Peter Corris: The January Zone

I am not,’ I said, ‘a security consultant. I am a private detective. A private enquiry agent if you like, a private eye if you must. But the day I let myself be called a security consultant is the day I become a retired private detective.’

‘Cliff, Cliff.’ Peter January always repeated the name when he wanted something. ‘John, John,’ he’d say to his political opposite number or ‘Michael, Michael,’ to the TV journalist. Now he wanted me to work for him. ‘It’s only a name, comrade,’ he said. ‘What does it matter?’

‘It matters to me,’ I said. ‘Fuehrer’s only a name but somehow I don’t like it.’

January laughed. He laughed easily, probably lied easily too. He was a politician from the groomed, greying hair to the Bally shoes, but he also happened to have some ideas I agreed with-nuclear-free Australia, profit-sharing in the workplace and support for the Balmain Tigers. ‘I’m not really talking to you as a professional, Cliff,’ he said. ‘More as a friend. I’m bloody scared. I need help.’

It was my turn to laugh. ‘Shit, you must be joking. You’re a Minister of the Crown. You’ve got everything laid on. You can get in a car to go to the pub if you like even though it’s only just across the road. You can hire all the muscle and brains you need. Look around you.’

We were in January’s inner office. His electorate takes in more pubs and TAB agencies than any other in Australia. He once told me that it used to have more outdoor toilets per capita than anywhere else in the nation until the gentrification of inner Sydney happened. As befitted the holder of one of the safest seats in the Parliament, and his status as a junior Minister, January had space and staff to fill it. The outer office accommodated six or seven desks, plenty of telephones and a good number of degree-holding workers.

January looked through the glass at the busy minions and shrugged. ‘Means nothing. I’m vulnerable.’ He had an actor’s knack of fitting his body to what he said. Right then, with his smallish trim figure and his lean, straight-featured face, he did look vulnerable. ‘My neck’s stretched out for every crazy in the country.’

‘What about a drink?’ I said. ‘You know the great thing about your neck, Peter, stretched or not? It’s clean. As far as I know you haven’t done any dirty deals you haven’t been able to get out of. That’s why I’m here in your comfy office asking you to open the cupboard and get us a bloody drink.’

It was early September, one of the first warm days of the year, and January was in his shirt sleeves. The cuffs on the cream-coloured silk shirt were turned back and the tie was loose. The only old thing he wore was the belt around his pants and, as an old waistline watcher myself, I knew why he did that. January was in his mid-30s, the belt was at least ten years old and it had only ever been fastened at one hole.

‘Scotch?’ He opened the small bar fridge and pulled at an ice tray. That was a surprise. I’d never known him to drink anything but white wine and soda in the daytime. Beer was out altogether and spirits were for late at night and in moderation.

I sighed. When people’s alcohol habits change you know there’s something serious going on. ‘You drink Scotch if you like,’ I said. ‘I’ll take a light beer. But I’ll listen to what you’ve got to say as well.’

‘Good.’ While he got the drinks I thought back over my short acquaintance with Peter January. It was barely a year old and its creator was Helen Broadway. At the beginning of her last six months’ stay with me in the city, Helen had met January at a meeting held to discuss the future of the Bondi foreshore. Their ideas matched and January had tried to match up other things as well. He hadn’t succeeded but Helen had needed to produce me to hold him off. We didn’t like each other so I was surprised that he’d rung me and invited me to take up some of his valuable time.

‘How’s Helen?’ January gave me the can of beer and sipped at a strongish-looking Scotch and soda. I was sitting at his desk with my back to the window-glare still bothered me a bit after an eye injury I’d sustained in the course of duty. January perched on the desk with his back to the glass door.

‘She’s okay,’ I said. I sipped the cold beer and seemed to taste the hollowness of the words. Helen was back with her husband and child in the bush for six months as per ‘the arrangement’. It was an arrangement that everyone, me, Helen, Michael her husband and her daughter were learning to hate, but no one had any better ideas.

‘Can’t see how you can let her go like that. If I had her…’

‘If you had her it’d get in the way of your ambition to screw every single woman on your electoral roll and half the married ones. Aren’t you worried about AIDS?’

‘Lowest rate in Australia on my patch. I’ve got the figures. Anyway, I’ve been too busy of late to do anything much in that line. And you’re wrong, I usually try to avoid shitting in the nest.’

‘Usually?’

‘Well, when you’re busy you haven’t got the time to scout around so you might work a little close to home sometimes. Did you see Trudi out there?’

‘I didn’t see anyone wearing the name proudly on a T-shirt.’

‘Dark woman, plump you might say…well, no soap so far. Anyway, I’ve got too much on my plate. But you, you’re not busy, so I hear.’

I crumpled the beer can and set it on the desk in front of me. ‘I’ve been busier, I admit. And I need distraction. I was thinking of enrolling in a course on neo-Marxist political economy.’

‘Crap,’ January said. No one had ever accused him of being doctrinaire. ‘I’ve got a real job for you. I get letters, I get threats…’

‘Shows you’re doing your job. You should attract 51 per cent love, 48 per cent hate and one per cent don’t know.’

‘Don’t joke, it’s serious. I want to hire you to check on everything-all the mail, all the staff, do bodyguarding, the lot. The money’d be right.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure. I’d be like a quango. It’s not my sort of thing, Peter. I do specific jobs-find this, protect that for such and such a time, mind him and her and their money for the weekend. I’m a…what is it, empiricist? I’m no good at generalising.’

‘Sounds like you’ve been doing the political theory bit already.’

‘Helen left a few books around. I’ve had the time to read them.’

It was the wrong thing to say because it gave him an opening. ‘If you came to work for me for, say, six months, you could tuck a fair bit of money away, Cliff. Quite a bit one way and another. Could be enough to get you a place up the coast. Where is she?’

I answered without thinking. ‘Kempsey.’

‘Nice up there. Place for you by the sea. Get away from all the dirt down here. More time with Helen. What d’you think?’ He tossed off the Scotch and sneaked a look towards the bottle. He was genuinely worried about something big but just for now he was savouring a possible small victory. I didn’t want him to have it.

‘I’ve never worked for a politician, not in 13 years. I’ve had a strict rule against it. And I don’t want to be a security consultant.’

‘That’s how I’d get it through the ledger shits. Pragmatism, Cliff. Come across that in your reading?’

‘No,’ I said.

And that’s when the bomb went off.

The blast rocked the old building to its foundations. The door between January and me and the outer office disintegrated and the glass flew back like shrapnel. January screamed and collapsed forward across the desk towards me. The crisp back and sleeves of his white shirt turned soggy red. I felt everything around me and inside me loosen and the roar seemed to block out all other sounds and all feeling.