Peter Corris - Aftershock

‘No, I’ve already seen the police and got some co-operation. I don’t want to muddy the waters with them.’ I waved the glass at him thinking that he might take the hint and give me a refill but he didn’t move. ‘I’m OK. I was careless. I think you’re right-there is something behind Oscar Bach’s death, but…’

May came back into the room carrying a tray with two mugs of tea, a plate of biscuits and a bottle of Panadol tablets on it. She put the tray on the floor and pulled up one of the heavy cane chairs with a quick, strong heave. Her broad face was framed by a floating wreath of white hair. Her dark eyes, slightly slanted and deep, fixed me. ‘Look up,’ she said, ‘look down, left, right. How old are you? Where are you right now?’

I did all these things, told her how old I was and finished with, ‘At 7 Bombala Road, Dudley’

‘Street,’ Horrie said.

I was still extending the glass in his direction. ‘Near enough. D’you think I could have a little more brandy?’

‘That’d be all right,’ May said. Horrie left the room and she spoke urgently. ‘I didn’t like that Oscar. There was something… wrong about him. Horrie couldn’t see it. I’m Polish. I’ve seen a lot of things you wouldn’t believe and heard about a lot more. If he got killed by someone I wouldn’t be surprised, but I can’t see what it’s got to do with my Horrie. He’s not young and not as strong as he looks. I don’t want him to be upset, you understand me?’

I was getting confused: Horrie was coming at me from one direction; May from another and Ralph, maybe Ralph, from yet another. A family affair. The worst kind. Perhaps Suzie and her sisters’d want to put their oars in, too. Horrie gave me another, smaller, brandy and I sipped it while they drank their tea and the stars twinkled outside the window.

I heard Horrie say, ‘He was a good mate, love. He didn’t mind that I wouldn’t go to the pub. He never asked for a penny off me.’

May said, ‘I know, but Polish women have feelings about these things…’

‘Think of the fish we caught. How he cleaned them for you.’

‘Fish are free from the ocean.’

‘It takes skill to catch them. A good fisherman’s a good bloke, I always say.’

May gave me a despairing look. They’d had this talk a hundred times before. I was intensely interested in her instinct and feelings. I had another woman working for me, I seemed to remember. What was her name? Helen? No, Glenys… I drank the brandy which suddenly smelled and tasted of sex, of sweat, massage oil and the other good things.

‘Get the glass and move the cushions, Horrie,’ May said. ‘He’s dropping off. I’ll get a blanket.’

I said, ‘I’m at a motel…’

I felt something soft cover me and I heard May’s voice. ‘Not tonight you’re not, Mr Tough Guy.’

Sometime during the night one of the Jacobses must have looked in on me. There was a glass of water on a low table near the couch. I swilled it down my parched throat and lay back wondering how I’d ever got up at dawn to surf, or to go on jungle patrols or drive from Sydney to Kempsey… Well, that hadn’t been so long ago. The room was dim but I could tell there was a very bright day out behind the heavy drapes. I’d lost one sock during the night and one of my feet was cold. I swung my feet clear of the blanket and tested the strength in my legs by just putting them on the carpet and pressing down a little. Not bad. Might even be able to stand up if I had another glass of water.

It was 6.30 and the house was quiet. It isn’t too polite to go prowling through people’s homes that early, but what does the bladder know about manners? I went as quietly and directly as I could to the toilet-that is, I made a couple of wrong turnings and found an en suite bathroom off one of the bedrooms. It was a big house, fairly new and furnished in a plain style that harked back to an earlier period. I examined myself in the mirror and didn’t much like what I saw-stubble, scabs forming on half a dozen facial cuts. The iridologist who used to work in my building once looked at me professionally, clucked her tongue and shook her head. I don’t think she would’ve liked the look of my eyes this morning. When I came out of the toilet I could hear noises that suggested coffee and fruit juice, maybe even aspirin.

Horrie Jacobs, wearing navy blue pyjamas and a white silk dressing gown, was making tea in the kitchen. In my crumpled pants and one sock he made me feel like a tramp.

Nothing wrong with his hearing. He swung around before my bare foot squeaked on the lino tiles. ‘Cliff, I was going to see if you wanted anything. How’re you feeling?’

It wasn’t a comfortable situation. I was supposed to be the tough, capable professional and here was this old guy, and a client at that, nurse-maiding me. It made me surly. I sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I’m OK, Horrie. Any chance of some coffee?’

He nodded and included a cup of instant in his preparations. He didn’t speak. He put the coffee and a carton of milk in front of me and went off with the tea tray. When he came back he put my shirt, which had been washed, over a chair. ‘Guest bathroom’s at the back. Towels and a razor should be there. See you in half an hour.’

He did when I was showered, shaved and dressed and in a better mood. I had another cup of coffee and felt human again. Horrie was dressed in shorts, T shirt and sneakers. He looked a little like Harry Hopman. May didn’t emerge and Horrie said she liked to sleep in. ‘Got bugger all chance to when the kids were around and I was working.’

I nodded. ‘Are you planning on going fishing or what?’

He grinned. ‘Don’t know much about fishing do you?’

‘No.’

‘Too bright now. Have to get down early. Fish don’t like the sunlight. Anyway, I haven’t done much since Oscar died.’

There was a sad eagerness in him and I realised he expected to tag along with me at whatever I was going to do. That’d be all right for now, but not for long. I asked him about Oscar Bach’s estate and business.

‘Funny that,’ he said. ‘I didn’t find a will.’

‘You didn’t. Wasn’t there anyone handling his affairs? A solicitor or… ‘

‘Nope. It was bloody strange. You couldn’t really say he had any affairs. He just rented the house and ran his little business. There wasn’t anyone else to do it. I went through the house and collected up his stuff. Didn’t amount to much. Young bloke who worked for him part-time is sort of running the business while everything gets sorted out. There’s some office or other handling it. I forget what it is.’

‘The Public Trustee?’

‘Yeah. I got a letter. I wrote back and said I didn’t know anything about a solicitor or bank accounts or next of kin. They said they’d let me know what happened next. But I haven’t heard anything. Do you want to see the stuff?’

‘Yes. Did you really search the house thoroughly?’

‘Pretty well. ‘Course, I’m not an expert. You can do it yourself. Place’s still empty. The roof leaks and the bloody landlord hasn’t got around to fixing it.’ He gave a short laugh.

‘What?’ I said. -

‘Old Molly who lives next door tells everyone who comes to look at the house about the leak. She was born in the place and can’t bear seeing it go to rack and ruin. She reckons if she keeps people away the landlord’ll have to fix it. Worked so far and there’s a fair amount of pressure on rented houses around here.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Students from Newcastle, teachers, people wanting weekenders.’ He laughed again. ‘Dudley’s a go ahead place. You fit for a walk?’

Outside I saw what Horrie had got for some of his winnings. His house was at the end of the street with a forest in front of it and the ocean in front of that. There was a deck around three sides and the view would be slightly different from each side-here more bushy, there more water. The garden was mostly native trees and shrubs with some landscaping-all in keeping with the plain, good taste of the whole place.