Peter Corris - Burn and Other Stories

‘Tomorrow, late morning. I’ll call you.’

That left me with another evening to kill. I went to a fitness centre in Balmain and hung around until someone turned up willing to play table tennis with me. The deal is, you hire one of the squash courts, a table, net and balls for an hour at an exorbitant price, and play as hard as you can to get your money’s worth. I played against a police sergeant from the Balmain station and let him win, four matches to three. In my business, you never know when a friendly police sergeant might come in handy.

I went into the office in the morning, paid a few bills, requested payment for the third time from a faithless client and generally waited for lan’s call. I plugged in a recording device and activated it when I heard lan’s voice on the line.

‘Cliff,’ he said. ‘I’ve got good news and bad news. There’s a patient named Carl Hammond who fills your bill. Aged twenty-three; the contact is his sister, Valerie Ursula…’

‘That’s it,’ I said.

‘Poor chap’s in a very bad way.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s called kernicterus. This is the most severe case to come the way of the people there, and the worst I’ve ever heard of. Put simply, it’s brain damage caused by jaundice at birth. The baby’s red blood cells are broken down to such a degree that the liver can’t cope with the by-products and this stuff called biliruben is released into the bloodstream. It’s bile, essentially, a sort of stain that causes brain damage. Are you making notes or something?’

‘I’m recording it, Ian. Go on.’

Sangster cleared his throat. “Well, as I say, in a severe case a part of the brain is damaged and you get deafness, palsy, loss of coordination. Usually, in a case this bad, the baby is born prematurely and dies. That’s called hydropis fetalis, for your information. Carl Hammond should have died. Some freak of nature kept him alive. A cruel freak, I’d call it. Not everyone would agree.’

‘Can he…?’

‘To almost any question you can put, the answer is no.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Not around when he was needed. I’m sorry, mate. This is grim stuff. He’s there until he dies which could be tomorrow or ten years away. He requires complete care. The fees must be astronomical. Is that all you need?’

‘Yes. No. What causes it?’

‘The Rhesus factor.’

‘What’s that.’

‘God, you laymen are so ignorant. No wonder we get so much money. It’s an incompatibility between the mother’s blood group and that of the foetus. The mother’s metabolism sort of creates antibodies against the foetus, which pass through the placenta and fuck everything up. Get on to it early and you can do a transfusion and avoid the whole mess. Not in this case.’

‘Why not?’

‘Sorry. I don’t know. It’s a chance in a thousand sort of thing. Harder to detect twenty-odd years ago than now.’

I thanked him and rang off. I wound back the tape and played the conversation through again. Then I got out a dictionary and looked up some of the words while I made notes. I had an answer to one question now, at least-what Valerie Hammond did with her money. And, remembering her outcry on the phone, I had inklings of other questions and other answers. I resisted the impulse to go out for a drink before attempting to call Valerie Hammond. The only number I had was at work. Maybe she hadn’t gone in today. I was almost hoping she hadn’t when I heard her voice, crisp and confidence-inspiring, on the line.

‘Valerie Hammond.’

She’d pulled herself together and sounded in better emotional shape than me. But what do you say? How do you tell someone you know their secrets and their nightmares? I tried to keep my voice level and calm, and I spoke very quickly. ‘Ms Hammond, I don’t want to distress you, but I know about your brother and your problem. I’m working for Mr Adamo, but I want to help you. Please talk to me. Please don’t hang up.’

I heard the sharp intake of breath, could sense the struggle for control. ‘I have to tell you I’m taking Valium which is the only reason I’m able to talk to you like this. What do you want, Mr Hardy?’

‘To talk to you for a few minutes, face to face. If what I have to say doesn’t make any sense to you I’ll back off, report to Mr Adamo that I couldn’t find you.’

‘Very well. If it’ll get rid of you. I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re a violent man.’

‘I’ll meet you outside your office building. We can talk as we walk. Play it by ear.’

‘Did you follow me from work yesterday?’

Uncomfortable question, but it felt like time to play everything straight with her. ‘Yes. I hope I didn’t hurt your friend.’

‘He’s all right. He… he’s just sharing the rent with me. It’s an arrangement. I’m not… oh, what does it matter?’

This response was my first glimmer of hope; the first indication that she had some awareness of things outside the prison of her problems. ‘In an hour, Ms Hammond?’

‘Yes. I’ll see you in an hour, Mr Hardy.’

She was on time and so was I. I walked up to her and we shook hands. It seemed like the right thing to do. She was wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday. So was I, as it happened. We walked along Bent Street past the government buildings, in the direction of the Stock Exchange. There were very few people about. We walked slowly. She said that she hoped this interview would be brief.

‘Were you fond of Robert Adamo?’ I asked.

‘Very,’ she said. ‘Very, very fond. That was the trouble. I hadn’t ever allowed myself to feel as much for anyone before. It was a mistake.’

‘Why?’

‘Robert wanted to marry me and for us to have children. I can’t possibly do that, and you know why.’ She quickened her pace slightly and spoke more quickly, as if she wanted to get the talk over. ‘Oh, I know he loved me and he might have agreed not to have children. But that wouldn’t have been fair on him. Or I might have weakened, or… or there might have been an accident. Anyway, my first duty is to Carl. I should never have got involved with Robert. He’s too intense, too… good. His hiring you proves how serious he was. It was an awful, cruel thing for me to do.’

‘I know this is painful for you, Ms Hammond, but I’d be glad if you could just answer a few questions. Why do you say you can’t have children?’

Her high heels tapped faster. ‘Because there is severe mental and physical disability in my genes.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘I didn’t have to be told. Take a look at my brother, Mr Hardy.’

‘Who told you?’

‘My mother.’

‘Did you ever inquire yourself about his condition, ask a doctor…?’

‘No. I love Carl, strange as it may seem. I just want to make sure he’s as happy as he can be. That’s all. That’s my life.’

‘When did your mother die?’

‘Six years ago. She left Carl in my charge.’

We’d reached a row of benches outside a new steel and glass tower. I steered her towards one which was shaded by a tree growing in a large wooden box. ‘Sit down, Ms Hammond.’

She sat. The tension in her body was visible in every line; also the slight buffer zone created by the Valium between her and the world. On close inspection, she was a little too heavy-featured to be really good-looking, but she was impressive and there was energy and intelligence behind her sadness. ‘I can’t imagine what you have to say to me,’ she said.

‘Your mother lied to you,’ I said. ‘I suppose she was afraid that if you led a full, normal life you’d neglect your brother. She told you a very cruel lie. Perhaps she was ashamed.’

‘That’s impossible! My mother was never ashamed of anything. She was… was immensely strong.’