Peter Corris: The Other Side of Sorrow

She shook her head. ‘Scarcely ever here. Oh, there is one thing. That’s if I’ve still got it. Hang on.’

She went out to the kitchen and came back with a leaflet. ‘She put these in the letterboxes. I stuck it up on the fridge. I hate all that Olympics carry on, but I suppose it’ll be good for business. Take a look.’

The leaflet was cheaply produced, with a grainy photograph showing a narrow tree-fringed waterway. It was headed SAVE TADPOLE CREEK and went on to solicit support for the Friends of the Creek’s on-site picket preventing the diversion and piping of the stream.

‘I haven’t heard anything about this, have you?’

She shrugged. ‘They’ve probably hushed it up. I’ve got a client who works on one of the projects over there. He says you wouldn’t believe the rackets going on. And nobody wants to stir the possum. Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to chat about politics and such. Now, if you’d like to make a booking I’ll give you my number.’

I stood and tapped the paper. ‘Can I keep this?’

‘Sure.’

‘I’ll write the number on the back.’

She gave it to me and I thanked her.

‘No trouble. I hope you call’

‘One thing, Annette, if you don’t mind my asking.’ I gestured at the room in general. ‘You’ve got this looking very nice, but why here?’

She steered me towards the door. ‘A lot you know. The richer they are the more down-market they like the neighbourhood to be. And somewhere wifey-poo would never ever go.’

I sat in the car and thought over what I’d learned and how Cyn would react to it. ‘Molly’s‘ environmentalism would no doubt please her, but she wouldn’t be too happy about the information so far on Damien Talbot. Neither was I. It was disconcerting to find myself thinking along in sync with a person I’d once been close to but had had no contact with for over two decades. It made me feel as if all the intervening years had been somehow wiped out, or at least reduced in significance. I didn’t like the feeling.

Sitting there in the car, wet from the dash through the rain, and cold, I concocted two alternative hypotheses to Cyn’s. One, ‘Molly’ had something going with Cyn’s son, Geoffrey, and was checking out the mother. Two, Cyn had designed a building that had caused grief for someone connected with ‘Molly’ and she was following up on it. The resemblance to Eve was an irrelevance. I wasn’t convinced by either theory. The first one implied that someone other than Talbot was driving the van and the second was drawing a very long bow, but they gave me a focus. Find ‘Molly’ and sort it out.

Tadpole Creek wasn’t marked on my directory but I figured I could find it by driving around the development sites. I was wrong. Beautifully made roads led nowhere and high cyclone fences appeared without warning. I saw the completed Showgrounds, the completed State Sports Centre, the almost completed Aquatic Centre and the barely begun futuristic-looking Olympic Stadium. Car parks everywhere, vast tarmacked surfaces and five-storey cement boxes. The new railway station still managed to look like a railway station while the skeleton of a huge hotel-to-be could turn into almost anything. The Olympic Village was on a hillside overlooking the Stadium. I knew that the one they’d built for the Melbourne Olympics had turned into a low-rent public housing precinct; this one looked more likely to become a townhouse complex with its own private police force.

Eventually I pulled up in front of a half-built domed structure and waited for one of the security people to approach me. They wore blue uniforms, broad-brimmed hats and iridescent yellow rain slickers. They carried mobile phones in holsters but no guns or nightsticks that I could see.

‘Yes, sir. Can I help you?’

Water dripped from the brim of her hat but she was too well-trained to pay it any attention.

‘I hope so. Can you tell me where Tadpole Creek is?’

With a smooth movement she produced a map and handed it to me. ‘Everything of interest is marked on this map, sir. Along with information about access and so on.’

‘Does it show Tadpole Creek?’

From her reaction to the question I could tell that she’d never looked at the map. I examined it. No creek.

‘I’m looking for a picket line. A sort of protest site. They’re against what’s happening to this creek, apparently.’

She whipped out her mobile phone. ‘If you’d just wait here a moment, sir, I’ll find someone who can help you.’

Fair enough, I thought. Good service. I switched off and waited. Within a few minutes two large men appeared. One wore a suit under his raincoat rather than a uniform. He mustered up a friendly tone at odds with his expression. ‘Would you care to step into the shelter, sir.’

‘Look, I only wanted to know…’

The other guy opened the door in a manner that suggested he might try to pull me into the shelter if I elected not to step. You’re at a complete physical disadvantage sitting in a car. It’s much easier to hit down than to hit up. If the engine had been on I might have given them a bit of start by reversing, but it wasn’t. The only advantage I had was that I wasn’t standing in the rain. Then I noticed that the rain had stopped. I got out of the car.

‘This way,’ the suit said.

The uniform fell in behind me and we splashed through puddles to the pre-fab office. There were no chairs so we stood in the small space like people waiting for a lift to ascend.

‘I’m Mr Smith…’ the suit began.

‘Oh, good,’ I said. ‘Then this’ll be Mr Wesson.’

They both looked at me blankly. ‘No, he’s…’ It hit him then and he looked annoyed. ‘Please wait outside,’ he said to the other man, who went out.

‘A joke,’ I said.

‘Yes, very funny. Now I understand you’re making enquiries about the protesters.’

‘Not exactly. I just wanted to know where they were.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘And what exactly is your business?’

That was enough for me. I didn’t like him or his style. I turned and walked out of the office. Smith shouted something and the other man moved to block my path. But I wasn’t at a disadvantage now. I baulked him off balance and gave him a shove that sent him sprawling. He fell hard and rolled so that he got a lot of mud on his uniform.

‘Should’ve kept your coat on.’ I said.

He was about thirty and in pretty good shape. He came up fast in a martial arts stance that looked dangerous. I scooped up a handful of mud and threw it into his face. He bellowed and came on but he was easy meat. I tripped him and he went down again, flailing. His hands hit the edge of the paved surface. Skin was scraped and blood flowed.

‘That’s enough!’ Smith shouted. A couple of other security people had gathered, but they were ‘you turn right and then left’ types and weren’t up to coping with mud and blood. They fell back as Smith advanced.

‘I’ve got your registration number.’

‘Good.’ I moved closer to him and took hold of his left hand in my right and bent it back. Since working in the gym I’ve acquired a fair bit of wrist and hand strength and I gave Smith the benefit of it as I moved him towards my car. I smiled at the puzzled security people. If you do this right, it can look like an intense chat between close friends.

‘Where are the protesters?’ I said, increasing the pressure.

‘This is assault,’ he ground out between clenched teeth.

‘Won’t show and your bloke made the first move. Where?’

‘Near the railway station. Concord West.’

I released him, brushing my muddy hand on his sleeve. ‘Thank you. I won’t tell if you won’t.’