingrained stink from the synthetic carpet was filling my nostrils. I rolled over. Everything hurt but I could breathe and I managed to keep my eyes open. Turning my head to the side was agony but I did it. Glen was still on the bed. She hadn't moved, but Rod had gone.

Good,
I thought.
Go where you like, you fucker. I'm finished with you.

When I could suck in a full breath I decided that I didn't have any broken ribs, cracked at worst. I levered myself up against the table until
I was sitting. I remembered reading somewhere that with a fractured skull you get bleeding in the ears. Feeling silly, I probed them with a finger. Nothing. I reached gingerly to the back of my head and felt the blood in my hair and the tenderness underneath it. How do they check if a footballer's concussed? Ask him if he knows what day it is. I thought I did. I was pretty sure.

After a while I crawled across to the bathroom, pulled myself upright and used a towel to clean the back of my head. It was still bleeding and I held the towel hard against it until it stopped. I washed my face and hands and looked at myself in the mirror.
You've looked better,
I thought.
And you've looked a hell of a lot worse.
I drank some rusty tasting water that gave me an idea. Clutching at uprights I worked my way back into the room. An uncapped bottle of the Black Douglas sat on the bedside table near Glen's outstretched hand, along with two grimy glasses. I wiped the top on my sleeve and took a swig. It tasted better than the rusty water, much better. I took another swig and felt the warmth run through me, past the aching chest to my still wobbly legs. It didn't do anything for the pain in my head, but you can't have everything.

I put the bottle down and sat on the bed next to the woman I'd once shared just about everything with. The sheets were a tangled mess, stained with sweat and spilled liquor. Her mouth was closed now and she'd stopped snoring, but her immaculate grooming had vanished and she looked ten years older than when I'd last seen her.
Her hair was disordered, greasy and dull, and her skin was dry and flaky. I reached out and put a strand of hair back somewhere near where it belonged.

‘It'll be all right, Glen,' I said. ‘It'll be all right.'

Slowly and painfully I tidied the room, hanging up clothes and emptying bins. I rinsed the streaky glasses, got rid of the roaches and threw out the bottles and cans. I opened a window to disperse the dope fumes. I wet a towel and bathed Glen's face and wiped the sweat from her body. She stirred but still didn't wake up. I straightened the sheet under her as best I could and covered her with the top sheet. Glen's overnight bag and laptop were in the closet and her handbag was beside the bed. There was no sign of a bag for Rod or any of his clothes.

The effort made me dizzy. I sat and waited for the spell to pass. It took a while, quite a while.

When I felt steady I found Kevin Sherrin's card in my wallet and dialled his mobile.

‘Sherrin.'

‘This is Hardy. I've found Glen. I've got her with me now.'

‘Is she all right?'

‘Yes and no. She's been on a bender. She's sleeping it off.'