Peter Corris - The Other Side of Sorrow

‘I saw the gun,’ she said.

I’d left it on a chair in the living room meaning to put my jacket over it. I nodded.

‘Tell me what’s happened.’ she said.

I told her about Talbot being at my place and the note and my uncertainty about whether the note had referred to Megan French or her. I told her about Macleod and Miss Cartwright’s accusations and the connection with Talbot. She drank coffee, nibbled toast and listened without responding. I still didn’t tell her about my attempt to infiltrate the protest group with Geoff Samuels. I felt bad about it, but I couldn’t think of a way to make it look right. I finished talking, ate some more toast and drank some more coffee.

‘You have to go to the police,’ Tess said.

‘It wouldn’t do any good. They don’t know where to find Talbot any more than I do. And I haven’t got enough to make the police even knock on Macleod’s door.’

‘I wonder if Ramsay knows anything about Talbot and this doctor. He and Damien were close at first, or so it seemed. Until they had a falling out over tactics and… leadership.’

‘That was one of the things I was going to ask him last night, before he blew his stack.’

‘And what else?’

I fingered an irritating patch of stubble I’d missed with the blunt razor. ‘I suppose about Megan. He told the interviewer that he hardly knew her. D’you think that’s true?’

Tess was slow to answer. ‘We’re getting to it, aren’t we?’

‘Getting to what?’

‘C’mon, Cliff. You’re not that dumb. You saw how Ramsay is with me, about me. Isn’t there something you want to ask?’

‘No. Is there something you want to tell me?’

She gave it serious thought, then snapped her fingers. ‘Okay. Why not? I worked it all out with a therapist a long time ago. I’ve moved on. I’m ten years older than Ramsay. As I said, I looked after him from the time he was fifteen, when our parents died. He took it very hard. He was very close to Mum. Inconsolable. One night he came into my bed. Remember I was young, too and trying to cope with grief and responsibility. Anyway, it happened. A few times. Then we stopped. I thought I’d got through it without damage and I pretty much did. As I say, I got some help later. Ramsay didn’t get through it and he’s refused to discuss it, let alone have therapy. I don’t know anything about his sex life now. I don’t think he has one.’

I nodded and scratched at the stubble.

‘Your reaction?’

‘Admiration for you, sympathy for him.’

She put her arms around me. ‘Thanks. Look, I’m going to have to try to get in touch with him, calm him down. You understand?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’ll try to get him to talk to you. Might be hard.’

‘Okay. I should go and check on a few things. See if there’s anything I’ve missed that might go somewhere.’

‘I’ve got all your numbers, mate. I’ll track you down.’

I wondered if she meant it.

For no good reason I drove to the Homebush site and stopped at a point where I could see a lot of the activity. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I could see progress in just those few days. Staying clear of the security posts, I drove as close as I could get to the Tadpole Creek protest. There were fewer people around and one corner of the banner had broken free of its mooring and drooped down. It had the look of a show about to fold. I ran my eye along the unimpressive, sluggish little watercourse with its few scruffy mangroves and general air of insignificance. It was hard to tell what purpose the area on the protesters’ side of the creek had served before their arrival. Part playground, part rubbish dump perhaps.

The rain hadn’t amounted to much and the sky was rapidly clearing. From my vantage point I could see back towards Concord and Tess’s neighbourhood. I wondered what she’d meant about knowing there was something not right about the protest and why I hadn’t asked her. I wasn’t displaying my best form and I knew why.

I was worried about failing Cyn, worried about the young woman who might be my daughter and caught up in a relationship that might or might not go somewhere. Too many cross-currents for efficient work.

Back in the car, I fingered the irritating patch of stubble and felt like a drink, like several drinks. I was thinking seriously about a visit to the former Sheep Shit Inn when the mobile rang. My first thought was of Tess and I grabbed the phone.

‘Tess?’

‘This is Geoff Samuels, Cliff.’

‘Oh, Geoff, right. How is she?’

‘Not good, but she got through the night and they think she can pull up a bit. She doesn’t really want to except for this business about Megan French. She wants to see you, Cliff.’

‘Okay. Where are you?’

He named a private hospital in Willoughby and I said I’d be there as quickly as I could.

‘I should warn you that my sister’s here. Annie. Mum was muttering something about Megan and Annie’s latched onto it. She wants to know everything. I’ve stalled her. I’m afraid I’ve sort of lumbered you with it. Annie’s always had the edge on me. I thought you could handle it better.’

‘Well, I’ll do what I can.’

‘The thing is, she knows all about you. Has for a long time. Apparently she found some letters or something Mum had. You’re not her favourite person, Cliff.’

‘Great. See you soon.’

I forgot about alcohol and headed towards Willoughby. As I drove I thought of the time Cyn and I had spent together. Mostly, I remembered the fights and the silences and it was hard to say which were the worst. The big silence was coming and it was beginning to look as if I’d let her down, again.

Propped up against pillows, wearing a white cotton nightgown with a high neck, Cyn looked shrunken to half her proper size. I tried to arrange my face so as to conceal the waves of shock, sympathy and sadness that washed over me but, sick as she was, she could still read me accurately.

‘Pretty bad, huh,’ she said in a surprisingly strong voice. ‘Fact is that it’s worse for all of you than it is for me.’

I approached the bed and took her hand briefly. I couldn’t speak. Geoff was sitting in a chair by the window and a woman a few years older than him, but bearing a strong physical resemblance, sat close by the bed.

‘This is my daughter, Anne, Cliff.’

She returned my nod. ‘Anne Samuels,’ she said. ‘How do you do?’

She was good-looking and well dressed – dark, layer-cut hair, expert makeup, blue blouse and business suit, minimal jewellery. No sign of her pregnancy yet. No sign of a wedding ring either. A modern woman. She looked intelligent and tough, not a common combination and that sharp nod spoke volumes. Anne Samuels looked as if she thought it’d be a good idea to push me out the window, and we were ten storeys up.

‘I want you to explain things to Anne. About Megan. Try to make her understand. I haven’t the strength.’

I didn’t know that I had the ability, but I nodded.

Cyn drew in a deep breath. The neck of the nightgown gaped and I could see that she was wasted to skin and bone. Her eyes seemed unnaturally large in her shrunken face. ‘How far have you got, Cliff? Tell me the truth.’

I shook my head. ‘Not far, Cyn. There’s a few things to follow up on but it takes time.’

‘Time’s just exactly what I haven’t got. No, scrub that. I’m determined to hang on until you find her.’

I heard Anne Samuels’ angry snort but Cyn, if she heard it, ignored the response. ‘Geoff tells me you took him to see a prostitute.’

‘A very nice prostitute,’ Geoff said.

Cyn’s smile was full and bright and convinced me that she wasn’t at her last gasp yet.