Peter Corris - The Coast Road

‘Your crappy car’s in Oxford Street near the barracks. The keys’ll be under the front seat. I hope you’re not too badly hurt. Leave me fucking-well alone.’

I put the phone back in my pocket, downed the rest of the brandy and grabbed the bottle from the bar. I walked out leaving the front door open. Give Jason something to think about apart from tackles and knock-ons.

Every step I took along the streets of Paddington sent shock waves through me and I wished I’d stayed for the painkillers. I found the car exactly where she said it’d be and sat in the seat quietly for a minute to make sure I was up to the drive. My bag was there, untouched, also the books and other bits and pieces. A card with my mobile number on it was crumpled up on the seat. The keys were under the seat.

I stopped at the first open chemist, bought painkillers and washed them down with a paper cup of water while the pharmacist looked shocked at the number I took.

‘You’ll shred your liver,’ he said.

Oncoming lights dazzled me, rough patches on the road shook me and the analgesics on top of the hefty dose of brandy made me light-headed. I drove, gritting my teeth and forcing myself to focus on every movement. I thought if I allowed myself to drift into auto-pilot mode I could finish up in Parramatta or wrapped around a lamppost. If the cops found me in this condition, with the open bottle of brandy in the car, I’d be off the road for six months.

No maudlin thoughts about not wanting to go home this time. My door, my hall, my kitchen, my bathroom had never looked so good. I stripped, had a shower and cleaned the head wound with alcohol swabs. I hadn’t eaten since the pub lunch, so I slapped together some leftovers and microwaved the lot into a sort of bubble-and-squeak. I ate a few mouthfuls and then threw the lot up into the sink. I knew I was slightly concussed and couldn’t remember the treatment. I filled a plastic bag with ice cubes and held it to my head. Better.

I sat in the living room wrapped in a towelling robe, holding the plastic bag to my head. Some detective. I’d caught my quarry and let her get away by completely misreading her. Something had happened to Kristina between Tempe and when I’d met her. That sounded right-at least I was thinking again. Where had the clothes and accessories come from? She couldn’t have gone far even in Paddington at that time of night, dressed as she was, without courting trouble, so how had she been able to ditch the car so soon? She could have ducked in somewhere and called a cab on her mobile. Maybe. But where was she going? On balance it looked to me as if she had a provider, a protector. A pimp.

I went upstairs to bed wondering how I was going to communicate this to her mother. I crawled in, still wearing the robe. My last thought was that I’d been propositioned three times in the course of the day. Two had been commercial and the other was only in fun.

I phoned Marisha Karatsky and said I had news of her

daughter although I hadn’t exactly located her.

‘You’ve seen her? Spoken to her?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s well… not sick?’

‘No, but I have to talk to you.’

She worked from her home in Dulwich Hill. The building had been a large warehouse now divided into apartments. Security door. I buzzed the number she’d given me. She had a top level spot-large floor space, open plan kitchen and living and three bedrooms. Pricey, depending on when she bought it. Maybe she rented. Expensive either way. She invited me in and brewed up some coffee. She wore a long smock over black flared trousers. As a rule small people shouldn’t wear flared pants, but she managed to look good. The heels helped. We sat at a low table with the coffee mugs. A large window gave a wide view of nothing in particular. It let in a lot of light and my head still ached. She saw me wince.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I got hit on the head. The light bothers me a bit.’

She drew some curtains and everything softened. ‘Not by Kristina, I hope.’

‘No. By a brick wall. Although she helped.’

‘Oh, my God. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right. Goes with the job. Nothing serious.’

I told her everything from Tempe to Paddington via Alexandria without pulling any punches. She sipped her coffee and her face remained expressionless although her dark eyes with the shadows beneath them seemed to become more hooded. My coffee was cool by the time I finished but I drank it anyway, along with a couple of painkillers from the supply in my pocket.

‘Fifteen,’ she said, ‘and a whore.’

‘For what it’s worth,’ I said. ‘It could be worse. The Alexandria place is well run. She seems to be able to look after herself. The guy there said she tested clear for drugs. I’m inclined to believe him.’

‘But at the house in Tempe they said-’

‘Could’ve been a pose. I’m not saying she’s not a very confused and conflicted young woman.’

She stood and began to pace around the big room, her high heels clacking on the polished floorboards. Watching her, I began to see similarities between her and her daughter despite the difference in size-the same mass of dark hair, facial refinement, grace of movement. She sat down and leaned towards me across the table, her eyes huge, her mouth trembling.

‘I wasn’t entirely honest with you, Mr Hardy.’

I tried a reassuring grin. ‘Like the knock on the head, it goes with the job.’

‘You say her clothes. . the white clothes looked expensive?’

‘Very.’

She said, ‘Shit,’ pronouncing it almost like a foreign word. ‘I thought when I found the Tempe address and from the clothes she was wearing lately she was at least being… you saw the T-shirt-a pinball place.’

I nodded.

‘I thought you might find her working at a fast food place, smoking dope, taking ecstasy at dance parties. Bad enough, but not…’

She was shaking, coming apart. I moved around the table to the two-seater chair and put my arm around her shoulders. She drew closer, her small body seeming to shrink into my bulk.

‘What, Marisha?’

‘Not with… him.’

‘Who?’

She didn’t move away and she stopped shaking after a while. It was some time since I’d been that close to a woman and I enjoyed the contact. Her hair smelled of herbal shampoo and I wanted to stroke it.

‘I…there was a man. I was with him for a time. I thought he was a good man but one day I found him with Kristina. He had bought her clothes and makeup and shoes and she was all dressed up for him. I don’t think he had… what’s the word?’

‘Molested?’

‘Yes, molested. I don’t think so, but I wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was not the first time. I sent him away and I threw out the things. Kristina screamed. A big fight, but she calmed down.’

‘When was this?’

She pulled away then and I let her go. She turned her head to look up at me and there were questions as well as pain in her eyes. Something had happened between us, and it wasn’t to do with Kristina. The reaction I’d had to her at my place was back, stronger.

‘Two years ago. She was thirteen. She was always precocious…’

‘No,’ I gripped her wrist. ‘That’s wrong. With a kid of thirteen, the responsibility is always on the adult. Always, Marisha!’

‘Yes. You are right. He telephoned and I know she spoke to him again. I changed the number. We moved to this place. She saw a counsellor for a little time and I thought…’

‘Did he have money, this guy?’

‘Yes, he had money. I think so.’

‘You think so.’ I couldn’t help a critical note creeping in. ‘How long were you with him?’

She pulled right away and leaned back. A long breath, in and out. ‘It is difficult to explain, Mr Hardy.’