Peter Corris - Make Me Rich

I risked a look back and saw that I had gained some more, almost enough to think about hiding. My heart was pumping and the breath was loose in my chest. I didn’t have much more left in me. I avoided the street that led down to the dead-end of the water, turned a corner and the street name jumped out at me-Billyard Avenue. The street where you live. I had the number in my head and I sprinted for it, trying to get there before they made the turn. The building was a huge, white pile in which one architectural style seemed to give way to another as it went up. The entrance was a deep portico, a lousy permanent hiding place, but adequate for temporary concealment. I gambled. I ducked in, checked her name on the tenant list and nearly fractured my finger ringing the bell.

Be home, lady, please, I thought.

‘Yes.’ Her voice on the intercom was deep, with no sound of sleep in it.

‘Helen’, I croaked. ‘It’s Cliff Hardy-from the other night at Roberta’s. Let me in, please, urgent!’

‘But…’

‘Please, let me in!’

The buzzer sounded loud enough to wake the street; I said ‘sshh’ to it, idiotically, and went through the door and flattened myself against the wall inside.

I waited for the running footsteps; they came and they turned into walking footsteps and lost any rhythm. My breath was a harsh pant, and my eyes suddenly started to stream from the effort I’d put in. The footsteps retreated. I eased off then, and put my hands on my hips to allow my chest to expand, the way runners do after a race. Running away from danger is hard work. Then I looked around.

There was a deep carpet under my feet and a chandelier overhead, two chandeliers. The moisture in my eyes was blurring everything, and my gasping breath was making the images jump. I was in a wide passage which led to a wide set of stairs. The stairs and balustrades were of old wood the colour of blood, highly buffed. The place smelt of wood polish, fresh paint and money.

Helen Broadway appeared at the top of the last flight of stairs. She was wearing a cream-coloured garment somewhere between a nightdress and a dressing-gown. It came all the way down to her brown, bare feet.

‘Don’t be frightened’, I said.

‘You’re talking to yourself. I’m not frightened.’

She came down the stairs in two hops, lifting her legs and making the robe move with her-it was silk and it rustled. She looked good enough to make a full-length movie of, just her coming the stairs.

‘I love this city’, she said. ‘Always something happening. What’s happening now?’

‘I’m running away from some men with guns.’ I wheezed a bit as I spoke and my legs suddenly felt rubbery. ‘No, I’ve got that wrong. I was running, now I’m hiding.’

She reached the bottom stair and came across to where I’d gone back against the wall for support. The silk rustled some more and her feet made no sound on the carpet.

‘How far did you run?’

‘I don’t know. A mile?’

‘You can’t be all that fit. You don’t jog? I thought a man in your line of work would jog?’

‘No, I don’t jog. Men in my line of work mostly sit around and drink. That’s what I was doing before I started running.’

‘We’d better call the police.’

That sent me back against the wall as I tried to laugh and wheeze at the same time. I bent over and convulsed for a bit, then straightened up. She looked at me coolly.

‘Finished? Are you going to tell me about it?’

‘Sorry. I phoned you yesterday, or was it today? I forget. You were out.’

‘I do go out, yes.’

‘I’m bloody glad you weren’t out just now.’

‘What would’ve happened-if they’d caught you?’

‘I hate to think.’ Saying ‘think’ made me do it, but slowly and out loud. ‘They’d be gone by now. They might get to my car, though.’

She moved back towards the stairs. ‘You’d better come up and do some more thinking in comfort.’

How many invitations was I likely to get to go upstairs with beautiful graziers’ wives wearing silk robes? This was my first. I followed her up with legs so shaky I had to think about each step as a separate enterprise. When we reached the top she turned and saw me patting the pocket of my shirt.

‘Why are you doing that?’

‘Camera. I was taking pictures earlier.’

That didn’t sit too well; she made a face. ‘It’s not some nasty divorce thing, is it? I thought that went out with Askin.’

I laughed. ‘No; it’s nasty, but nasty in a different way.’

She grunted and led me down a hallway to where a heavy, panelled door was standing open. She waved me in and shut the door behind us.

‘Go right through; the grog is in the kitchen on the left.’

The kitchen was basically old style, but with enough new style in it to make it functional and comfortable. There were cork tiles on the floor and the room was big enough to hold a pine table, a two-door refrigerator and a dish washer easily. My legs weren’t good; I pulled out a bentwood chair from the table and sat down.

‘D’you mind if I sit down?’

‘No, you’re not going to faint, are you? I’ve never fainted myself and I don’t know whether I could cope. I can’t remember whether you put the head back or down between the knees. I’d probably break your neck.’

I grinned at her. ‘I’m not going to faint. Don’t think so, anyway.’ I put my hands on the table; they weren’t shaking, I could take pride in that. ‘Did you say drink, Helen?’

‘Yes.’ She went over to a cupboard above the bench to the left of the sink and opened it. It was high up, and she didn’t have to tip-toe. ‘Whisky, brandy, what?’

‘Whisky would be good.’

She reached up for the bottle; the silk rode up over her hips, which were wide, and showed her ankles, which were slim. The bottle of Haig was two-thirds full; she put it on the table and got a couple of glasses from the draining rack.

‘Water? Ice?’

I shook my head. She poured two drinks and I put some down my throat quickly, letting it burn. She sipped.

‘So,’ she said.

‘Well, I’m glad I met you the other night; I’m glad you were home; I’m glad you let me in; I’m glad you didn’t have anyone with you. What were you doing-up this late?’

‘Reading. I’m glad about all that, too.’

‘I can’t say I’m glad I got chased down your street; but, you know

…’

‘Why did you go into that fit down there when I asked if I should call the police?’

‘They were the police. I think.’

‘Oh.’

I finished the whisky and she gave me some more.

‘Are you going to smoke your Gitane now?’ I asked.

‘Why?’

‘I thought you might blow some smoke in my face-even let me touch it, maybe.’

She laughed. ‘Is it really that bad?’

‘Almost.’

‘I’ve had it already, the Gitane.’

‘Ah.’

‘But I’ll have another just for you. It doesn’t do to stick too closely to your principles. Besides, I feel nervous.’

She went out of the room and came back with a soft leather bag with long drawstrings. She fished in it, pulled out the blue packet and lit up.

‘Ah’, I said. ‘That’s better.’

That set her off laughing and coughing. She waved the hand with the cigarette in it helplessly, looking for somewhere to drop it. I got up and took the cigarette, then I patted her on the back and she came out of the coughing fit, laughing softly. The patting turned into embracing; I put my arms around her and we kissed. Her body was big and strong, and we kissed hard. The kiss was short-we were both recovering from loss of breath.

We sat down at the table; I handed her back the cigarette and she butted it immediately. I leaned forward and put my hand under the loose sleeve of her nightgown. Her forearm was warm; I plucked at the dark hairs on it.