Peter Corris - Forget Me If You Can

‘Who’s this?’ he growled.

‘Cliff,’ Fran said, touching my arm but leaving me a clear reach to the gun. ‘This is Ronnie Phillips, my former husband.’

‘Still your bloody husband.’

‘Not for long.’

‘You fuckin’ bitch.’ He made a fist and stepped forward. I moved up past Fran. That pleased him-something to hit. He’d probably been wanting to do it since his first bench press. But he was slow; the looping right came at me but I had all the time in the world to deliver a short jolt to his bulging left bicep. I hit the spot just right. He yelped and the intended punch became a grab at the arm which dangled, the fingers in spasm.

‘Visit’s over, Ronald,’ I said. ‘On your way.’

He wanted to have another go but that kind of punch leaves an arm pretty well useless for a couple of minutes and he wasn’t silly enough to think he could take me with one hand.

‘You bitch.’

‘You’re repeating yourself,’ I said. ‘But if you like we can stand here and chat for a bit while Fran calls the cops. I can tell them that you threatened her.’

The bounce had gone out of him; only the bastardly was left. He made a show of staring into my eyes before he covered his with the shades. He flexed the left hand, quick recovery. Then he turned and went down the path. He kicked the gate shut behind him and it swayed with the force of the kick.

‘Petty,’ I said.

Fran’s hand was on my shoulder. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ she said.

The house had a comfortable feel, even with the possibility of the return of Ron. We had a couple of glasses of wine and I took a few turns around the block, just checking. Fran made a salad and we got to talking in an easy way as if we’d met more than just twice. The Christmas tree in the corner of the living room was properly decorated and the wrapping paper scattered around it indicated that the twins, Paul and Harriet, had had a good deal of loot. (I had presents for Frank and Hilde and would get some from them. I’d got a book in the mail from my sister and that was my lot.)

We talked, I admired her garden which was mostly herbs, vegetables and fruit trees-my idea of a garden. Fran phoned the Lane household where the kids were staying and was told that everything was going fine and they were looking forward to her dropping in.

‘They’re a bit dull,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to come in. I’ll be quick.’

She changed into loose white pants and a blue silk blouse and looked good. I drove to Drummoyne and admired her as she walked away from the car. No sign of Ronnie. I listened to the radio and tried to remember who’d won the four grand-slam tennis titles that year and the runners-up in the mens and women’s singles. It was a typical slice of a private detective’s day- waiting and killing time.

Fran smelled slightly of brandy when she got back into the car. She kissed me on the cheek and I could have taken a bit more of that.

‘Boring for you.’

‘Worth it now. Kids okay?’

‘Fine. I’ll pick ‘em up tomorrow morning. Do your friends know you’ll have company?’

‘They don’t, but they’ll be pleased.’

We set off with quite a few unasked questions in the air. I had the presents on the back seat-a bottle of Scotch for Frank, gardening gloves and shears for Hilde and a six-pack of the priciest tennis balls on the market for young Cliff who was doing well in a junior tennis development program. Fran said she felt bad about not having a gift so we stopped at a Bondi pub, had a drink and she bought a bottle of champagne.

‘So he’s a good cop, this Frank?’ Fran said.

‘The best. He’s quiet but you’ll like him. Don’t worry, they’re easy people to get on with. Like you.’

‘Do we tell them what we’re really doing today?’

‘Up to you.’

‘Let’s not.’

Everything went well at the Parkers. Cliff was off playing tennis and Fran and Hilde talked about kids and how independent they were these days. Frank and I had beer and chablis while the women drank champagne. The lunch was good and we’d just about finished when a bleeper sounded in the living room.

‘Oh, shit,’ Fran said. ‘Sorry, I left my mobile number where the kids are, just in case. Harriet acts up.’ She got up quickly and went to her bag.

I heard the sharp intake of breath and was moving quickly towards her when I heard her shriek.

‘No! Oh God no!’

Her face, which was tanned and had had some extra colour in it from the wine, turned white; her lips were moving soundlessly.

‘What?’ I said.

‘It’s Ronnie. He’s taken the kids.’

Frank was beside me. ‘Fran, can I…?’

‘No!’ she shouted. She grabbed her bag, pushed past us and ran for the door. I followed, ignoring Frank’s protest. Fran dashed into the street and was heading nowhere, looking around frantically.

I grabbed her arm. ‘What’s happening? Let me help. Frank can help too.’

‘No. He says I have to go home. He’s ringing every hour. No police. Oh God, he must be mad.’

I unlocked the car, bundled her in and was off before Frank reached his front gate. I’d had too much to drink to be driving but I could feel myself sobering up by the second. Fran told me what the Lanes had told her: Phillips had walked in, threatened the adults with a tyre lever, picked up the twins and announced that he was taking them away. He’d ring Fran on the hour and she’d better talk to him if she wanted to see the children again.

‘He must have followed us to the Lanes,’ Fran said. ‘You should have seen him.’

I concentrated on driving, keeping up a good speed but staying out of trouble. She was right. His arriving at her place in a taxi had thrown me. I should have realised that for a man like Ronnie any street is full of available cars. Car theft, offering menaces, abduction-it was desperate stuff that would finish his parole chances. Not a comforting thought, also a puzzling one. Why had he blown his stack?

‘Hurry,’ Fran said. ‘We’ve only got twelve minutes.’

All the rapport between us had gone. I didn’t answer and concentrated on driving and thinking. Where could Ronnie have gone with two distressed kids? How many options would he have, a few hours out of gaol? We reached Fran’s street with a couple of minutes to spare. I pulled up fifty metres from the house. She swore at me, yanked open the door and ran. I got the. 38 and eased out of the car quietly. The earlier recce now came in handy. I went down the side path of the unoccupied house next to Fran’s, into the backyard and over the fence.

I approached the back door trying to remember what sort of a lock it had, whether or not there was a screen door. I needn’t have bothered. The screen door wire had been ripped and the back door jemmied open. I went through into the closed-in verandah behind the kitchen. I could hear children crying and shouting from inside the house. No need for tip-toes. I went through the kitchen into the passage. The crying was coming from the girl’s room; I could hear her brother trying to soothe her.

‘You’ve terrified my kids,’ Fran hissed.

‘They’re my kids, too. I’ve got a right to see them.’

‘They’re not your kids.’

‘What?’

‘I said they’re not yours. Thank Christ.’

The sound of a slap, then a choked cry ending in a kind of laugh. Ronnie was standing over Fran, who was slumped onto the couch.

‘You’ve screwed up again, Ronnie. You’d better run. If they catch you they’ll put you away for good.’

‘I’ll kill youse all.’

I heard the booze in the voice; I saw the carving knife. I moved up, gripped the pistol by the barrel and hit him as hard as I could behind the ear with the butt. He jerked half-around; I hit him again and felt his skull crack. He dropped the knife and fell awkwardly with his weight coming down hard on a buckled knee. The ligaments tore like ripped silk.