Peter Corris - Open File

‘No, I have to concentrate on my driving.’

‘That’s good; the way you drive, concentration is essential.’

‘Fuck you.’ She lit a cigarette and that was the end of conversation until her destination became clear.

‘Blue Mountains?’ I said.

‘Got it in one.’ She shot me a look, picking up a note in my tone. ‘Something on your mind?’ She broke into a fair Streisand imitation. ‘Memories…’

In fact I was thinking about Kathy’s wish to see the Blue Mountains and my promise to take her. Going there now under these circumstances wasn’t comfortable, felt like a small betrayal. I pushed the thought aside and tried to provoke Tania because I needed a distraction.

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘How was Damien? Any good?’

She took a bend at speed and avoided an oncoming truck by too small a margin.

‘Not the best, not the worst. What’s the line in that crappy country and western song-”kinda dumb and kinda smart”? That’s Damien. He had his points, liked certain… games. Interested in the details, Cliff?’

‘Tania, your great talent is pissing people off. I doubt you’ll ever win a Walkley. What’s the minister likely to say when you front up?’

‘He’ll welcome me with open flies.’

‘Why don’t you just concentrate on your driving and getting us alive to wherever the fuck we’re going.’

We left the Sydney plains behind and began the climb into the lower reaches of the Blue Mountains. The road should have been better than it was, given the traffic, and even Tania slowed down and took some care. The temperature dropped and a mist hung in the air, visible from a distance, not yet encroaching on the road.

I did have memories of times spent in the mountains, particularly a weekend with Cyn at the Hydro Majestic where the fog had rolled in and obscured the valley view that was billed as one of the great attractions of the place. It was very early on in our relationship and such things hadn’t mattered much. We walked in the rain, sat by the fire, spent a lot of hours in bed. It was a long time back: a memory, not a wound.

We reached Wentworth Falls and Tania turned off onto a narrow road that quickly gave way to a roughly graded gravel stretch and then a dirt track where she engaged the four-wheel drive. The mist was thicker here and she had to flick the wipers on and off a few times to clear the windscreen. The track narrowed and trees overhung it. As we climbed the rain started and the wipers were needed full-time. She had to work to keep the car moving slowly, using the extra traction to avoid slides. She did it pretty well, but the strain showed in her face and she needed both hands. No smoking.

‘Hernando’s hideaway,’ I said, just for something to say.

‘They get a view of the lake on a good day, and some falls and other stuff. It was just a cabin until Ireland spent big money on it.’

‘Jacuzzi? TV mast?’

‘All that.’

‘I hope he’s here. It’s a long way to come up empty.’

‘He’s here. I rang Damien last night.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? Both of them here?’

‘Who knows?’

‘I suppose you gave him to understand he might have another crack.’

She smiled as she steered round a puddle. The front right-hand wheel went down into mud and only the extra drive power kept us going. We rounded a bend where the road widened out to allow for safety. The drop on the left looked like a plunge of a thousand feet into a misty void. A sign read ‘Danger-Skinner’s Leap’ and a fence emphasised the fact. Then the track rose steeply for about half a mile before reaching a flat area of four or five acres. It snaked past, climbing higher.

Plenty of trees around the flat spot, some scrub, outcrops of rock. A cottage sat in the middle of the space- timber and glass, smoke drifting up from the chimney. There was no garden to speak of but an area beside the house had been cleared, levelled and closely mown. It had a flag on a six foot pole stuck in the middle of it.

‘He’s a keen golfer,’ Tania said as she steered the car towards a cement slab where another car stood. ‘Do you play, Cliff?’

‘No. Strikes me the ball’s too small and the distances are too big.’

‘That’s the fun of it. Well, here we go.’

She shrugged into her parka, pulled the hood up, opened the door and, tucking her bag under her arm, made a dash through the rain and mud to the front porch. I watched while she took off the parka and did something to her hair. She rang a bell. The door opened and she waltzed in. I zipped up my jacket, turned up the collar and got out. The rain was really just heavy drizzle and I tramped around to the other side of the house to check it out. A Land Rover, fire engine red, newish, gleaming in the pale light, stood under a tree. Wayne was not alone.

I continued my circuit and reached the back of the house, where a covered deck ran the full length. Tania was right about the view, even through mist and drizzle. Some trees had been dealt with to enhance it, and the result was a vista down towards the township with the lake in sight and the mist-clouded hills in the distance. I’m a citizen of the city and the beach, but this view brought me to a halt and I stood looking out over it, scarcely feeling the damp.

‘Hey, Hardy. Come up out of the rain.’

I scraped my boots on the wire mat provided and climbed the steps to the deck, rubbing the water from my hair and unzipping my jacket. The man who met me was too young to be Wayne Ireland but had the same bull-like build I’d seen in photographs of the politician.

‘Damien Ireland,’ he said, holding out his hand.

I brushed my wet hands together. ‘Got a towel?’

He didn’t like my not shaking hands but he didn’t want me to see it. ‘Sure, Cliff,’ he said. ‘Come and I’ll show you to the bathroom. Better wipe your feet again. Better still, take your boots off.’

I braced myself against the rail and removed my boots. Damien had a couple of inches over my six-foot-one and, as he was wearing boots too, he now had a big height advantage. Just for the hell of it, I took my socks off as well.

I went into a room that mirrored the deck, stretching across the whole length of the house-polished floors, rugs, a big fireplace, wood panelling, a bar with stools and a mirror. No hunting trophies. Tania and Wayne Ireland sat across from each other on either side of the fireplace. Both held drinks in one hand and were smoking-Tania a cigarette, Ireland a cigar.

‘Cliff just has to dry off a bit, Dad,’ Damien said.

Ireland senior nodded. ‘Why don’t you fix Cliff a drink.’

If they call me Cliff like that again, I thought, we could have a serious problem.

Ireland Junior pointed the way to the bathroom and I dried myself with a towel warm from a heated rail. When I got back he was standing behind the bar.

‘What’ll it be, Cliff?’

‘Rough red.’

He was confused. ‘Jesus, we haven’t got-’

‘I didn’t think so.’

‘Can’t you see he’s taking the piss?’ Ireland Senior said. ‘Pour him some red and let’s get down to it here.’

I accepted a glass of red wine and went over to a chair between Ireland and Tania, a little back from them. Damien hovered in the background for a minute, then disappeared.

I seemed to remember reading that Wayne Ireland had played football. The frame that would have stood him in good stead then was overlain with fat. His face and neck were flabby and his expensive outdoor clothes didn’t conceal a waistline bulge. He was ‘hog fat’ as the old bare-knuckle fighters used to say. His colour was high and the only healthy-looking thing about him was a crop of still dark, springy hair, growing thickly and worn long. It was carefully tended-about all he had left to be vain about, physically.