Peter Corris - Torn Apart

Toby Fairweather had done some of the stunts for one of the actors I'd bodyguarded in a film that involved a lot of climbing, swinging, jumping and diving. I'd been impressed by the careful way he'd gone about setting everything up to minimise the risks. He was a disciplined guy, didn't drink when working, and was a fitness fanatic. But he admitted that his body had taken a battering over the years and that he used steroids to keep going. I thought he'd know how the market stood, how high the stakes were.

When Toby's not stunting or working out in the gym, he conducts early morning and late afternoon classes in Chinese fighting sticks, conducted in Camperdown Park. Good little earner, low overhead. I threaded through the traffic and the singing, dancing pilgrims and got there when a class was in full swing. There were four pupils, two men and two women, and Toby was putting them through their paces, switching them from one-on-one combat to a sort of all-in melee and then cutting one out and taking that one on himself. The pupils were young, in their late teens and early twenties; two Asian, two not. Toby is forty plus but was clearly faster and more deft than any of them, although they all showed promise.

I sat on a seat and watched as the light faded. The clatter of the sticks and the grunts and occasional screeches attracted a few bystanders. When the session finished, some of the watchers clapped before drifting away. Toby bowed, all style. He collected the sticks, spoke briefly to the youngsters, picked up his bag and sauntered over to where I was sitting.

'Hi, Cliff. Great exercise and very calming. You should try it.'

'Gidday, Toby. I've been hit on the head too many times already, thanks, and I'm calm enough.'

He sat and tied the sticks into a bundle with a length of cord and put them into his long bag-the kind cricketers use. 'You're never calm,' he said. 'You don't have a calm aura.'

'I do my best. I need some information, Toby. Do you want to go somewhere up King Street for herbal tea?'

He laughed. 'Love to take the piss, don't you? No, I'm happy here. I've got a stunt rehearsal to go to soon. What's up?'

I told Toby as much as he needed to know about Patrick's steroids. He listened intently while squeezing a rubber ball in each of his hands as a wrist strengthening exercise. I suppose you need strong wrists when hanging from bridges and swinging on ropes across rivers.

'Built-in masking agent, you reckon,' he said. 'Those things would be worth a lot of money. Didn't happen to hang on to a handful, did you?'

'Who'd want them, apart from would-be suicides like you? Athletes? Footballers?'

He shook his head. 'Not worth it, but lots of people- truckies with injuries and getting too old for the game; tuna fishermen, same thing; police rescue boys and girls; mountaineers, rock climbers, cavers-you name it.'

I thought about Patrick's remark: I have a thought or two. 'Is there enough money in it for someone to get killed for doing the wrong thing?'

'You mean ripping off a consignment?'

'Something like that, or horning in on an established market.'

'I don't think it's organised enough for that. More a matter of people seeing an opportunity and grabbing it, but I could ask around. Who's got the stuff we're talking about now?'

'Dunno. Police or Customs.'

'It'll filter through, then, at least some of it. I'll keep an eye out.'

I thanked him and had got up to leave when he pushed me down and pointed to the suture scar just showing above the top button of my shirt.

'That what I think it is?'

I nodded. 'Bypass.'

'What did I tell you when I saw you tucking into steak and chips on that movie set?'

'The catering was too flash to resist.'

'Things've changed. It's pies and sausage rolls now, if you're lucky. Doesn't bother me of course. Well, see you, Cliff. Glad you're still in the land of the living, even though you don't deserve to be.'

Toby is a vegetarian. He loped away and I watched him disappear into the gathering gloom. I was hearing that sort of news too much lately from people in various professions- restricted services, belt tightening.

As I got up and stretched, joints cracking, two men came slouching towards me. One was about my height and build, the other shorter and wider. They were both young and carrying stubbies.

'Hey, mate, got a spare smoke?' the taller one said.

'No, sorry.'

Shorty said, 'Got a light?'

'Why would I have a light if I haven't got a cigarette?'

'You're a smartarse,' Shorty said.

'And you're a nuisance. Go away.'

The taller one said, 'I bet he's got a wallet.'

'Go away before you get hurt.'

He reached out and grabbed the lapel of my jacket. Bad move. Two free hands will usually beat none. I hit him hard over the heart. He dropped to his knees and vomited. The other man swung at my head with his bottle. Another mistake-too small a target and a head can duck. Go for the body first. I gave him a right rip to the ribs and when he sagged I lifted my knee and caught him under the chin. He collapsed and his bottle hit the graffiti-covered brick wall and smashed.

I bent down, lifted him, and propped him against the wall under a peace sign. 'Look after your mate. He's not feeling well.'

I walked away. The confrontation had taken a matter of seconds and the few other people in the park were too far away to see what happened.

I drove home. Sheila's VW was parked across from my house. She got out as I arrived; we embraced in the middle of the street, and she stepped back sniffing.

'What?' I said.

'Funny smell.'

We went into the house and when we were under the light she pointed to my pants below the knee. 'Ugh, you've got chuck all over you.'

I'd been massaging a bruised knuckle. She noticed. She put down her bag with a thump. 'What happened, Cliff?'

'Couple of wannabe muggers.'

'Did they hurt you? No, you hurt them, didn't you?'

'They were young and inexperienced and probably drunk. It's nothing to be proud of. Let me get cleaned up. Did I say I was glad to see you?'

'No, but you will be. I've pulled myself together and I'm ready to tell you everything I can about Paddy and to show you a few things as well.'

I changed my clothes and we sent out for Vietnamese food. Sheila was animated, almost hectic, high on the prospect of the film and fascinated by the character she was playing. Her research had gone well and reports from the producer, getting the money together, and the director, scouting locations, were good. She drank a few glasses of wine and hoed into the fish and vegetables but scarcely touched the rice. I'd never mastered chopsticks; Sheila was adept. She tried to instruct me as others had done but I was hopeless. The sore hand didn't help.

'You must really have belted him,' she said. 'You were a boxer like Paddy, weren't you?'

I was glad we'd reached the subject. 'He was a pro, I was an amateur.'

'Mr Modest.' She got up, fetched her bag and sat on the couch. 'Come over here.'

I drained my glass and went. The extra weight in her bag turned out to be a hefty photograph album. She opened it over our close-together knees. Sheila was a keen photographer and a good one. She'd kept an extensive photographic record of her tortured relationship and marriage to Patrick Malloy from the days of their meeting at a party to the final split-a shot of Patrick storming off towards his car. Good times and bad times; smiles and tears; presents and the aftermath of rows-smashed glasses, scattered books, broken furniture.

'You can see how it was,' she said. 'We'd break up, go off with someone else and get back together again. Look, here's Seamus Cummings and here's one of the women Paddy was fucking, one of many. I took that without her knowing, jealous as hell.'