Peter Corris - Burn and Other Stories

‘I met fish I liked more,’ Wilbur said. ‘What d’you make of him?’

I told Wilbur about our night and day. ‘He seems to be two different people, day and night, sober and drunk. He’s genuinely frightened though. When did the death threats start?’

‘Day one,’ Wilbur said. ‘Show you.’ He opened a filing cabinet and took out two folders, one thick, the other thin. He passed the thin file across. ‘This is just the written stuff. We get a few over the phone and on the board when he does the talk-back segment. Use the delay switch, but there’s a few tapes you could listen to if you like.’

I nodded and poured some more red. The eight or ten letters were written on a variety of stationery, some typed, some handwritten in pencil, ballpoint, ink, Texta colour. They basically denied MacMillan the right to hold the opinions he espoused. A couple argued against racial differences on scientific grounds. Two letters threatened MacMillan’s life if he continued to broadcast, although they were vague about how the execution would be carried out.

‘What’s in the other folder?’ I asked.

‘Messages of support.’ Wilbur dumped the heavier folder in front of me. Unlike most of the brickbats, the bouquets were all signed and carried addresses. A few were typewritten or done in the copperplate they taught in state and private schools before the war; others were rougher. Their message was consistent-Australia for the Australians and that meant people with skins more or less the colour of the paper they were writing on.

Wilbur slipped a cassette into a machine on his desk and hit the Play button. I listened for a couple of minutes to harsh male voices, threatening violence.

‘How did the message that flipped him out come?’

Wilbur shook his head. ‘Don’t know. He just came storming in, swearing his life was in clanger and demanding protection.’

I looked through the hate mail again and listened to the tape. Then I checked the pro-Charlie stuff, including a couple of callers that had been on air and agreed with MacMillan that white was right.

‘Did any of the knockers get air time?’

‘Sure. A radical libber gave him a bit of a run for his money. Some bishop got on, but Charlie made mincemeat of him.’

I closed the folders and put them back on Wilbur’s desk. ‘There’s something funny about this,’ I said. ‘But I can’t put my finger on it.’

‘Don’t worry. No-one wants you to solve anything. Just keep him safe, semi-sober and happy for a couple of weeks.’

‘He only drinks at night,’ I said. ‘During the day he’s like Mahatma Gandhi.’

Wilbur had drunk most of the red and his face was almost the colour of the bottle. He belched. ‘Wish I could say the same.’

‘How come you’re doing all this? Why isn’t Charlie hiring me?’

‘In his contract,’ Wilbur said. ‘Standard these days. Celebrities get protection, employers pay.’

‘I’m all for it,’ I said. ‘Seeing as how it’s mostly bullshit. Money for jam.’

Wilbur concentrated on pouring the last of the wine into his paper cup. ‘Right. So why are you frowning?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘A feeling.’

‘Feelings are for women,’ Wilbur said, and he laughed.

I didn’t laugh and I frowned deeper and even swore a little when Wilbur told me that MacMillan insisted on using his Mercedes to get around in. He claimed other cars hurt his back.

MacMillan did his session and we set off into the warm Sydney night. The evening was a repeat of the previous one, with variations. Charlie visited a Woollahra whorehouse and a succession of pubs around the eastern suburbs. He got thoroughly pissed and announced loudly in the last pub that he was going back to a motel in the Cross and that anyone was welcome to come along. There were no takers. We’d left the car at the lower end of Victoria Street. I had to support MacMillan, stop him bumping into trees and posts. This distracted me so that I didn’t hear the footsteps until it was almost too late.

‘Hey, man.’

Pseudo-matey, jumpy, vicious. I shoved Charlie away and hit the first man as hard as I could with a fist and a knee and a foot. He screeched, sagged away. His mate was coming at Charlie. I rushed him and drove him hard into the iron railing fence. He was fat and it didn’t hurt him much. He swung at me-a chain, hissing in the air. I ducked under it, grabbed the metal links and brought them up, wrapped them around his fat neck. He felt the chain bite into his flab and he started to beg.

‘Please, mister. I never…’

The other one was vomiting into the gutter. I’d got him very low with the knee. I forced the fat man to kneel beside him and I bumped their heads together, not gently.

‘Stay there for five minutes,’ I said. ‘Make it ten to be on the safe side.’

I hauled Charlie to his feet, threw the chain away and walked him to the car. The rush of adrenalin was fading; I felt drained and a bit dirty. Automatically, I drove to the motel MacMillan had mentioned, a down-at-heel joint with a car park as skimpy as the balconies on its rooms. I wedged the Merc into the only space available, which left its MAC 1 numberplate exposed to the street.

Charlie used his Mastercard although he was almost too drunk to sign his name. We got a big room you might have called a suite if it had been cleaner-two double beds and a single, small kitchen and breakfast nook. Charlie sprawled on one of the doubles, clawed off the top layer of clothes. He mumbled something that might have been “Thanks’, and went to sleep. I made instant coffee and sat on the single bed feeling like the year’s prize idiot. I knew this motel only too well- it was a crim hangout where more than a couple of the fraternity had had their last drink, fuck, heroin hit, whatever, before kissing their dirty lives goodbye.

I spent a very uncomfortable night drinking coffee, watching old movies on TV and nodding off in a chair I’d selected particularly for its lack of comfort.

MacMillan woke up at seven, clear-headed, as before. I’d ordered breakfast at six, just for something to do. He wolfed down most of it, cold eggs, tomato slices and the kind of limp toast only motels can provide. He flicked through the paper and whistled as he slapped more butter on the toast.

‘Quiet night, Cliff? Easy money?’

I grunted. Light glinted around the edges of the heavy blind. I reached over and released it. The bright sunlight hit him full in the face. He barely blinked.

‘Ah, Sydney,’ he said. You beauty. What would you say to a swim?’

The man was a freak. I was beaten. ‘Wouldn’t mind.’

‘That’s the spirit. I’ve got nothing on today. You like Newport?’

I liked Newport. Who doesn’t? I’d have liked it even better if I’d had the kind of place Charlie had to live in-a white painted sandstone house on a hill overlooking the ocean; high wall all around, nice garden, balconies, roof deck, plus one of the best burglar alarms and security systems I’d ever seen.

Charlie made a few calls from one of the several phones in the house. He found some swimmers for himself and an old pair of stubbies for me. We went to the beach with towels, chilled mineral water and about ten pieces of fruit. MacMillan turned out to be a real little wave-cracker. He swam out strongly, using the slight rip to get him beyond the breakers and he came in, head down, shoulders hunched, streamlined. I caught one to his three, quit about ten waves sooner, and went to the bottle shop for a few cans of Coopers Lite.

It’s hard to feel angry when you’re lying in the sun, munching crisp apples and wetting your whistle, but I managed it. I knew MacMillan was playing me and Wilbur Hartwell for suckers. He was exposing himself, as it were, instead of keeping a low profile and staying safe inside his electronic fortress. The trouble was, his fear was genuine. As we lay on the beach, he twitched every time a male over sixteen walked past. His shades came on and off as he gazed around at the car park, the surf club, the skateboarders on the pavement ten metres away. A truly frightened man. But what of?