Peter Corris - O'Fear

‘Felicia said Constable something, or something Sheriff. Like that.’

Hickie’s frown disappeared. ‘Marshall Brown. Oh yes, I know all about him.’

‘Give me a description.’

‘Let’s see. Southerner, late fifties, aggressive and ingratiating. He’s in the demolition business. Wanted Barnes to throw in with him. Brown thought Barnes’ local contacts could be useful. I don’t think Barnes was very interested, but he saw quite a bit of Brown at one time.’

‘Did he like him?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Hickie laughed. ‘They went clay pigeon shooting one time and Barnes nearly got shot. I remember that. Some kind of accident. He joked about it.’

‘How do I get in touch with Mr Brown?’

Hickie got up and opened a filing cabinet. ‘Must be something on him. Yes, here we are. Brown amp; Brown. Office and plant in St Peters… ah… Ashley Road. What’s your interest?’

I copied the phone number and address from the letterhead he showed me into my notebook, and shrugged. ‘Nothing to it, probably. Just something to check.’

‘How’s Felicia?’

‘She’s fine. Could you get cracking on O’Fearna now and give me a bit of a rundown on the business stuff, say tomorrow?’

‘I’ll try,’

That was fair enough. There was no reason why he should reorder his life for me.

It was early in the afternoon and the day was fine. I could have gone calling on Marshall Brown. I could have found out some more about Todd’s violently disposed competitor Riley, and paid him a visit. I could have gone through my police contacts to get a registered owner for the car whose number plate I sort of knew. Instead, I went to Redfern. I got no answer to my knock at the house in Chalmers Street, but the big windows to the upstairs balcony were standing open and I had the feeling that Felicia Todd wasn’t far away.

I found her in the park. She was sitting on the grass in the shade of a poplar tree and she was sketching a corner of the park and the street and houses beyond. I came up quietly and stood, not wanting to break her concentration. After a few minutes she stopped making rapid passes across the paper, looked up and saw me.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Stay there and I’ll draw you.’

‘Come on. Don’t waste the charcoal.’

‘Don’t move!’

I stood on the grass, feeling like a fool and admiring the curve of her neck and the sureness of her movements. She pushed up the sleeves of her blue-and-white-striped shirt and sketched fast, shooting occasional quick glances at me. She was wearing a blue skirt, long and flowing, and sandals with leather ties that wrapped around her ankles. Her hair was nut brown in the sunlight and her skin was tanned. It was the first time I had seen her in natural light, and it seemed to give her an extra vitality. I was pleased to see that she had a camera on a strap around her neck. She finished with a flourish.

‘Come and have a look,’ she said. ‘Don’t pretend you’re not curious.’

I walked across and looked at the pad. She’d made me look every day of my age and hard and stern, like an exacting athletics coach who expects his charges to do better.

‘Christ,’ I said. ‘Is that how you see me?’

I held out my left hand and helped her up from the grass.

‘That’s the exterior impression,’ she said. ‘I’d have to sit you down in a good light and take some time to get the inner Hardy.’

‘God forbid. I can see you’ve got the skills, though. If I put that on my office wall, I could up my fees.’

She laughed and dropped her charcoal stick into a pocket of her skirt. We walked towards the fountain; she carried the sketch pad and a paperback book. I reached for her free hand and she let me take it. I’d forgotten the bandage and winced when her hand went round it. She let go quickly. ‘What’s this?’

‘Tell you later. Would you like to go for a drink or something?’

She stopped and I stopped. Her book hit the cement path. We were kissing before either of us knew what was happening. It seemed like years instead of months since I’d had a woman that close to me, and I felt a surge of pent-up energy. We pressed close and hard, mouths and bodies; the camera pressed sharply and uncomfortably into my chest, but it didn’t matter.

She broke away and stepped back. ‘God,’ she said. ‘Can you come back to the studio now?’

‘Yes.’ I picked up the book. It was Robert Hughes’ The Fatal Shore. I carried it in my wounded hand as we hurried through the park. My good left hand gripped her right. She took a key from her skirt and opened the door. We ran up the stairs and we were both breathless by the time we stood by the bed. The breeze through the open windows was moving the curtains and the turned- back covers.

She unbuttoned her shirt and I touched her small, firm breasts. She undid my belt.

‘You’re doing all the work,’ I said.

‘Shut up,’ she hissed. ‘Kiss them!’

I bent and kissed her nipples, which became hard. Her skirt had an elastic top; I pulled it down and put my hand inside her pants.

‘Everything off,’ she said. ‘Everything!’

We stripped and began a slow exploration of each other’s bodies, holding back and delaying until the first of the strangeness of it was over and the excitement caused us to hurry. I had forgotten how strong a woman could be, how firmly arms and legs could grip and how solid a body could be when you drove into it, urgently and full of need.

When we finished the bed was a mess, with the sheet and blanket on the floor and two of the pillows under Felicia’s hips. We moved apart and I shoved the pillows into place under our heads, hooked the sheet up over us and held her in my arms. She moved easily and loosely with me, as if we’d been doing this for years.

‘Oh, that was good!’ She wriggled her head free and looked at me. ‘I could draw you better now.’

‘Some parts, anyway.’

She snuggled back. ‘If you’re married or living with someone don’t tell me yet.’

At this point, in the past, I’d had to lie or fudge it. Not now. ‘I’m not. I was divorced more than ten years ago, and I haven’t lived with anyone for… about a year.’

‘Over it, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you ever had a lover die on you?’

‘No.’

‘It’s different from an affair ending. Worse in some ways, of course, but different.’

‘Are you saying you feel unfaithful?’

‘A bit like that, but not really. It’s all right. I’m glad you knew Barnes. I’m bound to talk about him.’

‘Bound to. So am I.’

She moved away and sat up with the sheet pulled up around her shoulders. ‘It’s bizarre, isn’t it?’

‘It doesn’t have to be. Not if we don’t let it.’

‘Not just a quick fuck for you, then?’

I reached up and pulled her down gently. ‘No. Nothing like that, Fel.’

‘Good. Let me up. I’m going to make coffee.’ She found her striped shirt on the floor and put it on; she gathered up two empty coffee mugs, both from the same side of the bed, and went out. It wasn’t a bad room to be post-coital in- low bed, polished floor, clothes in those white wire Swedish drawers and some framed drawings on the walls. There were no male clothes or items around. Paperbacks lay around the bed in piles- mysteries, poetry, travel-but books are gender-neutral.

Felicia came back with the coffee and we sat on the bed and drank it and didn’t say anything. I looked at the drawings-nude studies, front and back, male and female.

She saw me looking. ‘Barnes,’ she said.

I nodded.

‘I cleaned all his clothes out, shoes and that.’ She wept then, long and hard, with her body-shaking and the grief buffeting her, until she was drained and quiet. I sat close to her on the bed, sharing the space but not touching her while she went through it. At last she pulled up a bit of the pale yellow sheet and wiped her eyes. A lot of black stuff came off on the sheet, and I realised that eyeliner was the only make-up she wore.