Peter Corris - The Other Side of Sorrow

She reached out and touched my arm. ‘I was referring to that dreadful boyfriend of hers, Damien. He’s violent and dishonest. I don’t know what she sees in him.’

‘I’ve been told he’s good-looking.’

‘Oh, yes. Certainly he’s that. And bags of charm. He comes across as bright, but I suspect he really isn’t.’

Generally speaking, I don’t like being touched by strangers, but I didn’t mind at all in her case. There was a warmth about her that was welcome and I was in need of some human comfort. ‘You say he’s violent. Towards her?’

‘I saw him hit her once, yes.’

‘Jesus.’

‘The funny thing is, it was after she did what you just did.’

I was confused. ‘What?’

‘She jumped the creek. Just for fun. She cleared it by a bit more than you though.’

‘It’s not such a great jump. Twelve or thirteen feet.’

‘It’s not bad in jeans and boots or dressed like you and from a soft take-off.’

‘He hit her?’

‘For showing off. Understandable in a way. He’s-what would you say-mildly disabled. One leg shorter than the other. He wears a built-up boot.’

‘Look, Tess, this is all very important. Can we go somewhere for a talk?’

‘No. There’ll be a meeting in a few minutes to plan the next phase. I have to be at it. Ramsay hopes to get his idea through while Damien’s not here. They’re sort of rivals.’

I had questions – why did it matter whether Talbot was there or not; how had Meg French reacted to being hit, and where were she and Talbot now? I settled for the most important. ‘Do you know where Talbot and… Meg are now?’

‘No, but they’ll be back. My impression is that they live in that van most of the time. But I have a feeling they also have a place somewhere. A squat or something.’

I shook my head. I didn’t fancy relaying too much of this to Cyn. I asked her where this might be and she said she didn’t know.

‘He changes the paint job on the van from time to time. Sometimes it’s plain, then it’s all sorts of colours. I think that’s illegal. I asked him about it. He calls it urban guerilla tactics.’

Great, I thought. That’ll make it tougher. “I really need to get hold of them,’ I said. ‘It’s not about your protest in any way. I – ‘

She touched me again and I had the same reaction. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Look, they’ll be back. Give me your phone number and I’ll do what I can to help you. That’s on one condition.’

I was fishing for a card before she finished. ‘Good. What’s that?’

‘That you tell me about this long story of yours sometime.’ She took the card. ‘Thanks. I have to go.’

She moved back towards the tent and I walked along the bank of the creek looking for an easier place to cross. I found it less than a hundred metres away where the creek entered a concrete channel crossed by a narrow bridge. Upstream from that it disappeared into a pipe. I stood on the bridge looking back. The creek was exposed for not much more than two hundred metres. The mangroves seemed to be just clinging on against the pollution and the development. The whole thing looked like an oversight, as if such a feeble watercourse should have been covered long ago and the patch of marshland where it ended drained. I wondered what the rationale for protecting it was. It wasn’t an attractive feature, but in a way I could see why it was worth preserving whether or not animal or vegetable species were threatened. With the whole of the landscape being restructured, why not say hands off this little bit?

My car was standing where I’d left it and there was no-one around. The machines that would cover the creek and build the road had withdrawn to other parts of the site. It looked as if this represented no more than a stay in the proceedings, but you never know, we’ve still got Victoria Street and Fraser Island.

The rain started again as I drove home and the going was slow. I debated whether to call Cyn and tell her what I’d learned but I decided against. None of it was comforting and perhaps if I found out a bit more I could put a better complexion on things. I realised I was hoping for the same thing for myself. I wasn’t too displeased with my progress so far – to identify an unknown person and establish a connection that could lead to making contact wasn’t such a bad day’s work. It was certainly worth a drink or two and I was looking forward to it. The fact that I’d be having the drink alone made me think briefly of Annette and then, for somewhat longer, of Tess Hewitt.

Back when Bob Hawke was ruling the roost, there was a proposal that all Australians should be issued with an identity card to be called the Australia Card. The idea was that the card would make it easier for the authorities to catch up with tax cheats, welfare frauds and other fiddlers with the system. The outcry against it came from the left and the right and the proposal was scuttled. I was against it instinctively as a sort of crypto-anarchist and a reader of George Orwell. Big Brother didn’t need any more of a leg-up. Civil libertarians spelled out how it would’ve violated privacy in the affairs of the citizens from sexual preference to political affiliation and back again. As it turned out, they were right and they were wrong. These days, if you know how, you can find out just about anything about anybody if you can tap into the vast computerised data banks held by government agencies, financial and educational institutions and the free-wheeling marketplace.

I drove to my office in Darlinghurst, ignored the mail and the faxes, and made a series of phone calls. Pressing all the right buttons is costly, but if you’ve got a name and a birthdate, not to mention extra information like a mother’s maiden name, it’s astonishing what’s on record and how easily freelance hackers can access, assemble and market it. Everyone in my business is a subscriber to one or more of these sendees. You pay off in lots of different ways – depositing in TAB accounts, permitting items to be debited to your account in various stores and outlets, providing sendees free, doing favours. It’s dirty, but it’s essential to survival in the modern inquirer business.

When I’d finished I tidied up the paperwork, made a few calls to keep other cases ticking over and declared my unavailability to two would-be clients I’d normally have gobbled up. I spread Cyn’s cheque out on the desk and debated whether to deposit it. What kind of a bastard would take money from a dying woman to locate and protect his own daughter? On the other hand, what professional would devote time and resources to chasing a fantasy? So far, the pursuit of Damien Talbot and Meg (aka Margaret? Megan?) French had cost time and petrol, lost me some business and the bills from the hackers would come in. Cyn’s cheque would cover it but there wouldn’t be a lot over.

It was after five and the rain was washing the windows – the only way they ever got washed. I’d bought a bottle of Teacher’s on the way in. I opened it, poured a good measure into a paper cup and put my feet on the desk. The ankle I’d jarred making my famous jump twinged and I grimaced as I swallowed some medicinal Scotch. The most I’d ever cleared in the broad jump at school was a bit over sixteen feet which placed me third in the Sydney inter-school athletic carnival. That recollection brought back a memory of who’d won it – a pale, orange-haired, stocky kid named ‘Redda’ Phillips from Fort Street High. He’d also won the hop-step-and-jump, the high jump and the two sprints. It was a privilege to be beaten by him. I had another drink and wondered if kids still called redheads ‘Redda’ or ‘Bluey’. Somehow I doubted it.

I knew what I was doing – putting off calling Cyn. I folded the cheque and put it into my wallet. Indecisive. That wasn’t me. I picked up the phone, dialled and got her answering machine. I left a message that I was making progress but had nothing solid yet. The easy way out. I took the bottle home with me.