Peter Corris - The January Zone

‘This is Carolina Avenue. The streets’re logical. Well, to cut it down a little, “Sunny” South wouldn’t try anything while I’m with you and the communications people are only semi-serious.’

‘What about the guns people?’

‘They’re serious. Do you like the sights?’

I’d been staring out of the window but only getting impressions-boulevards, white buildings, cenotaphs. ‘No,’ I said, ‘there’s too many bloody memorials.’

January had a private room on the eighth floor, that is, if you can call a room with a guard at the door and a secretary and three journalists inside, private. He was in bed wearing hospital pyjamas; the top of his head and his right hand were bandaged and he appeared to have suffered bruising around the lower part of his face. He looked like a man who’d been in the fight of his life, and won. Several bunches of flowers stood in vases around the room.

‘Cliff,’ he said. He stuck out his unbandaged hand and I shook it awkwardly. ‘I want to thank you. You saved my life comrade.’ He passed his hand wearily across his face. ‘Gentlemen, would you mind? I’m rather tired.’

‘Hardy,’ Trudi whispered to the nearest reporter. ‘Clifford Hardy.’ The writers scribbled it down along with the quote which January had made sure they got; they chorused their thanks and wishes for his speedy recovery and trooped out.

‘Clifford,’ I said. ‘Just how phony is all this?’

January had revived instantly. ‘Not phony at all. I’ve got shock and burns. Hullo, Mr…’

‘Spinoza, I said. ‘William H. Spinoza.’

‘Hi, Mr January.’ Spinoza perched on the end of the bed. ‘Glad to see you’re okay.’

January grinned. ‘I want everybody to stop saying I’m okay. I’m an injured man. Show ‘em, Trude.’

Trudi cast her eyes to the roof and hit the Play button on the video recorder attached to the portable TV set.

‘Our news team was the first on the scene in Georgetown today where Judge Calvin Clyde was killed in an assassination evidently intended for visiting Australian peace activist, Paul January.’

‘Hi, Paul,’ I said.

‘Shut up!’ January hissed. ‘Watch!’

‘Judge Clyde was killed when a microphone through which messages of peace and cooperation were to be delivered to the concerned guests of socialite, Mrs Amos Clephane, was turned into an instrument of death. Our cameras captured this dramatic footage of the scene in the aftermath of the fatality.’

‘Murder,’ I said.

‘Watch!’ January snarled.

The news team must have arrived within minutes. Most of the concerned guests were still milling around; some looked as if they’d run for their lives and sneaked back. The paramedics were dealing with the shocked and trampled and January himself was in the thick of it. He had a rough bandage around his head and his jacket was off. His shirt was out of his trousers, torn where he’d ripped it for a bandage, and bloody; his hair was wild. With his strong features reddened by the film or by emotion and his compact body bending and straightening as he helped to lift and comfort, he looked like Lawrence of Arabia.

‘Mr January only consented to go to hospital himself when the last distressed witness of the horrific incident had been treated. Tomorrow, Paul January will get up from his hospital bed to tell the Senate sub-committee on Pacific security of his ideas on…’

Trudi killed the sound and picture.

‘How’s Martin?’ I said.

‘What?’ January seemed to be having his own difficulty with names. ‘Oh, he’s okay. Concussion or something. Bolton can fill me in on…’ He broke off as I turned away to look out the window at Washington DC. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing. I suppose you’ll be out there reading the lesson when they bury the judge.’

‘What are you talking about? We’re leaving as soon as I finish tomorrow.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Trudi, are you sure Martin’s got all the hospital insurance cover he needs?’

She sat on a chair not far from January. She was strained tight, trying to cope with a light touch and probably still in shock herself. ‘I’ll check. Peter’s all right…’

‘Oh, sure. He’ll be all right. Did you know, Billy, that Australia is the land of free enterprise. And Mr January is one of the rulers of Australia. And do you know what that means?’

‘You tell me, man.’

‘It means that he’s an enterprising person and enterprising persons get everything free!’

Trudi’s eyebrows shot up and she half-rose from her chair. ‘Cliff, I…’

‘Billy, would you mind briefing Mr January on what we’ve turned up so far? I’m going to drop in on Martin, then I’m going back to the hotel.’

Spinoza tossed me the keys. I caught them. ‘Sure, Cliff. Take the car.’

‘Wait for me downstairs, Cliff,’ Trudi said. ‘I’m coming too.’

I went out and opened the door to Martin’s room.

He was sleeping on his back. With his head bandaged and taped and without his glasses, he looked like a child. No flowers. I closed the door and went down to ‘R’.

Trudi strode from the elevators carrying her folders and handbag. She had a light jacket on over her dress that concealed the blood smears and the dirt. She gripped my arm and we went out to the Mercedes. She leaned across and kissed me hard on the mouth.

‘Take it easy,’ she said.

‘His ego’s got two people dead and put a few in hospital. Maybe he’s a great man.’

‘You’re getting things out of perspective. Let’s go back to the hotel. We can talk.’

I started the car and drove out of the car park.

‘Hey!’Trudi yelled.

The oldest mistake in the book-wrong side of the street. I reversed and turned to go the way I should. The Mercedes was a dream to drive and concentrating on finding the way back to the hotel relaxed me. I’d been told that Washington was a planned city and something of the plan became clear to me as I followed my nose and the overhead signs. The other drivers were polite. Trudi was quiet. I wanted a drink and I thought about Helen. Helen and a drink would have been best but I’d have happily settled for just Helen.

I got the car tucked away in a space that said ‘Reserved for the Manager’ under the hotel and we rode up to our floor, with Trudi holding my arm and still very quiet.

‘My room,’ she said and I nodded and went with her. As soon as she was inside she shook her jacket off onto the floor, kicked off her shoes and wrapped her arms around me. She pulled my head down and we kissed. I could taste brandy on her breath but she was warm and soothing to hold.

‘I want to make love,’ she said.

‘I thought you said we’d talk.’

She pressed hard against me. ‘We can talk later.’

‘I don’t think I can do it, Trude.’

She pressed closer. ‘Guilt or anger?’

‘Both.’

‘All right. You don’t have to do it. Do something for me. Come on.’

We went into the bedroom and she pulled off her dress and pantyhose. She wore a thin gold chain around her neck; her breasts were small and high and her body still had a faint tan from the last summer. I slipped my shoes off, took off my jacket and started to unbutton my shirt.

‘Forget about that,’ she said. ‘Come over here. This is for me.’

She jerked the bedclothes away, stretched out on the sheet and I bent over her. She opened her legs and directed one of my hands there and the other one to her nipple.

‘Do this,’ she said, ‘rub me and suck and bite.’

I did it and she groaned and moved and thrust against my hand. ‘Don’t stop!’

I did what she wanted; she pushed my head fiercely across from one breast to the other and I found the rhythm she liked and held it and she thrashed under me. I was excited, erect and pulsing but I wanted above all to please her, to do everything right for her. I kept on and she came in a long, shuddering spasm.